I once worked in the floral business. I started as a delivery gal then graduated to highest honor possible - floral designer. It was work I loved. Who could complain about being around beautiful smelling flowers and lush, green plants every day at work?
Life in a flower shop was like living with bipolar disorder. There were days when nobody was born or died, or had a birthday or got sick. Those days were the downers. I spent hours cleaning every pebble that the potted plants were sitting on in order to prevent death by boredom. Then there was the manic phase - Mother's Day, Valentine's Day, Christmas. Twenty-four hour marathons of poking flowers into wet green foam called Oasis, and getting dozens of bloody holes in my fingers from stripping thorns and boxing roses. Ah, I miss those good old days.
Standing behind the front counter, I was greeted with every emotion known to humans. Folks would stop in to pick out a bouquet for a friend or family member who was celebrating a birthday. They would take their time looking for just the right arrangement or container which reflected the personality of the recipient. That was especially true for the planters sent up to the hospital for the birth of a new baby or a sick loved one. There were little pink and blue ceramic lamb containers and green John Deere tractors. Tea cups and southwestern-style pots. Large handled wicker baskets that looked like a tropical forest once it was planted up. Those people always left with a smile.
My favorite arrangements to design were casket pieces. I loved the way I could let the flowers spread out like they do in nature. I was creating a living blanket, one to comfort both the dead and those left behind, the people that I found the most difficult to face. I am a very sensitive person, as you probably have already figured out. Witnessing the depth of grief in people getting flowers for their lost loved ones just broke my heart, plain and simple. Especially the Elders. Yes, casket pieces were my favorite, my way of helping comfort those families with the beauty and fragrance of flowers.
I had a boss at the last shop I worked in named Tommy. He was the kind of character you met once in a lifetime. Tommy drove the delivery van and his wife ran the business. He had shocking white hair, black rimmed glasses, and was always on the go. Tommy had an illness that required him to take a certain medication. This drug had several side effects, one of which caused him to take frequent and urgent bathroom breaks.
Tommy and I had a ritual. Every April Fool's Day, we played a prank on each other. One year, I got to work early and snatched the child mannequin from the upstairs storage area. I strategically placed her on the toilet, as if doing her business. Now visualize that the bathroom was long and narrow, maybe four feet across. It was a straight shot from the hall to the toilet, and worked well for someone who had to get there quick.
As he did every morning, Tommy brought in a sack of fresh donuts and made a pot of Cadillac coffee. He knew I loved jelly-filled, sugar coated donuts and had several in the bag. I got my hot cup of coffee, reached in the sack and pulled out the largest one. With great anticipation I bit down and felt the raspberry filling squirt into my mouth. Along with a tablespoon full of dried onions. It was all I could do to keep from losing my cookies.
Ten minutes after drinking his first cup of coffee, Tommy ran to the bathroom 90 miles per hour. I was already cracking up when I heard him yell as he flipped on the light switch and almost sat on the poor little girl! The whole shop was laughing hysterically as we listened to him hollaring at me from behind the closed door.
Tommy passed away a few years ago and I went to the service to pay my respects. There were dozens of beautiful flower arrangements circling the room along with all the stories being told about Tommy. What I remembered most was the last video at the end of the video depicting Tommy's colorful life. He was waving from high in the sky, hang gliding behind a powerboat at the ripe old age of 80. I hope I go out with such joy.
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