Sunny faces

Ten years ago--a whole decade--a lone daffodil poked its way up through a neglected pot in my front yard. In the barely two weeks since it had first emerged, it had had to deal with rain, snow, sunshine and an earthquake, but it still soldiered on. February and March that year were colder than usual, with the same bitter nip in the air that we have been experiencing this year.

But in the wee hours of the morning ten years ago, amazing things happened. The wind shifted, bringing not cold air from the north, but warmth from points east and south. As if a huge sigh had been released, everything seemed to relax a notch; trees popped blossoms, and the lone daffodil knew it was time, and opened up, facing our front door to greet us.

It was there to greet the midwives as well, though it was still too dark for them to see properly, and they were focused on other things. With the sun's rising came warmth, birdsong, and a perfect little baby boy.

As one of my babies knows he will mark another trip around the sun with crisp falling leaves, so this one knows it is daffodils: the one in the pot that bloomed for eight more years before giving up; great swathes of them by the road in Ireland, and handfuls at the checkout counter waiting to fill the vases at home.

But this year is different. My Little One is no longer quite so little (his shoes are almost as big as mine), and daffodils remain elusive. We have seen a few in sheltered planting strips, but the cheery yellow faces have not yet appeared in that forlorn pot nor the checkout lane.

So this afternoon, in a last-ditch effort on my way to my monthly after-school date with said boy, we stopped at one last shop and struck pay dirt: there, hoards of bright cheery faces greet us, and even go so far as to tell me that they come from just up the road in Mt. Vernon.

Happy Birthday Little One.

Walla Walla WA

In a less generous moment, I might say that we need to start looking at old folks' homes for my mother. Like all of us, she has good days and bad: at her age, the bad can seem scary for those of us still coming to terms with middle age. But there are still plenty of good days in her.

She is on my mind as a package arrived today bearing her return address. She had not only managed to find a present for Little One and our address and a box, but got it shipped out to arrive a day early! But she did warn me that she had enclosed something she couldn't bear to throw away.

So it was with trepidation that I opened it--wanting to spare Little One from any trauma from unpacking garbage for his birthday, and there it was, nestled amidst cornstarch packing peanuts (she saves them for me, since she knows of my green leanings) and cheery tissue paper: a brown paper sack that read, "Remember? This was the last can--(it spoiled) But I thot the label was worth saving! xxx Mom. P.S. Happy Anniversary!"

Now, you have to understand the history of gifts from my mother: the makeup brush kit, the French provincial salt and pepper shakers and the glass pig are all legendary. I was almost afraid to open it. Was it the clam chowder that they don't make any more? It couldn't be the moon peaches (peaches we put up the day Neil Armstrong took that small step), since they were in a glass jar--spoiled, no doubt, but I know that last jar is still on the shelf as a historical relic.

So I take it out, let out my breath, and smile. Yes, I remember. Shortly after my family moved to Portland, we discovered the joys of fresh asparagus. We had survived our first, dark, grey, Pacific Northwest winter (my father did not go lightly, but cursed it loudly from the front porch, much to my mother's chagrin). My mother's lunch buddies decided to can asparagus, and arranged a date in a real canning facility. They went and trimmed the delicate stems, packed them in tins (upside down), and the facility put the lids on and processed them. She came home with a dozen or so naked tin cans, and I asked if I could label them. My father must have been enamored with the provenance, and started singing about Walsh's Walla Walla Asparagus. Kind of catchy.