one after another along the strip of grass between Milestone Road and the bicycle path. She’s in a thickparade of traffic now, but she slows down even more than she needs to for a better look. A car parked on the grass ahead of her begins to pull out as she’s approaching it, and she decides to take the spot.
She grabs her mirrored sunglasses, gets out of her Jeep, and begins walking. Main Street is blocked off to car traffic, so she walks down the center of the road. The tailgating cars are now mostly antiques or fancy convertibles and must’ve had special permission to be here. Most of the license plates are from New York or Connecticut. These people aren’t year-rounders.
All of the cars are decorated with daffodils—huge bouquets tied to mirrors and roof racks and hoods. The people are decorated in daffodils, too. Hats, leis, corsages, boutonnieres. Most everyone is dressed for the occasion, casual but festive in some combination of yellow clothing with daffodil accessories, but some of the women are wearing elegant spring dresses and heels, and a few of the men are wearing seersucker suits and ties, as if they were out for tea in the English countryside. It feels like a Mardi Gras parade thrown by the Kennedys.
There are no kegs. There are wineglasses, champagne glasses, and martini glasses. There are Bloody Marys with green olives and sticks of celery. There are lawn chairs and card tables adorned with tablecloths and, of course, centerpiece vases bursting with daffodils. The tables are also piled with food, and not hamburgers and hot dogs, but beautiful food, food that could be served at a wedding. Baskets of bread, boards of cheese, fried clams, sushi, salads, and chowder.
It’s all very civilized. Although everyone appears to be drinking in public, and she’s sure that plenty of these people are feeling tipsy, none of them is drunk enough to be a public nuisance. No one’s calling the campus police here. No one is reliving a Hail Mary pass or doing keg stands or puking. No one has taken off his shirt and finger-painted GO EAGLES or YOU SUCK on his chest.
These people aren’t here to cheer on their beloved home team or celebrate a winning season. These people have packed up their suitcases and traveled hundreds of miles by plane or car and ferry, they’ve prepared picnic baskets full of crackers and cheese and lobster and wine, gotten dressed up in their wacky yellow outfits, and driven over to ’Sconset to sit by the side of the road on a freezing-cold day in April to celebrate a flower. These people are crazy.
Olivia avoids eye contact and walks at a brisk pace down the middle of the road, as if she’s on her way somewhere specific, looking for someone she knows, and doesn’t have time to stop and visit. The air smells like wet earth and buttery-sweet flowers, ocean and garlic. Her stomach growls. She wishes she had that blueberry scone. Or a bite of that woman’s lobster roll.
Satisfied that she’s seen all there is to see at this bizarre roadside holiday, she turns around, returns to her car, and heads to the other side of the island, enjoying the cheery sprays of yellow that decorate the landscape all around her as she drives. Back in her driveway, she spots six daffodils in her own front yard, three gold and three white, fully open and bobbing in the wind as if they were nodding and happy to see her. She wonders who planted them. She smiles, feeling not only hungry now, but also strangely inspired.
She heats up a bowl of clam chowder in the microwave and shakes a heap of oyster crackers on top. She grabs a spoon, her latte, a blanket from the couch, and her library book and sits on the rocking chair on her front porch. Cold coffee, three-day-old chowder, and six of the three million daffodils all to herself. Her own private tailgating party to celebrate Daffodil Day, or whatever they call it. Perfect. Or at least, not bad.
She eats a spoonful of chowder and studies her flowers shivering
She grabs her mirrored sunglasses, gets out of her Jeep, and begins walking. Main Street is blocked off to car traffic, so she walks down the center of the road. The tailgating cars are now mostly antiques or fancy convertibles and must’ve had special permission to be here. Most of the license plates are from New York or Connecticut. These people aren’t year-rounders.
All of the cars are decorated with daffodils—huge bouquets tied to mirrors and roof racks and hoods. The people are decorated in daffodils, too. Hats, leis, corsages, boutonnieres. Most everyone is dressed for the occasion, casual but festive in some combination of yellow clothing with daffodil accessories, but some of the women are wearing elegant spring dresses and heels, and a few of the men are wearing seersucker suits and ties, as if they were out for tea in the English countryside. It feels like a Mardi Gras parade thrown by the Kennedys.
There are no kegs. There are wineglasses, champagne glasses, and martini glasses. There are Bloody Marys with green olives and sticks of celery. There are lawn chairs and card tables adorned with tablecloths and, of course, centerpiece vases bursting with daffodils. The tables are also piled with food, and not hamburgers and hot dogs, but beautiful food, food that could be served at a wedding. Baskets of bread, boards of cheese, fried clams, sushi, salads, and chowder.
It’s all very civilized. Although everyone appears to be drinking in public, and she’s sure that plenty of these people are feeling tipsy, none of them is drunk enough to be a public nuisance. No one’s calling the campus police here. No one is reliving a Hail Mary pass or doing keg stands or puking. No one has taken off his shirt and finger-painted GO EAGLES or YOU SUCK on his chest.
These people aren’t here to cheer on their beloved home team or celebrate a winning season. These people have packed up their suitcases and traveled hundreds of miles by plane or car and ferry, they’ve prepared picnic baskets full of crackers and cheese and lobster and wine, gotten dressed up in their wacky yellow outfits, and driven over to ’Sconset to sit by the side of the road on a freezing-cold day in April to celebrate a flower. These people are crazy.
Olivia avoids eye contact and walks at a brisk pace down the middle of the road, as if she’s on her way somewhere specific, looking for someone she knows, and doesn’t have time to stop and visit. The air smells like wet earth and buttery-sweet flowers, ocean and garlic. Her stomach growls. She wishes she had that blueberry scone. Or a bite of that woman’s lobster roll.
Satisfied that she’s seen all there is to see at this bizarre roadside holiday, she turns around, returns to her car, and heads to the other side of the island, enjoying the cheery sprays of yellow that decorate the landscape all around her as she drives. Back in her driveway, she spots six daffodils in her own front yard, three gold and three white, fully open and bobbing in the wind as if they were nodding and happy to see her. She wonders who planted them. She smiles, feeling not only hungry now, but also strangely inspired.
She heats up a bowl of clam chowder in the microwave and shakes a heap of oyster crackers on top. She grabs a spoon, her latte, a blanket from the couch, and her library book and sits on the rocking chair on her front porch. Cold coffee, three-day-old chowder, and six of the three million daffodils all to herself. Her own private tailgating party to celebrate Daffodil Day, or whatever they call it. Perfect. Or at least, not bad.
She eats a spoonful of chowder and studies her flowers shivering
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