By Ita Dempsey
In Spring, daffodils burst forth with glorious golden hues. Cheerily they lift our spirits as they blow in the breeze. They suck in the spring showers, their petals glistening with raindrops. It's like they're falling about laughing at themselves.
Alas they fade away too soon, as us humans also do. William Wordsworth penned his famous poem about daffodils almost 210 years ago.
I'll tell you a story of my own about daffodils. Fifty five years ago I moved into my new home on the Duntaheen Road in Fermoy. My father-in-law Jim was a great gardener. He planted scores of daffodils in my garden. Every year since then they have heralded in the spring.
This year some bulbs were dug up to make way for tulips. They were thrown into a pot and left with no soil. They languished there during the frost. Lo and behold one March day though, I spotted them in full bloom in my yard. Having reclaimed them, I placed them in soil in a lovely pot.
I always keep flowers on our family grave. Up I went to Kilcrumper with my rescued blooms. I placed them on the grave and as I turned to walk away I said to my father-in-law: "I am delighted to place these daffodils here today. You know these flowers are eternal as is your happy soul. You planted these daffodils with your own hands. Fine green fingers you had. It's fifty five years ago this Spring. Enjoy them and God rest your merry soul. You loved nature so much and all connected with it."
As I walked away I fancied that I heard him whisper on the breeze. "Thank you for bringing back my daffodils and for remembering my planting them."
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