There is a woman I have known for most of my life named Cynthia. I first met her early in my childhood as my good friend’s mother. At one point she became friends with my own mother and eventually her first business partner (as the Compleat Gardener.) Years later Cynthia officiated my wedding and eventually consoled me at the event of the death of my own mother. Still the circle continues.

At some point in my youth, I became acquainted with the lovely blooming shrub, Forsythia. Of course, I confused the name of the plant, thinking instead that it was “Forcynthia.” After all, wasn’t it For Cynthia, a devoted plantswoman and one of my mother-figures, whose own birthday graced the same month of its bloom?

This misunderstanding lived with me long into adulthood, despite my own scholastic training and professional study in horticulture. When I was first corrected on my own pronunciation of the plant, I was initially obdurate, refusing to believe that I was wrong. After all, everyone had just gone along with it for so many years.

I feel, in a way, that I was forced to change the name of this plant in my own vernacular. Inwardly, I still think of it as Forcynthia. Afer all, I still think of Cynthia a bit when I think of the plant. I also think of my childhood. I think of rambling bushes that blazed a wild yellow in spring and the fort-worthy hollows that lay beneath. I think of Easter baskets and flowering dogwood and Lesser blooming Celandine. These are all just my personal connections, but I bet you have them too.

Well three days ago I went out and harvested some snow-covered Forsythia branches and decided to force them into “ForCynthia” sprigs.. VOILA! I now have yellow blossoms to brighten up my day and remind me of the glorious New Jersey spring (more on that later if you are a skeptic.) If you too have a budded Forsythia, I suggest cutting off some branches and bringing them into a vase in the warmth of your house. You will not be disappointed.