My newly-planted buttercups. Ahhh!
Since childhood I have been in love with buttercups. It has been told in my family that I once picked every single buttercup in and around my grandparents' yard to give to my grandmother, Momma Beatrice, as a gift. I do remember that it seemed the hillside on their property was full of them. I just thought they were beautiful. I cannot say whether or not I got into trouble for this particular endowment effort.
The buttercups of which I am particularly fond, the solid yellow, trumpet-shaped beauties that pop out of the ground to let us know that spring is on its way, are actually a variation of the daffodil. Scientifically, I have learned that true buttercups are in the genus Ranunculus and bear little resemblance (other than in color) to my most beloved perrenial. I guess it must just be a southern, or at least a northern-middle Tennessee, thing that we call ours "buttercups", as well.
You would think that somewhere on the 150 acres around me I might be able to spot some. No such luck. So, on my last trip to Wally-world I bought two pots. Now, I can look out from my back porch and see them in the little wooded area in our backyard. This appeases me some, but what I really want are the old-fashioned ones growing wild along the road or in a field where surely a house must have once stood. There. I have talked myself into it. I will now pressure John into driving down back country roads with a shovel and bucket so that he can get me some of these little handfuls of happiness. Wouldn't it be swell if he could even get some from my Pa Vernon's old homeplace?
If Meg Ryan's character in You've Got Mail was correct in her thought that daisies are the friendliest flower, then buttercups are surely the sunniest.