Nothing heralds the hope of spring in Mississippi like those beautiful yellow daffodils bravely poking their heads through the cold (often frost-laden) bare ground of the highways and byways of our state.
These lovely, noninvasive blossoms were originally brought here from Europe, and they belong to the genus Narcissus. Here in Mississippi, I have seen several different varieties of this flower, and I have also heard them called by a variety of names – jonquils, buttercups, daffodils, and even paperwhites.
Whatever the case, they are my absolute favorite flowers. For me, nothing compares to their beauty.
In fact, every year of my life growing up here in north Mississippi, I have vivid memories of my precious daddy bringing me a handpicked gift of the very first daffodils he spied each spring.
Sometimes, he would hand me only one or two of my favorite blossoms, and other times, I would get a huge bouquet. But it never failed! This daddy’s girl got the first flowers of the year.
Later on, my husband took over my dad’s springtime task, and I cannot tell you how beloved I felt the first time Randy Lucius came bearing his gift of love to me. At that moment, well over four decades ago, I knew that I had chosen the right man, the one who cared for every part of me.
But I have to say that the best rendition of this springtime tradition occurred when my little boys, Jacob and Chris, learned how much their momma loved daffodils. My heart still sings, just remembering those chubby fingers bringing me their freshly picked offerings of adoration, often with almost no stem whatsoever left on the flowers they called “buttercups.”
Over the years, “my men” would sit around and commiserate on the perilous adventures they had endured in order to procure the very first blossom of spring for me. They woefully moaned about mucking through muddy ditches and sliding up and down treacherously icy hillsides to reach the first flower they spied each year.
Often, three generations of the men I loved took turns telling tall tales of buckshot and shouts from angry landowners and the dozens of tickets they “almost” got from lawmen who eventually felt sorry for them and their chivalrous task of love.
My youngest son Chris was probably the most faithful in bringing me my springtime flowers over the past few years. Even his best friend, Eric, learned to bring me a bouquet of daffodils after a particularly warm February morning back in their high school days.
Eric told of how he spied Chris pulling off the road onto the edge of the four-lane highway near our home and getting out of the car. Thinking Chris might have had engine trouble, Eric also pulled over and yelled, “What’s going on?”
“I’m picking my momma some flowers,” Chris yelled back. “These are her favorites.”
No matter their exaggerated story of hardship or calamity, I always laughed along with them and then sternly warned them of what would happen if they ever failed at their princely pursuit of daffodils.
And then, in June, our youngest son died after a six-year war against leukemia. So, January and February rolled around, and no black-haired, blue-eyed, dimpled boy came bearing his gift of love.
I tried not to think about it. I purposely avoided roads where I knew I might see those golden gems crying out to me of spring days gone by. And I quickly scrolled past any pictures of flowers posted on Facebook. It really was not that hard of a task to avoid the issue since my husband and I spent the first half of February inside the house sick with the crud.
But Randy felt better and ventured out on a road trip this past weekend to an antique car show in Iuka. And lo and behold, he came home with a gigantic bouquet of daffodils, smiling from ear to ear.
If that weren’t enough to make me swoon right there in my flu-laced pajamas, Randy took the time to put my beloved flowers in one of my favorite antique pottery pitchers. Of course, we both ended up on the floor, snotty-nosed and crying.
There we were, just a boy and girl from Calhoun County who have stood beside each other for a lifetime of joys and sorrows – hugging, squalling, laughing, and remembering all the times I have been loved with little yellow flowers and my very own cadre of Mississippi men in shining armor.
