My Daylily Parade: A 35-Year Garden Tradition

Every June 1st, I leap out of bed before dawn. The daylily parade has begun, and I won’t miss a single bloom. This annual spectacle started 35 years ago with a single “ditch lily” from my Aunt Bett, who swore it brought good luck and a full belly. She fed me my first daylily bud in a salad with hot bacon grease when I was a girl—a memory that rooted a lifelong passion.

A Garden Built on Gifts

My gardens were never planned; they grew from the generosity of family, friends, and strangers. Uncle Bill brought red and yellow daylilies from our great-grandmother’s yard. Mom contributed peach and salmon varieties from Granny Ninna’s and Gramma Ell’s gardens. Miss Erma thinned her beds and gave me gold-throated beauties. A student named Eddy, guided by his grandmother, apologized with a bucket of white daylilies. My friend Bette added a dinner-plate-sized yellow lacy bloom to accompany an almost-black variety from my uncle. Holly, a nursery owner’s daughter, insisted I needed purple and delivered a pot herself.

The Parade Expands

Through Dave’s Garden, I connected with fellow enthusiasts across the country. Now my beds hold reds and purples from California, soft pinks and lavenders from New York, a red with yellow throat from Bardstown, and an old-fashioned bright red from Benton, Kentucky. Each June, they bloom in the order they arrived: Aunt Bett’s ditch lily first, then Gramma Combs, Granny Ninna, Gramma Ell, Uncle Bill, Miss Erma, Eddy, Holly, Bette, and my Dave’s Garden friends—Pirl, Melody, Doug, Laura, and more.

Rituals of June

By mid-June, the backyard is a riot of color. Each morning I walk the beds with coffee in one hand and my “daylily bag” (clippers, trash bag, camera) in the other. Deadheading keeps the show going, and photos capture the fleeting beauty. Over the years, new shades—pink, lemon yellow, burgundy, cream—have joined the procession, as if by magic.

Resilience and Legacy

Two inches of ice last winter didn’t dim their glory; Hurricane Ike’s winds couldn’t halt their march. Like bands in the Rose Bowl Parade or blossoms on Easter hats, my daylilies march on. Next June, I’ll call my daughter at daybreak and invite her to join the parade—and I’ll send her home with a division. “Plant it in sunshine, give it a drink of water,” I’ll say. “It’ll do just fine.”

All photos are the author’s property; the daylilies (and many more) grow in her gardens thanks to the special people in her life.