The bones in God’s garden

Settling into more of a country life in retirement, my husband and I planted 50 daffodil bulbs. As a first-time daffodil planter, I did my research and decided that the “weatherproof large-cupped daffodil mix” would be the ideal bulbs. They are advertised as “the workhorses of the daffodil world,” an odd description for flowers, but I was won over by the promise that they “always look fresh and festive.”

I carefully studied the instructions and we followed them to a T, planting the bulbs five to six inches apart and deep. I bought the special daffodil fertilizer and sprinkled it over the dirt. We watered, and I covered the dirt with fallen leaves to dissuade curious deer, even though these workhorses are said to be “shunned by hungry deer,” another point in their favor. In fact, I learned that daffodils are poisonous for the deer, squirrels, and woodchucks who share our backyard, and they instinctively avoid them. I would have liked to purchase tulip and crocus bulbs, too, but I read that these are like woodland bonbons for our furry neighbors.

Having done everything right, all we had to do was wait through the winter until April or May, when we would be rewarded with glorious clusters of daffodils under the trees. In my mind’s eye, I could see them spreading out over the years. Each spring my heart would dance like Wordsworth’s with a host of golden daffodils, ever fresh and festive.