Daffodils

Today’s the first full day of spring, although it doesn’t feel like it. We’re having a little wet snow and the temperature isn’t supposed to get out of the thirties all day. But when I look out the window over my desk I can see my daffodils blooming out in the garden, so I know it’s only a matter of time before the days get warmer for real.

I love daffodils. I have many different kinds, so the bloom time is spread over at least a month. Over the fourteen years I’ve lived in this house I’ve planted daffodils in every nook and corner until I’ve begun to run out of spaces to stuff them. I love them because they bloom so early and in such profusion. I also love them because they’re tough—once you put them in you can generally forget all about them and just let them do their thing without any help from the gardener. Leave them alone and they’ll multiply year after year after year. I’ve seen ruined homesteads in the Manassas Battlefield Park where cheerful clusters of daffodils have long outlived the farmhouse where they were planted. In fact, when my husband and I moved into the house, daffodils were the only blooming plants in the very-neglected garden. I suppose they may be as old as our fifty-year-old house. I would love to know what kind they might be—they have ruffled golden cups surrounded by pointed petals in a clear yellow-green.

My first loves were the miniatures. I have many plantings of a small narcissus-type called Jack Snipe. It stands about 8 to 10 inches high, with a dainty yellow cup and white swept-back petals. It’s among the very earliest daffodils to bloom. I also have some very thick clumps of an even tinier daffodil called Tête-à-tête. They’re the ones in the photo at the top of this post—bright golden yellow and only about six inches high. They bloom very thickly, often having two blossoms per stem. I actually have a few daffodils even smaller than that—an unknown incredibly delicate flower that snuck into a group of muscari grape hyacinth I planted years ago. The blossoms are no bigger across than a nickel, and they stand between five and six inches high. I have them planted right beside my front steps, mixed in with the blue-purple grape hyacinths they’re quite striking.

After the miniatures, I went through a phase of infatuation with scented daffodils. I have many groups of an elegant creamy white daffodil called Thalia. It has pointed petals and a narrow cup, plus a sweet and delicate scent that suits them perfectly. They’ve grown thicker over the ten years since I first planted them and now I have enough to bring large bunches inside to enjoy the perfume when they bloom in mid-April. At about the same time I planted my first Thalias, I put in several groupings of a yellow daffodil called Quail. They also had a lovely scent, but rather than multiplying, they’ve grown sparser and sparser over the years. I have only a few left now. Most recently I’ve put in several clusters of a double white daffodil called Sir Winston Churchill. They are very late bloomers, coming out in late April to early May. Their scent is so intense that I find myself standing many feet away thinking, “What is that lovely smell?”

Now I’m looking forward to my first spring with a new daffodil that was a gift from my Aunt. These are supposed to be a delicate peachy-pink, a color that will be entirely new among my many varieties. They’re throwing up robust-looking leaves by my front walk right now, so I shouldn’t have too long to wait.