Oh, Daphne!

The fragrance of winter daphne, Daphne odora, transports me as close to the gates of heaven as I am ever likely to get. Winter weary, anxious for tender sprouts and warm breezes, I am always surprised to see buds on the daphne so early each year. Anything that smells that good must surely be a fragile hothouse beauty, unsuited for the night’s freezing temperatures.




But the delicate blossoms are tough. They hang in through frosts and one day a single blossom on the little nosegays (an apt descriptor of the flower clusters) begins to open. This signals spring as surely as the lengthening days and in spite of whatever little meteorological surprises Mother Nature may have up her voluminous blue sleeve.

Daphne may be tough but she is not easy. This particular daphne marks my third attempt to succeed with a container planting. The plant does not like exposure to drying winds. It does not like to be waterlogged. But neither does it like to dry out. This year’s success I chalk up to a merciful universe and no particular expertise on my part.

Many years ago I lived in a tiny apartment across from a private college in the Willamette Valley. Planted against one brick building was a veritable hedge of winter daphne. I often would lie on the grass next to that building, breathing in the heady scent of hundreds of blossoms. This experience defines an entire period of my life.

Prevailing wisdom maintains that, of all the senses, the sense of smell is the most powerful stimulus of memory. I believe this is true because each spring when I lean over my small daphne plant and inhale the heady aroma I am back on that lawn, floating on a cloud of fragrance, looking up at the sky.