April Flowers and Showers

 April Flowers and Showers

By C. A. Asbrey

"The sun was warm but the wind was chill. 

You know how it is with an April day. 

When the sun is out and the wind is still, 

You're one month on in the middle of May. 

But if you so much as dare to speak, a cloud come over the sunlit arch, 

And wind comes off a frozen peak, 

And you're two months back in the middle of March." 

Robert Frost, Two Tramps in Mud Time, 1926 

April is the beginning of spring. Even its name reflects the change of season. In Latin aperio means 'I open' referring to the buds and sprigs burgeoning with life in the northern hemisphere at this time of year. As people were historically so dependent on a good crop, it was a time of year that was very important to our ancestors. The spring season is rife with superstitions and folklore.

The birth flower for the month of April is the common daisy, Bellis Perennis. It's commonly thought that the name comes from a corruption of an older name 'Day's Eye' due to the fact that it closed in the evening and opened in the morning. Chaucer was known to call it 'the eye of the day'. In medieval times it was called 'Mary's Rose' or the 'Bone Flower.' In Scotland and the North of England it is also known as gowan. It grows all over the old world, needing little or no care, and has one of the longest blooming seasons in the plant calendar. Ancient daisy decorations on pottery and ornaments have been found in excavations in Crete, Egypt, and all over the Middle East going back at least 4,000 years. The Bellis part of the name is thought to mean pretty, but it could also relate to the Latin for war - bellum. This theory is supported by the medicinal use for the plant in treating injuries. Also known as bruisewort, and occasionally woundwort, it was used for healing wounds and treating bruising. Other medicinal uses suggest that a strong solution had anti-spasmodic properties that helped menstruation, bowel problems, and a decoction of the roots can treat eczema.     

The heads are edible can be scattered over a salad to make it pretty, along with other edible flowers.

Freya Bringing the Daisies

In Norse mythology Freya, goddess of love, beauty and fertility, declared the flower to be sacred. Also linked to Venus, the Roman goddess of love and beauty. It led to simple rituals, still carried out today where the petals are plucked off one-by-one by young women across the whole of Europe repeating "he loves me, he loves me not". Other fortune-telling games relating to the daisy has girls trying to predict the occupation of her future husband as the petals are removed. The verse takes many forms, but one of the oldest was, "Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief, doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief."

Daisies in Ophelia's Death Scene

Goethe had a pregnant Margherita plucking a daisy to tell her how Faust felt about her, but he wasn't the only artist to weave the flower into their work. Shakespeare used it in Ophelia's death scene, and in Love’s Labour’s Lost said that ‘daisies… do paint the meadows with delight’. Wordsworth wrote 'To the Daisy', and Keats and Emily Dickinson also mentioned the flower.    

In Celtic legend, when babies died, daisies were said to be sprinkled over the child's grave by the gods to ease the suffering of the parents. The perennial nature of the plant meant it grew everywhere, and certainly on graves. It lead to the euphemism 'pushing up the daisies.' Linked to the spring equinox, the appearance of the daisy showed that the land was fertile, but in the triple deities of the Celts it related to the maiden, not the mother or the crone form, and as such, it was linked to innocence. It was also a sign of resilience, returning after being trampled and surviving throughout the summer. A daisy chain was said to protect a child from being abducted by the fairies.        

A horse that didn't lift its hooves high enough was nicknamed a daisy-cutter, and this term spread also to sports. In 1889 an English newspaper used the term for a low fast ball running along the ground. It wasn't long before that term was used in Baseball for the same thing.  

A 19th century slang term that's gone out of fashion is 'it's daisy'. Meaningless to us, but to Victorian Brits it meant it was superb.     

It it very well might be superb. Modern studies on the plant has found that a strong scientific basis for its reputation for healing wounds. Dried daisy flowers, powdered and extracted in n-butanol, accelerated wound-healing and decreased scarring on skin wounds. A later study found seven new saponins that promote collagen synthesis (constituents that have soap-like attributes and lower surface tension) in daisy flowers. Collagen is the main structural constituent of skin, which would explain how they contribute to  wound healing. One type of saponin in Daisy flowers has also been found to inhibit tumours, so maybe it's time to look at the humble daisy in a new light?  

Excerpt

“That’s my drink,” said Tibby. 

The stranger turned a smug sneer on Tibby. “It can’t be. It’s in my hand.” “It’s mine.” 

Tibby appealed to the barman for help. “He’s got my drink.”

The server rolled his eyes. “Have you seen how busy it is in here? I ain’t got time to watch everyone’s stuff. Look after your own drink.” 

“I’m trying to. Give me that.” Tibby reached up but the taller man held the glass up high, way out of the reach of the tiny man. “You know that’s mine.” 

Tibby jumped and stretched, huffing in his exertion in a game of alcoholic-keep-away much to the amusement of the ring of bullies who sniggered and jeered. “Look at the size of him. He’s a midget.” 

“I am not.” Tibby jumped once more. “Midgets are medically four-foot-ten. I’m five-foot-one.” 

“Five-one,” guffawed a vacant-looking goon. “You is a giant midget.”

 “Please, I’ve had a terrible day. Just let me have a drink in peace. Give me my glass.” 

“Yeah, give ’im his glass, Fred,” scoffed the large one with greasy hair sticking out from under a tatty cap. 

“Sure.” The stranger swilled back the contents before he held out the empty glass. “Here.” 

Tibby pulled back his reaching hand, his bottom lip growing and trembling beneath great blue globes which glistened with tears. “You drank it?” 

The men threw back their heads and guffawed, slapping one another on the backs and seeking support for their helpless mirth at this unexpected reaction. It was beyond anything they’d hoped for. 

“Yeah, get yourself another.” The bully snickered.

Tears streamed down Tibby’s face. “I don’t want another drink. I wanted that one. It was special.” 

Fred leaned forward, leering into Tibby’s face. 

“Well, you can’t have that one. I drank it.” 

“He’s cryin’. Can you believe this?” asked the smallest bully. “A grown man sobbin’ like a baby.” 

“I don’t believe this.” Tibby leaned over the bar, his shoulders heaving with deep sobs. “First of all, I get taken to jail for a crime I didn’t commit. Then I get fired, and to top it off, my wife told me she’s leaving me.” He backhanded away glistening tears as the band of bullies fell quiet. “This has been the worst day of my entire life. I come in here for a quiet drink and now, I meet you. Why do you want to stop me from committing suicide? It’s too cruel.”

 “Suicide?” a small voice murmured from the gaggle of miscreants. “

Yeah.” Tibby turned on the bully, pointing an accusing finger. “He drank my poison. A man can’t even kill himself in peace anymore.” 

Tibby kept right in character and watched Fred grasp his throat. “Poison?” 

“I tried to tell you, but you kept pulling it away from me. I came in here to kill myself, but now you even took that from me.” 

“He’s bluffin’,” cried one of the crowd. 

“Ya think?” demanded another. “How often d’ya see a grown man cry in public?” 

“He ain’t exactly a grown man,” answered his friend. It wasn’t helping though, Fred’s eyes bulged and he doubled over thrusting his fingers down his gullet.

Fred’s friend grabbed Tibby by the lapels and shook him violently. “What kinda poison was it?” The journalist wailed and whimpered as Fred buckled at the knees. “What kind?” 

“Strychnine,” Tibby sniveled. “What have I got left to live for?” 

“Strychnine?” “Yeah, that’s why I had with whiskey. It kills the taste.” Tibby paused. “Along with the crushing pain of my pointless existence. I guess your existence has been rendered meaningless, now.” 

“I need a doc,” Fred bellowed, running for the door. 

“A doctor won’t be able to help,” Tibby called after the departing crowd. His tears had dried up and his smile returned with suspicious alacrity. “But get your stomach pumped, just in case.”

The barman wiped the bar with a grubby cloth and eyed Tibby with caution. “I ain’t gonna have no trouble in here.” 

“Hey, if you’d adopted that stance a minute ago, I wouldn’t have been driven to subterfuge.” 

The barman frowned. “There ain’t nowhere around here called Subterfuge. This is the Flying Horse.”

Tibby sighed. “Two more whiskeys, please.” His face lit up at the sight of Jake returning from the latrines. “Ah, you’re back. I just ordered some more drinks.” 

Jake’s brow met, picking up on the undercurrents and sideways glances going on around them. “What’s goin’ on?” 

“Nothing.” Tibby smiled his most innocent smile. “Some bullies took my whiskey but I told them how tough my day had been and they left.” He lifted the shot glass replete with amber liquid. “I ordered us some more. Now, about Callie. I’ve had a few thoughts.”