One Woman, Two Hands

How a stranger built a field of beauty, one daffodil bulb at a time.

- Jaroldeen Edwards

IT WAS A BLEAK, rainy day, and I had no desire to drive up the winding road to my daughter Carolyn’s house. But she had insisted that I come to see something at the top of the mountain.

So here I was, reluctantly making the two-hour journey through the fog that hung like a veil. By the time I saw how thick it was near the summit, I’d gone too far to turn back. Nothing could be worth this, I thought as I inched along the perilous highway.

“I’ll stay for lunch, but I’m heading back down as soon as the fog lifts,” I announced when I arrived.

“But I need you to drive me to the garage to pick up my car,” Carolyn said. “Could we at least do that?”

“How far is it?” I asked.

“About three minutes,” she said. “I’ll drive—I’m used to it.”