There is something magical about daffodils. The mere shape of the flower seems to trumpet the arrival of spring, announcing something new and exciting. Imagine March in the Lowcountry with a sea of yellow daffodils covering a yard that stretches all the way down to the banks of Abbapoola Creek. My grandmother Lou would sit on the green porch swing and watch her grandchildren de-daffodil her yard. I can still hear the rhythmic creaking of the chains from the old swing — it almost sounded like a familiar song. She loved watching us pick every flower but there was always another prized daffodil hidden in her yard. The goal was