Announcing Spring!

Like the ruffled skirts of Texas square dancers—the petals of the daffodils stand out and unfurl to wave spring under our hungry noses—to wave yellow—from creamery butter yellow, to pastel Easter egg yellow, to lemon pie custard yellow, to egg yolk.

The flower trumpets—some slender and waxy—some wide and fluted—others round and short blare out to the world the good news. Daffodils are the voice of spring. They shout to our shuttered winter-weary brains, “Hey, you! Spring is here! Yes, it is. Believe it!”

Nothing in nature is yellow in winter. Even the goldfinch is drab gray and pale olive in the winter and doesn’t put on his bright uniform until spring has arrived. All the yellows of fall leaves and bright Chrysanthemums fade and disappear. All the yellows of our world disappear come winter and everything turns gray and brown.

The forsythia sends up yellow pennants on its shooting star branches. The wind comes to dance with her and wave the blue birds to their nesting boxes. You can hear spring coming—just up the road coming closer—humming—not singing out loud yet—just humming the refrain—the promise.

 

Summer will come with sunshine on yellow dandelions, on yellow tulip blossoms, on roses, on marigolds and black-eyed-Susans, on yellow sulphurs flitting over a sky-reflecting puddle, the yellow of a grandbaby’s silky sun-drenched hair, the yellow of promise, the yellow of joy.

The desert and the dry land will become happy; the desert will be glad and will produce flowers. Like a flower, it will have many blooms. It will show its happiness, as if it were shouting for joy.
Isaiah 35 1-2 NCV

Announcing Spring!

Like the ruffled skirts of Texas square dancers—the petals of the daffodils stand out and unfurl to wave spring under our hungry noses—to wave yellow—from creamery butter yellow, to pastel Easter egg yellow, to lemon pie custard yellow, to egg yolk.

The flower trumpets—some slender and waxy—some wide and fluted—others round and short blare out to the world the good news. Daffodils are the voice of spring. They shout to our shuttered winter-weary brains, “Hey, you! Spring is here! Yes, it is. Believe it!”

Nothing in nature is yellow in winter. Even the goldfinch is drab gray and pale olive in the winter and doesn’t put on his bright uniform until spring has arrived. All the yellows of fall leaves and bright Chrysanthemums fade and disappear. All the yellows of our world disappear come winter and everything turns gray and brown.

 

The forsythia sends up yellow pennants on its shooting star branches. The wind comes to dance with her and wave the blue birds to their nesting boxes. You can hear spring coming—just up the road coming closer—humming—not singing out loud yet—just humming the refrain—the promise.

Summer will come with sunshine on yellow dandelions, on yellow tulip blossoms, on roses, on marigolds and black-eyed-Susans, on yellow sulphurs flitting over a sky-reflecting puddle, the yellow of a grandbaby’s silky sun-drenched hair, the yellow of promise, the yellow of joy.

The desert and the dry land will become happy; the desert will be glad and will produce flowers. Like a flower, it will have many blooms. It will show its happiness, as if it were shouting for joy.
Isaiah 35 1-2 NCV

Dear Friend from the Past,

I wish I knew your name, but I never had the opportunity to meet you.  You lived on a homestead farm along Highway 16. Your house is gone now. (I wonder if it was still there in the 1950’s when I was born.) All that is left is an old cistern where you drew water  when you planted daffodils one spring. I imagine you carrying a full bucket of water to pour over the red Oklahoma dirt beside your gate where you had decided to place the bulbs.

Cows and horses now graze in pastures nearby and the wind sweeps across the grasses- uncut where once wagons slowed to see the bright flowers that spelled spring to their hearts. I know you loved those earliest blooms. I know they encouraged you, but I’ll bet you never thought that someday after your house and barn had been bulldozed for pasture, those flowers would keep growing and spreading and encouraging.

Many cars and trucks pass by your old home place every day now. Some drivers notice the yellow flowers waving in the spring breezes. I am one of them. I know you were busy. I know you were hard working and had children to care for, chickens and farm animals to feed, eggs to gather, and bread to bake. Yet, you took time to plant.

I love the legacy of daffodils left behind by you mothers before us. I envision the garden gates, the storm cellars, and front steps of houses now gone, of women now gone, of families now gone. I wonder what life was like for you pioneers and I presume that  you were happy people, because you  planted daffodils.

Every spring the daffodils still bloom and it is a glorious sight. I wish you could see them.  I wish you knew that I pull off the road and walk back through the grass to pick  bouquets of the slender green stems and lemony trumpets. They are the symbol of spring to many. To me, they are the perfect  picture of hope. You planted them in hope for future springs you were looking forward to. They bring hope still.

Aren’t they a cheerful sight in my kitchen windowsill- like a letter through time from your house to mine?

Thanks, Friend, thanks so much.

Love you, Elece