When is spring officially here? Is it when the first robin hops across the lawn hunting for worms, or is it the day when there's just something different in the air -- a sweet, fresh scent that calls like a siren to young and old alike, singing, "Let's play hookey"?

Along a stretch of Warrendale Bayne Road in Marshall, it comes when the daffodils bloom in big letters that say, "Welcome spring." Next to that, 6,000 more daffodils form a cross 35 feet wide and 55 feet long. The flowers paint the hillside with yellow and white blossoms, bringing a smile to countless drivers headed for Interstate 79.

People may have to look for a new sign of the season, though -- Heartland Homes has an option to buy the land, and no one knows whether the daffodil bulbs will remain.

The flowers were the work of the late John Frey, who was born on a farm that at one time covered most of the surrounding area. Over the years, parcels were sold off, and crop land was replaced by homes. But Frey stayed.

In his farmhouse, time stood still, with simple wooden floors and a well pump at the sink. "It's a reminder of what things were," said neighbor David Pampena, who moved in nearly a decade ago. "I looked at him as somewhat of an icon of the area."

Pampena remembers Frey the way most others do: as a quiet, sincere and hardworking man.

He started the cross decades ago, first growing the daffodils in nursery beds for a few years, until they reached their peak.

Each spring he would mow down the field on an old tractor in anticipation of the spring show his daffodils put on. When they bloomed, it was a landmark used by many in the area when giving directions.

Frey retired in 1987 from his job in Marshall's public works department. Township Secretary Patty Hutchison describes him as sweet and very private. "You'd have to know him, just a humble man," she said.

He would never sell the remainder of the farm as long as he was alive because he was born and raised there and wanted to die there.

He died nearly two years ago, and the farm was put up for sale. Like most of the rest of the original property, plans call for it to be divided up for houses.

A few outbuildings are all that remain of Frey's farm. What's left of the barn lies along the driveway, huge hand-hewn beams that supported the structure for more than 100 years. Skunk cabbage pokes through the swampy lowland meadow bisected by a meandering creek that flows at the bottom of the magnificent cross.

Frey's sister, Wilma Manners, remembers chilly spring evenings sitting on the porch with her brother. Bundled in sweaters, they enjoyed watching the cars slow down to read the message.

"We would look out, and somebody would go across the road and take pictures of it," she said.

"It was his gift to the community," said her husband, Bill Manners. "John put his heart and soul into it, and he had an awful lot of pride in it, too."

No one can remember how many years the flowers have bloomed. Some say 50 years, others say 20.

Wilma Manners' television is graced with pictures of the daffodils sent to her brother by admirers. People often sent cards just to say thank you.

"We had one fella stop and say, 'Ever think about putting a menorah on the other side?' " Bill Manners said, laughing. "John said, 'Well, that's something to think about. It's a season for all religions.' "

Frey dreamed of completing his work by adding an American flag, but he couldn't figure out the right combination of plants to make it work.

The fate of the daffodils remains uncertain. The Mannerses hope the developer might be able to work around them, leaving them as a tribute to Frey, but they don't think it's likely. A real estate agent involved with the developer said the daffodils were not accounted for in the plans, but that a local church had expressed interest.

"It will be a sad day if it's bulldozed over," Bill Manners said.

"We might want to move it if they are not going to keep it," Wilma Manners said.

Hutchison hopes the icon can somehow be saved -- and wants to save a little piece for herself if it can't.

"If they dug them out of there, I would like to keep some just as a keepsake of John," she said, adding that she might plant them by the township's World War II memorial or in its parks.

As the sun sinks low in the evening, the cross is bathed in warm light. The rolling hills of the farm that once echoed with the rumble of Frey's tractor are quiet.

With tears in her eyes, Wilma Manners says what she thinks about when she looks at the daffodils.

"Mostly just about him, in the last few years. I think of him sitting on the porch."

First Published: April 18, 2004, 4:00 a.m.