The last daffodil of spring

Or so it would seem, anyway. Narcissus poeticus always blooms in very late spring, just when most of us have forgotten daffodils and moved on to the charms of irises and azaleas.

Poet's daffodil, narcissus poeticus, blooms in very late spring
(my yard, LaGrange, Georgia—27 March 2012)

Daffodils up front?

Truck hauling chicken manure north on U.S. Highway 27, Carroll County
(trust me, it was chicken poop)

On a drizzly February morning, this roadside in southern Carroll County doesn't look special. The six-inch-high stubble tells me the D.O.T. mowed this shoulder in early fall; the privet and wild blackberry brambles haven't had time to break dormancy.

But the D.O.T. mows roadsides all over the state. So what?

Weathered boards and daffodils

As I mentioned in my last post, roadside daffodils don't get there by themselves. It's not as if they march over to wherever they want and dig themselves in with a little bone meal sprinkled about. No, roadside daffodils are there because someone planted them in front of what used to be a house.

Looking northbound

Looking southbound

Daffodils mean "home"

Living in a small town often means commuting a long distance to work somewhere else. In my case, I commute 45 miles one way. I've done this for nearly ten years; it's the price I pay for the relatively slow pace of life in west central Georgia. While the drive sometimes gets old, the scenery does not. 

Welcome to Forgotten Plants & Places

Tiny jonquilla-type daffodils in clumps along the outline of a forgotten foundation.
(LaGrange, Georgia—late March 2010)

These tiny daffodils bloom on a vacant lot in LaGrange, Georgia, in an old "mill village" neighborhood. Never mind that the house was torn down years ago—these fragrant little flowers continue to spread around the edges of the lot, delineating where the house and front steps once stood, as if nothing ever happened.

On my drives through the Georgia countryside, I'm saddened to see large signs announcing new subdivisions and business parks. There's enough (manmade) ugly in the world. We need to hang on to all the natural beauty we can if we hope to reclaim our humanity.

I do this by dividing and/or transplanting old-fashioned, "passalong" plants from abandoned and vacant lots, old country home-places, and roadside ditches to new homes—sometimes my own yard, and sometimes others' yards. Keeping old garden plants alive is a link to our historical past.

Thanks for stopping in! It's so nice to have you along on this journey.