Harold Had Me Arrested in a Field of Daffodils
Like daffodils, Harold’s first appearance deceives many!
Aside from the fact that daffodils represent the coming of spring, it is popularly thought that the pretty yellow flowers symbolize lots of positive stuff, like creativity, memories, awareness, self-reflection, and forgiveness.
I have never been one to proselytize the spiritual benefits of any flower. Let’s face it, despite its beautiful fresh-spring appearance, the daffodil is deadly!
Ignoring serious safety concerns, some people use the bulb, leaf, and flower to make medicine. Purportedly, it is used for whooping cough, colds, asthma, and to induce vomiting. Daffodil balms are used to treat burns, wounds, joint pain, and strains.
“Where is this all leading?” you may well ask, and I would have to say, “It’s all leading to Norman.”
But more about the flower first…
I don’t understand why anybody would treat a health problem with something so potentially dangerous, especially as all parts of the plant contain a toxic chemical. The highest concentration of that chemical is found in the bulb. (Some knuckleheads have been known to confuse a daffodil bulb with an onion — outcomes in those instances were not good)!
On top of all that negativity, the bulb contains tiny, needle-like oxalate thingies. If you’re unfortunate enough to find them in your mouth; your lips, tongue, and throat will most likely suffer severe burning, whereas external skin contact can present as an irritation known as daffodil itch.
If all the above is not enough to put you off daffodils, ponder the superstition that a single daffodil is considered to bring bad luck! Who can make sense of that little gem? What genius would consider daffodils to be conducive to awareness, self-reflection, and forgiveness, but only in a bunch? Surely, if one is bad luck, then many would represent a shit load of trouble!
But, hey! They look good in a vase!’
It’s because of Norman that I know what I do about daffodils, even though I presented my proselytizing as if it were my superior knowledge. And it is because of Norman that I find myself in a very big pickle!
I first met Norman at my friends’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. They held a rather nice soiree in the local community hall and invited fifty friends. Mavis wore a white dress and Maurice was decked out in a ridiculous white suit with a gold tie; they told me they thought it would look good in the photographs.
I thought Maurice resembled Elvis in his later years, but without the rock star’s decent head of hair.
Maurice is one of those ageing fellows who think a lanky, greasy comb-over is preferable to a bald head. I am here to attest to the fact that I have seen what happens to Maurice’s do when the wind blows unexpectedly — it flips to the opposite side of a long hair part, leaving Maury with a bald head, and an eight-inch fringe dangling over his left ear. I don’t get it!
Maurice is a super nice, intelligent guy with a super-intelligent, loving wife. Why Mavis hasn’t broached the subject of ‘the hair’ in fifty years, I will never know!
Anyway, I digress — back to the party.
The hall had been decked out with a large assortment of gold-coloured decorations. Waiters pushed through clusters of attendees, bearing platters of finger food, and an old-time band played ‘down-memory-lane tunes’ as guests ball-room danced on a polished floor.
I had no plus-one and was feeling conspicuous when, unexpectedly, a dapper chap in a pin-striped suit and matching bow tie, appeared in front of me.
“May I have this dance?” he inquired formally, holding out a hand.
I could tell he was very old-school; most likely in his mid-seventies. In the days when we were being tutored in the fine art of social etiquette, we were instructed that a lady never refuses a dance. As the man was beautifully groomed, wafting a fragrant after-shave, I nodded and accepted his proffered hand, secretly hoping I would be good enough on the dance floor to avoid scuffing his shiny patent leathers.
Without preamble, he twirled me into the dancers. Because of his prowess, he was easy to follow, and I began to feel very ‘Fred Astaire and Ginger Roger-ish’ as we twirled, dipped, and floated to the music. We had settled into a smooth foxtrot when Norman introduced himself, subsequently launching into an explanation of how he knew Maurice and Mavis.
He was mid-sentence when a most unfortunate thing happened!
My attention was firmly fixed on Norman’s lips due to the loudness of the band when, without warning, Norman’s full bottom denture exploded from his mouth!
Full credit must be given. Without blinking an eyelid, or missing a beat, Norman’s hand darted away from mine, deftly caught the teeth, and returned them from whence they had escaped. With a quick swipe of his palm on the side of his suit pants, my hand was reclaimed, and we continued our dance until the band called a break.
Norman made not one single mention of what had occurred, and I was enthralled by both his agile reflexes and his classy handling of a delicate situation. That is why I agreed to meet him for an outing at the park, to view the latest blooming of the daffodils.
Norman announced the blooming of the daffodils as if the event was as exciting as ‘the running of the bulls’.
I should mention, escaping rampant horned beasts in a crowded cobbled street, is not on my diminishing bucket list, but I felt relatively safe around daffodils, even when I found out later that their toxins were as potentially lethal as a horn in the derriere.
Norman was waiting patiently for me, seated on a park bench overlooking a glorious field sprinkled with a vast array of daffodils.
I waited for him to scoot along the bench a little, as I had no intention of sitting right on top of him. At my age, it is unseemly to sit shoulder to shoulder with an almost stranger, even if we had danced the night away the previous evening.
I don’t know what had possessed me, but I had chosen a summer frock that just happened to feature spring flowers, some of which were daffodils.
Norman invited me to sit and remarked on my dress.
“That is very becoming,” he announced. “You certainly fit right in with the scenery.”
That was when he treated me to a quick lecture on the dangers of daffodils. Resultantly, I began to develop a healthy respect for the blooms.
Daffodil lesson over, Norman bent down to retrieve some items from a large sports bag nestled at his feet. He withdrew two pairs of shears, some rubber gloves and a long cane basket similar to those I had seen people using to carry blooms at flower markets.
The penny dropped!
“You can’t cut flowers from the park! Look, there are notices everywhere!” I screeched in alarm.
Norman glanced toward me and then at the obvious warnings sprinkled randomly throughout the field; one notice was barely two feet from where we were sitting.
“Do not cut or pick the daffodils! Fines apply!”
“Fiddle-faddle!” declared Norman. “We’re doing people a favour. Getting rid of noxious weeds, that’s what!”
“Who’s we?” I blurted in complete horror.
Norman leapt from the bench, hands covered in rubber gloves, shears in hand, basket over his arm. “Come on, slowcoach. Grab some gloves and help me out. Doris is relying on me.”
Norman was bending over, intent on gathering blooms, when I called out, “Who is Doris?”
“My daughter — she owns a flower shop!”
“Why doesn’t she go to the markets?” I queried, mortified on my park bench.
“Cheaper this way.” Norman sliced a perfect specimen and carried it over to me. He shoved it into my hand, muttered, “My lady,” and wandered back to his chore.
I was transfixed in horror, watching on as Norman sliced and diced his way through the field of daffodils. Without even knowing why I gripped my one daffodil in a hand that appeared to be frozen in place. I knew I should get up and leave; I wanted to get up and leave, but I couldn’t look away from the carnage being carried out in the field.
Norman was moving further and further from me when a voice startled me into reality.
“What are you up to? Can’t you read the signs? There’s enough of them, for Pete’s sake!”
The voice from behind me was loud enough to send my heart hammering as I whirled on my seat.
Standing behind the park bench were two uniformed police officers.
Through a stammering, and very dry mouth, I began to protest my innocence until I realised I was still clutching one very important piece of evidence — one pernicious and very incriminating daffodil!
“Oh,” I stammered. “I didn’t pick this — Norman did!” I swung back around to indicate the field of desecrated daffodils. There wasn’t a Norman to be seen!
The police did me a favour by moving to stand in front of the bench — I was seriously close to ricking my arthritic neck permanently.
“And,” smirked the woman officer, “I suppose this bag with shears, gloves, and a few daffodils are Norman’s, too?”
“Yes,” I hotly declared. (When had he put those daffodils in there, the wily fox)?
“Might as well drop that one in, too,” announced the other cop. “It’s all evidence, you know.”
That’s when it hit me! Handle a bunch of daffodils and the blessings of the universe will be yours; hold one, and you’re in for a truckload of do-dos! I wasn’t sure whether a curse had brought me undone or whether Norman had been solely responsible for my predicament.
My trip in the police car wasn’t unpleasant. I could tell that the arresting officers were half-inclined to believe my story, especially as they had heard of Norman’s escapades in the daffodil field in years past. Only trouble was, they had never been able to catch him. His elderly lady accomplices were not so lucky, meaning I was just one of many who had been left holding the daffodil, so to speak. And I was the one who received a hefty fine and a warning.
I tried to co-operate by giving the police Maurices’ and Mavis’ phone numbers. They would be sure to have Norman’s contact details.
The police gave me a nice milky (lactose-free) latte while they went to chase up my leads. By the time I had slurped my way to the bottom of the takeaway container, the lady officer returned to tell me that Maurice and Mavis had never heard of, nor invited to their party, anybody named Norman.
I had been well and truly duped by a dapper daffodil defiler!
With an infringement notice amounting to several hundred dollars nestling in the bottom of my bag, I declined a lift home by the police. It was still a beautiful day, and I needed a walk to settle my nerves.
As I ambled disconsolately along, I began to think of treating myself to a cultural holiday, just to get away from it all. Some areas in Spain were said to be conducive to such a vacation.
Thoughts of Spain caused me to think about the running of the bulls in Pamplona. What sort of idiot does such a thing; deliberately courting danger by trying to outrun a bunch of rampaging bovines?
Nearly as foolhardy as attending the Blooming of the Daffodils.
I was beginning to find some humour in my situation when I became aware of a dreadfully irritating rash that had appeared on my right hand and arm.
Daffodil itch! The curse of the single daffodil was continuing to plague my day!
I vaguely considered going to the field to collect Norman’s rejects. Perhaps a bunch, set carefully on my dining table, would undo the hex. On further consideration, I thought it probably wasn’t worth the risk!
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