For my California readers St. David is the patron saint of Wales. St. David’s Day is March 1st and is typically celebrated with daffodils. This is a re-post from last year.daffodils

It was 6 a.m. on St. David’s Day and the work was already done.

Steam rose from the kettle and, my rain soaked hair. I made tea that might calm my nerves.

St. David’s Day started rough at 5 a.m.  My eyes shot open as disturbing dreams turned into the disturbing reality that dark deeds needed doing, best done in the dark.

If this day were like its Irish cousin, St. Patrick’s Day, all this might not need have happened. St. Pat’s is all gaiety and ease, with plastic green shamrock totems found in every shop. Plenty of Irish Fuisce  whiskey to settle the nerves. But St. David’s Day is suppressed by Welsh Methodism. No store in Petaluma carries the Welsh Brain’s Bitter, no shops sell the Welsh totem, the daffodil. And this is where the dilemma began.

At 5:30 I stepped out into the St. David’s dampness, wearing bible black clothes, umbrella and bag containing the murder weapon. I passed the dairy, where today’s milk (for my badly needed tea) was already being thought about. The light from its yard and the rain combined to glisten off the pavement, tanks and tankers, making it all uncomfortably bright for me. I hurried on past the city hall. The fluorescent lights in a large office came alive just as I passed lighting me and the scene of the crime like a spotlight in the prison yard I am sure to go to if found out. And there were the victims, a bunch of daffodils by the old Methodist Church. Who knows, maybe they were planted by some good Welsh Methodist who knew of St. David.

What happened next is still a blur. I looked around to see if anyone was watching, then threw down my umbrella, pulled out the scissors and hacked at the daffodils for what seemed to be as long as a Methodist sermon. I concealed the cuttings in my bag and looked back once to see the carnage. The bunch of daffodils now looked like the first haircut my mother gave me. I walked away, dew still dripping from my hands.

I wonder if my Welsh bride will ever know the dark side of these St. David’s Day flowers.

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