Emma Calentine’s
Easter flowers
Town is a couple of days away, coming and going, with the cost and discomfort of staying over thrown in. So peddlers with what she can’t make herself, lamp oil, salt, calico, tools, peddlers are important. And this autumn, one of those peddlers has daffodil bulbs.
He promises plain yellow, like kids draw daffodils. And one called pheasant eye, with a flattened orange cup on petals that blush where they join the center. A droopy, three bloomed kind, glowing an ivory color that’s ordinary until you smell its fragrance and something far away comes to mind. A purchase worthy of her secret horde of egg and butter money, coins separate from the sparse family budget.
She buys a just a few bulbs like individual hopes for a glorious spring after a mild winter. Mrs. Calentine plants her bulbs where she’ll get to enjoy them in April, near the kitchen door. Far enough from the sandstone foundation that they’ll get some sun and rain, but near enough so the kids and Mr. Calentine won’t tramp on them. People call them Easter flowers.