Category Archives: Flowers

Far more than crocus or snowbells, the flower that symbolizes the arrival of Spring is the daffodil. Those pre-cursors may come first, but they also carry with them the possibility of destruction, by a late-season snow storm, or the muddy arrival of April. True, even the daffodils and tulips have been known to bloom through some late-season snow, but for the most part it’s safer to bloom as a daffodil than as a crocus.

These are, obviously, procured from a market, and not the backyard, as ours is still frozen and covered with snow. But I couldn’t wait a moment longer for a peek of Spring – this Winter has gone on long enough – and when these were in such luscious bud I couldn’t resist. A big bouquet of daffodils will always boost my spirits.

For some reason, I seem to have the most elementary school memories from second grade. I remember each grade distinctly, and the main events from each year, but collectively the most numerous come culled from the second grade class at McNulty School, helmed by one of my favorite teachers, Mrs. Loomis. I remember the folders we got at the start of the year, and if we had a good week of work, she’d give us a sticker to place on the front of the folder. The students with the most stickers at the end of the year got rewarded by getting first pick at a pile of gifts she brought in. (This may have marked the start of my competitive scholastic nature.)

I remember the time we sat around drawing something on the floor, neatly staying within the lines until I messed something up, then letting out an audible “Whoopsie-daisy!” before I even knew what I was saying. For the record, not even second graders say ‘Whoopsie-daisy’ – especially not second-grade boys. But instead of being ashamed or embarrassed, I laughed along with everyone else – we were too young to know real shame, too young to have it mean more than a silly slip-up of language, too young to hate, really.

I remember the doily-festooned brown paper bags we used as Valentine’s Day card receptacles, and how thrilled I felt to watch it fill and get heavier day by day, threatening to fall from its scotch-tape-secured post at the edge of my desk. I remember trying to discern between the collective love of the class and the selective love of a few close friends, but mostly just feeling warm and happy to be part of something.

And I remember a girl named Amanda, who had long stringy hair that she often kept in two pig tails framing her face – a face that was usually stained with something at the edge of her mouth, or unnaturally pink in the cheeks, like she’d been outside on a winter day for too long. She was one of those unremarkable kids in my world – we spoke occasionally, but weren’t friends. I sat next to her at the long lunch table a few times, but she was fidgety, spinning around in her seat, or leaving the edge of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich spilling off its plastic wrap and directly onto the lunch table. (Gross.)

We would never be closer than that. Yet there was one thing that Amanda had that I didn’t. I remember watching her walk down the hill to school one day, so far back that she would surely be late again, and in her hand she held what looked like a few magic wands. Daffodils. It was early spring, and the day was gray and cloudy, but from this mist emerged the girl I’d never much noticed before, holding a small bouquet of flowers for Mrs. Loomis. It was a moment of beauty, and all I could do was watch. They were wrapped in damp paper towels, their green stems so fresh, tinged with the slightest tint of silver , and almost as beautiful as the colors that blossomed on their ends ~ yellow like the purest sun, cream like the thickest egg nog, and orange like the sweetest piece of citrus. Amanda sat down like she had done nothing at all, when she had really changed the world – my little world – full of judgment and criticism and class – all cut through by a simple act of generosity, of goodness, of sharing.

I watched as the daffodils bloomed for the rest of the week, studying how they opened, stealing a sniff when I thought no one was looking, and generally enjoying the preview of spring. Maybe she stole them from a neighbor’s yard, maybe her Mom sent them in, thinking her daughter needed whatever help she could get in the sticker department, or maybe she just felt like Mrs. Loomis would like a few flowers. I’ll never know, but for that one dismal morning in second grade a little girl touched a little boy with a bouquet of daffodils, and he’s never forgotten it.

This beautiful white blossom is from the plant commonly known as the Lenten Rose – but it is also called a Christmas Rose in some parts – which for this season, and for this particular flower – is more apt. I saw this on my last trip to Boston, and swore I heard it crying out on a November night, hanging on to the last bit of warmth from the sidewalk, shrinking into its Brownstone-backed corner, and valiantly putting on its last show in the spotlight of a street lamp. I’m not sure it will still be there when I return to Boston this weekend, but I’ll keep an eye out.

After a certain point, when the danger of frost is in the air, I give up on the blooms of the season. There’s too much trouble and heartache that comes from investing in a fresh head of hydrangeas that stubbornly refuses to hurry things up before they’re wilted by a ruthless night of freezing temperatures. That said, I also appreciate when a fine bloom has not yet gone to brown shriveled mush, as was the case with these examples in Boston. I am especially enamored of the lime green zinnia below. Zinnias hold a childhood place in my heart, but for some reason I rarely grow them. Next year I may try my hand at them once again. Next year may be an old-fashioned return to the riotous annuals of the past. Next year… is a long way away. We better just enjoy the show now at hand. When it comes to annuals, nothing is promised.

The same holds true for the fading moonflower seen below – at least I think it’s a moonflower. I passed it at the height of the day and couldn’t be sure. I like how it’s just slightly past its prime, curling in on itself and leaving the world with the barely-glimpsed artfully-recoiled curvature of petals in decline.

Looking as if it were lit from within, this dahlia’s coloring, and the late afternoon sunlight slanting through it on a Fall day in Ogunquit, combine to create a spellbinding effect. I grew dahlias for only one year as a child – the endless waiting for them to come into bloom was too much for my impatient heart to take, along with the fact that at the very height of their bloom the frosts came to take them out. While they have some of the most beautiful flower forms and colors, they are just too high-maintenance for me. I would never have the discipline to bring in the roots to over-winter, nor do I want to be bothered with the staking that the tallest and most striking ones require. But sometimes, at this time of the year especially, I’ll eye the neighboring yards with envy as I see the spectacular show that these plants save for the tail-end of the season.

The last blooms of the season are somehow always more resonant. They may not be as flashy (though these may give argument to that) but there is something about the impending demise of the garden that gives them more import and urgency, thereby lending an impact that might otherwise be lost. At any other point in the Summer, blooms as soft as these would pale next to the hot-hued yellows and oranges that dominate the high season. They seem to have waited along with their neighbors – the Seven Sons’ flower, the Sweet Autumn Clematis, and the Bluebeard – to make their presence felt at the most precious and opportune time. I like a plant that knows the value of good timing. I like a person that knows that even better.