We tend to get on a yellow-flower jag in the spring, don't we? These always remind me of Easter; they grow in a sheltered little corner by the local church where, as a child, the "old men" in their suits would be lined up after the egg hunt, talking of farming and sports and other boring stuff. We would run excitedly to them to present any money egg we had found, with their initials and usually a dime, maybe a quarter written on it. Now and then some joker would forge an egg worth a dollar, and then the red-faced victim would fish through his pockets for one of those big cartwheels, glaring around all the while to see who was laughing at his expense.
Years later, as the proud father of small children, I stood in the same line. Somehow we didn't seem so old, and our conversation seemed more witty and urbane. Most of the eggs were worth a quarter, a few a dollar, and I think some rascal forged a five-dollar egg with my initials on it one year. The flowers were still yellow though.