Every spring on our farm on Clatsop Plains, the daffodils bloomed first, acres and acres of golden yellow. Then, the Easter lilies. So fragrant it made me dizzy with sweetness. Later, that same field was planted with Marshall strawberries, the biggest, sweetest, reddest berries ever. But they couldn’t tolerate all the rain, so now they’re extinct.
Along with Wes and Jenny and Mom and Dad, I planted my share of those bulbs, topped my share, dug my share, sorted my share, and replanted my share. Often in clouds of dust or squishy mud.
But every spring, it was worth it.