I love daffodils. I love all their different forms, from the simple early ones that shout Spring! Hello! Rebirth! Everything is new! (B's mom calls them Easter lilies, which makes a lot sense to me), to the very finely made N. poeticus, to 'Van Sion' that is as persistent as an old peony. They're beautiful in bloom.
They're also pretty unsightly after they've finished showing off. For a few years I had been planning on digging, dividing, and replanting clumps of daffodils on the east side of the peony bed that each year swallow the lupines interplanted with them. The foliage persists until July, and because I can't easily weed between the thick clumps of leaves, by midsummer the whole bed looks pretty awful.
So last August I dug a couple hundred bulbs out with every good intention of relocating them in October. I piled them in a basket, parked the basket in the basement next to the bulkhead door, and then it was out of sight, out of mind through October. When November came and went, I figured I'd lost my chance to replant them, but December was a lot warmer than normal. Christmas was positively balmy, and on the second day of January, with three hours left before B and I headed back to the city, I grabbed a shovel, determined that the ground was not yet frozen, and planted those babies all over the place.
Some are behind the stone wall, on the edge of the cowpath. Some are on the margins of the woods to the north of the house. A quantity more are nestled beneath a cover of fallen leaves in the woodlot to the west. A few are in a hummock of rich, rock-free soil I discovered near the old orchard. We'll see, won't we?
I did right by those daffodils, eventually. Hope they aren't too put out with me for forgetting them these past months. Hope they are happy to have some room to spread.