Growing Up

 

Yesterday was Mom’s birthday. I spent some of it feeling sorry for myself because I didn’t know how to order flowers to take to the cemetery. I didn’t know what  to take to the cemetery. A wreath? A spray? A simple bouquet? My mother was competent. She knew these things.

When I was young – a teenager, really – embarrassingly old – Mom sent me to the grocery. She wrote a list. This was a necessity. I am a daydreamer. I wander off. So she wrote out a list. At the store I pulled it out. On the top in large letters she’d printed: ROAST. We were in trouble already. I looked at the meats. (Yes, I know – I couldn’t believe I’d found them on my own either!) They looked bloody and gross and disturbingly identical in their grossness. I picked gingerly through, trying to find a roast while not actually coming in contact with a roast. I thought I might be a vegetarian. I was surely not a cook. What the heck was a roast? I had no idea. Seriously. Chuck… Sirloin…. Brisket… Rump… Rump?  Finally I went outside and found a pay phone. Apparently “What is a roast?” is a stupid question to ask. A roast is a roast, I was told. Roast meat. “But none of it is roasted. It’s all raw.” I kept the “and bloody” to myself. She told me to just get a roast. But what kind??? There was ham, chicken, Lebanon bologna… My mother screamed into the phone.

“Just get a !@#$ roast!”

Okay.

Sheesh.

I imagined my mother saying the same thing about the flowers. “Just order flowers.” And I phoned the florist down the road. The day she died a huge bouquet arrived almost immediately, arranged and delivered by them. The simple beauty of it struck a chord in me when I walked through the door that night. Green-white hydrangea, white daisies, and deep green boxwood; it filled the entire table. White daisies were Mom’s favorite. How did he know?

“At the customer’s request, this number has been temporarily disconnected.”

Florists take vacations? I dialed the florist we’d used for the funeral. Then I started crying again and making incomprehensible noises at the poor man on the other end. I blew my nose. He asked me how much I wanted to spend. “It doesn’t matter. They’re for my mother. I want something nice.”

I phoned back. “Maybe not quite that nice. It does matter, a little.”

I phoned back. “White daisies. Did I say white daisies?”

I phoned back. “No lilies. More demure. De-mmm-your. Modest. Unpretentious. Un-pre- yeah, that’d be great. Whatever you think.”

I phoned back. “It’s me. Nothing garish. Only white daisies, no yellow or red. Stock, bells of Ireland, statice, viburnum, something pink…”

Someone told me recently it’s only when you lose your parents that you truly grow up and I think that’s right. There is, finally, no other choice.

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2 Comments

  1. Laura said,

    March 4, 2010 at 10:29 pm

    This is lovely…I loved it…a post to laugh and cry with… It took me a while to understand the meat difference too. Tho’ my mother is still on this side, I will still hear her voice in my head long after she’s dead… “Why can’t you write something nice?” or “Are you really going to wear that?” or something…I was always doing something not right. Oy, vey, the daisy’s! My mom doesn’t like mums… make sure they’re daisy’s and not mums, and no lilies…mums and lilies make her think of funerals, so she doesn’t want any at hers. (I’ll be sure to remind my siblings of that when the time comes.)

    Always a delight visiting with you!

    Laura

  2. flakyartist said,

    March 8, 2010 at 9:37 am

    Laura! “Why can’t you write something nice?” made me laugh. I clearly remember an aunt asking my mother “Are you sure she’s okay?” and my mother answering yes, but with a sigh, like she’d been asked that a lot.


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