April Showers bring May...puddles: Why I love Daffodils

My favorite flower is the daffodil.

Why, might you ask? Why not something more romantic, like red roses, more unusual like snap dragons, or more symbolic like wild flowers? Daffodils sure do seem like the middle child of all flowers - sure they are cute and all but they won't be inhereting the family estate, nor will they cause a family scandal or start a revolution out of pure angst like their youngest brother. But red roses of the world beware - nothing shines brighter than a patch of young daffodils popping through the low-hanging spring rains of New York. Nor is there any other sight more welcoming to thawing, frostbitten New Yorkers trudging through the early spring (pouring, I might add) rain, peering out from underneath colliding umbrellas swimming en-masse down the sidewalks (you can easily loose and eye if you are not careful. Best to use your own umbrella as a defense mechanism. When waiting at a crosswalk facing potential skirmishes with other umbrellas at major intersections, hold low over your head and tilt toward the advancing enemy. Never give an inch by holding your umbrella up above the others out of politeness. New York umbrellas are a cheap, sharp and pitiless species - You will get poked.) ...breath...than a patch of lippy yellow daffodils, tks tsking the puddley pavement, tugging on the skirts of the passers by and swaying in the rain. Man that was a long sentence.

I first fell in love with daffodils when I lived in England. And when I say love I mean the kind of love you feel for the woman who gives you directions to the train back to Manhattan when you've accidentally gone to Queens instead of 5th Ave at rush hour,...or the kind of love that makes you want to kiss the cahsier at the pizzaria when he hands you the first carbohydrate you've seen in 5 hours, hot and cheesy. That is how the the English feel about daffodils when they sweep accross the soppy green fields of England. Because Londoners know that when those little yellow faces first appear, they are bugle players for another another yellow visitor, banished completely from the earth for 3-4 long months by the cranky, sour English winter (duh, the sun). There was a day in March 2005 when, walking among the English daffodils and spending just two hours basking in the sun's sorely missed company, my cheeks were sunburned. There is a reason that people in the UK drink obscenely. Along with Midwesterners and Scandanavians.

New York daffodils are different than the English ones. They seem taller (perhaps in comparison to much shorter grass), more confident, and slightly less innocent. But you've got to give them this, since, instead of blooming outside a quiet english parish or a jolly english pub, they bloom alongside the fastest moving foot traffic next to Tokyo, shaded by towering high rises in three piece suites and getting peed on by ugly New York rat dogs who get fed too much people food. But I like both breeds of daffodils equally - the english daffodils charm the pants of the world as the sun's personal assistant while the New York daffodils loudly protest the rights of underprivelaged sidewalk daffodils worldwide. This is getting rediculous, I know...

In any case, the daffodils in New York are coming up in spades, in all different shades of yellow. Greying, bent over yellows and devilishly lavacious yellows. And they are just so adorable, swaying around on their long stems and yawning at everyone. They are genuinely happy, youthful flowers - so much so that when you pick them or buy them at the store, they last about 24 hours before they just flop over and expire. And what a sad sight a dead daffodil is, plucked from its twittering little patch of daffodil friends, no longer able to gawk at and gossip about people like a bunch of soccer moms. A daffodil is happiest and prettiest in its natural environment. It doesnt need a bigger bloom to get noticed, it doesn't need to stand alone in the spotlight and it is perfectly happy with its own unique shade of yellow, thank you very much. And THAT is why I love daffodils. In fact, I think I would make a good daffodil - Just resting on my laurels in the middle of all this mean, spiky grass, bobble-heading, wagging my yellow tongue and laughing loudly at the state of the world passing me by. Ok, ok, maybe I should just settle for being the world passing by.