That’s what my dad always called them.
You’ve surely seen them—tall, graceful stems topped with flaming orange petals streaked with gold. Native orange daylilies, waving from ditches, fences, forgotten patches of roadside that suddenly burst into color late June. Around here, they mark the beginning of summer more reliably than a calendar.
Also known as tawny daylilies or Hemerocallis fulva (if you’re trying to impress someone at the garden center), they go by other names too—corn lilies, ditch lilies, fourth of July lilies, even tiger lilies, though that’s technically a different cousin in the lily family. My dad, though, just called them what they were: “the relatives of the garden world.”
Because here’s the thing. As beloved and beautiful as they are, daylilies can be—how do I put this delicately—pushy. They spread aggressively, digging into every corner of a garden bed like they’ve paid rent. Like a relative who visits and lingers well past their welcome. You love them. But you also hide the good towels and pray for Tuesday.
Sound familiar?
Still, they aren’t without their charm—or usefulness. Their thick clumps can suppress weeds, their roots stabilize soil, and they’ll bloom in conditions that would make pickier plants wilt. Drought? Clay? Shade? No problem. They don’t need pampering. They just keep coming back. Loud, a little messy, and impossible to ignore.
I’ve had a patch of them lining my driveway for the last thirty years, and they were likely there long before I was. Maybe they were planted on purpose, maybe not. But every summer, without fail, they rise. Their blooms unfurl like little orange flags of joy—waving hello, announcing, “We’re back!” And I can’t help but smile.
When I see the first bloom, as I did this morning, I think of my dad. He’d point them out from the car, calling them by whatever nickname he felt like that day. “Look at those ditch dancers,” he once said. “Trying to throw a party on the side of the road.” We’d laugh and shake our heads at them like they were old family friends—the kind who never bring beer but always bring stories.
Now, when I catch myself pulling spent blooms or trimming back the tangled foliage in the fall (the flowers, not the relatives), I think about how I’d miss them if they were gone. Their chaos is part of the rhythm of my life. Just like the people who fill a house with noise, clutter, color, and love.
They may be invasive. But they’re also kind of irresistible.
Just like summer. Just like him.