This post is prompted by these flowers, sent yesterday because
someone “misses me infinitely” now that he’s 8,700 miles away:
They’re the first “boyfriend flowers” I’ve received in 17
years. Yes, I said boyfriend. But I don’t want to talk about him. I want to
talk about flowers.
The above flowers got me thinking about these flowers, the
last “just because you’re cute” flowers I received from my late husband last
year:
And those flowers got me thinking about the first flowers I
ever received from a boy. The year was 1993. My little brother, Tom, was a
freshman in high school. I was 20, living at home and working full time while
taking an extended holiday from my college education. Tom was auditioning for
an advanced drama class and had to do a serious research project as part of the
application process. His advanced procrastination skills (I can say that
affectionately because I possess them, too) found the boy with only one weekend
between him and his deadline, with nothing but the public library to save him.
He despaired (a bit) and wasn’t really sure how it was going to get done in
time, let alone how to actually conduct the research he needed. I offered some
assistance, and we found ourselves not at the public library, but at the
University of Washington library, at my insistence. I helped talk him through
the concept of his research project, oriented him to the research
tools/systems, and metaphorically held his hand as he cobbled together a decent
presentation. (Incidentally, Tom has since become very adept at conducting his own research; he beat me by completing
his master’s degree this year 3 months before I did! :-P)
 |
| One night after Tom's performance in Hello Dolly that year (1993) |
When Tom was accepted into the advanced drama class, that
15-year-old kid went out on his own volition and purchased flowers for me. They
were waiting in a vase on my dresser when I got home from work one day. And
these weren’t typical grocery-store-bunch-with-plastic-and-dead-ferns-type
flowers. It was a big bunch of Freesias. At the time, Freesias were my favorite
flowers. No one knew that. But Tom looked at the options and they seemed like
the ones that best represented what he wanted to say, which was simply, “Thank
you.” Those flowers brought tears to my eyes that day. Not because they were so
beautiful (although I did love me
some yummy Freesias back in the day), or because he was so amazing (although he
has become an incredibly awesome
brother and friend), but because someone took the time to think of flowers and
think of me and select blossoms that were just right.
Giving and receiving flowers is a little (okay, big) joy of
mine. I buy flowers for myself frequently and also spread blooming
bouquets around my circle of friends, just because I like them. For someone who
loves flowers, you’d think that just any flower will do, right? Wrong. Like my
friend Chuck says, “Words mean things.” So do flowers. For example, red roses
say, “I’m too unoriginal to think of more interesting flowers that match your
real personality.” Carnations say, “Are you dead yet? If not, you should be,
because carnations are only for funerals.” (BTW, I refused to let any
carnations slip into Charles’ funeral sprays—because they’re just awful
flowers.) And then there are the random wildflowers (i.e. blossoming weeds)
picked from the roadside and offered in a paper cup, which whisper, “Come on
baby, light my fire!”
At the end of the day, flowers are one of those delightful
little tender mercies from a loving God who lets me know it’s okay to be happy.
Out of the gloomiest places, bright posies manage to flourish if we’ll but
notice them and give them a little attention. Much like people, flowers seem to
grow prettier with love and consideration. I’ve been known to thrill over a handful
of wild sunflowers plucked from the freeway median: bugs, dirt, and all. In my
opinion, they’re there to make me smile.
