You can say it with flowers all you want. With me, I’d rather say it with chocolates. I’ve never known a rose to taste good, much less a rhododendron or any other kind of species out there in horticulture land.
That’s not to say I don’t appreciate a good-looking blossom. I’ve photographed many a colorful arrangement and used them on greeting cards. And I’ve grown my share of plants and flowers when gardening was a trend and I didn’t live in a condo development. What bothers me are the outrageous prices they get for roses on special occasions.
Talk can be cheap but not if speaks a floral dialect. You can always give some daisies a break in your yard. Okay, so it’s not the same.
Before I pay $50 for a dozen roses, I’ll put a tank of gas in my car. It goes a lot further. Try the supermarket, you say? I have. They’re a lot cheaper but don’t last the week.
My father swore upon his deathbed that if anybody gave flowers at his funeral, he’d come back and haunt them. He considered flowers a waste and preferred the money to go toward some favorite charity like CARE.
In his obit, we ended it with “In lieu of flowers, memorial contributions could be made to CARE or to the charity of the donor’s choice.” Still, he got more than his share of bouquets and I did not see him smiling in that casket.
We took in a wonderful exhibit recently at the Museum of Fine Arts. It was called “Art In Bloom” and on display throughout the building were the most gorgeous arrangements money couldn’t buy.
Different garden clubs throughout the state would each present their displays. Judging by the crowd’s response, they proved more popular than an El Greco being featured or a Rembrandt.
Yes, my camera worked overtime, etiquette permitting. I couldn’t just block someone else’s view while I honed in on a desired shot. No point in reciting some of the names. I have trouble pronouncing them anyway and really can’t tell a petunia from a snapdragon.
On the way home from Boston, we struck up a conversation about a certain charge nurse who was leaving my mother’s nursing home. The woman often went above the call of duty in making life more agreeable with the residents.
“We should get her some flowers to show our appreciation for a job well done,” came the suggestion.
For lack of a better idea and the short notice, I bought it. We could pick up the bouquet before our visit and make the presentation on this, the woman’s last day.
“Let’s stop at the supermarket. We can buy some flowers there,” my wife suggested.
We pulled off the exit and mercy! Traffic was back up over a mile going into southern New Hampshire. I became flustered. After weaving through Boston traffic, I wasn’t about to sweat out another congestion.
“Let’s skip it,” I said, in a clear but guilty tone. “We’ll send the woman a card. Bet she’d rather have a gift certificate to a restaurant than an arrangement.”
I got no rebuttal from the passenger side, much to my delight. So on we drove to the nursing home.
As my wife proceeded to the ladies room, my eye caught what seemed like a mirage. There on a table inside the activities room stood half a dozen floral arrangements—the likes of which I probably wouldn’t find in a supermarket.
The best part was the price. They were asking for “gifts in kind.” Take any vase and donate what you please. All proceeds would benefit the activity fund for residents.
I picked up this ornate arrangement for what it would have cost me for a movie ticket (senior discount) and whistled a happy tune. Talk about happenstance.
“Wait ‘til the wife sees this,” I smiled to myself. “Maybe I should get two—one for the nurse and the other for her. She deserves a little something special now and then.”
As I made my way through the door to meet her—flowers in hand—she made a mad dash and put up the halt sign.
“Those are flowers from a funeral. No way are you going to give a charge nurse flowers from the deceased when she’s surrounded by them every week. It’s embarrassing. Please take them back.”
Whatever happened to the thought? Money aside, to return them would have been just as humiliating.
“Okay. Okay,” I groaned. “Let’s present them to somebody else who may not realize the difference.”
For one week, they dressed up my mother’s night table, sure to please.
Tom Vartabedian
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