The Daffodil Story.  PRO

The Daffodil Story.

Several times my daughter had telephoned to say, "Mother, you must come to see the daffodils before they are over." I wanted to go, but it was a two-hour drive from Laguna to Lake Arrowhead. "I will come next Tuesday," I promised a little reluctantly on her third call.

Next Tuesday dawned cold and rainy. Still, I had promised, and reluctantly I drove there.

When I finally walked into Carolyn’s house I was welcomed by the joyful sounds of happy children. I delightedly hugged and greeted my grandchildren. "Forget the daffodils, Carolyn The road is invisible in these clouds and fog, and there is nothing in the world except you and these children that I want to see badly enough to drive another inch" My daughter smiled calmly and said, "We drive in this all the time, Mother."

"Well, you won’t get me back on the road until it clears, and then I’m heading for home" I assured her. "I was hoping you’d take me over to the garage to pick up my car." "How far will we have to drive?" "Oh...just a few blocks," Carolyn said. "But I’ll drive. I’m used to this."

After several minutes, I had to ask, "Where are we going? This isn’t the way to the garage" "We’re going to my garage the long way," Carolyn smiled, "by way of the daffodils." "Carolyn," I said sternly, "please turn around." “It’s all right, Mother, I promise. You will never forgive yourself if you miss this experience."

After about twenty minutes, we turned onto a small gravel road and I saw a small church.

On the far side of the church, I saw a hand lettered sign with an arrow that read, "Daffodil Garden." We got out of the car, each took a child’s hand, and I followed Carolyn down the path. Then, as we turned a corner, I looked up and gasped. Before me lay the most glorious sight.

It looked as though someone had taken a great vat of gold and poured it over the mountain peak and it’s surrounding slopes. The flowers were planted in majestic, swirling patterns, great ribbons and swaths of deep orange, creamy white, lemon yellow, salmon pink, and saffron and butter yellow. Each different-colored variety was planted in large groups so that it swirled and flowed like its own river with its own unique hue.

There were five acres of flowers. Who did this?" I asked Carolyn. "Just one woman," Carolyn answered. "She lives on the property. That’s her home."

Carolyn pointed to a well-kept A-frame house, small and modestly sitting in the midst of all that glory. We walked up to the house.

On the patio, we saw a poster. "Answers to the Questions I Know You Are Asking"...