This year, the buttercups seemed to come to me rather than me going to them. Call them jonquils if you like. It doesn’t matter to me.
With the snow melting and then rain and everything else, the path we make through neighbor Carol’s yard, which is the about the only way we can get to them, stayed too muddy for the golf cart. We could see some yellow down there, but we couldn’t get to it.
Usually on Valentine’s Day, I go down and get buds and cheat a little bit by forcing them to bloom on the kitchen windowsill.
This year, weather made that impossible, and I thought I wasn’t going to get my bouquet to sit on the windowsill. Then husband Russell noticed some buttercups that never bloomed, just like greenery, in the backyard.
Suddenly, this year, they were in all bloom and I got my bouquet on the windowsill.
But it was late this year. I soon saw clumps at the Norfleet house, and there were some on the hillside beside Morningside Assisted Living in town. At first they were very scarce. They may have bloomed out more profusely now.
It is funny to me that Clarksville is always a week earlier in their blossoms. And Nashville is usually two weeks earlier. We had to go to Nashville on Tuesday and as we went we saw more and more buttercups. They were more profuse.
One was at an old house that had been vacant, apparently for years. It was a two-story wooden home that had been deserted. The house hadn’t been touched, but this year all of the area around it had been mowed, and this spring, as far as the eye could see, there was a sea of yellow buttercups — a testimony to somebody who once lived in that old house and planted the first buttercups.
Such is the case with us and the woods beside our house, where people had planted buttercups over a hundred years ago. Each spring they are there, and they have multiplied. We have a sea of yellow even though I didn’t get down there this year.
I always think of Mr. Watson, a neighbor, who, when he was alive, came with a bucket and filled with it with buttercups and took them to the Casky Baptist Church, where they were used for spring decorations.
So everything was a little late this year, but I still had my little bouquet on the windowsill and I still have plenty for the angels to enjoy.
Mary D. Ferguson is a New Era columnist. Opinion Editor Jennifer P. Brown transcribed this column for her.