7 November 2017

I’m thankful for the picture bouquet of Autumn wildflowers sent by my Dad to my daughter.

My daughter loves flowers.  Like Sister the Third once upon a time, no bloom within my daughter’s reach, whether domestic or wild, was safe.  Left unattended in the presence of a flowering plant she would denude it.  Azaleas, camellias, roses, marigolds, black-eyed susans, dandelions, goldenrod, fake flowers in the Hobby Lobby, she was indiscriminate.  The more the better.

After being caught in the act a few too may times, we had to set a few rules in place.

1.  You may not pick the faux flowers from the stems.  If you see a bloom on the floor you may pick it up.  Which then lead to:
2. You may not cause the faux flowers to fall on the floor just so you can pick them up.
3. If the flowers are still blooming on the plant and the plant is in front of a place of business, your Aunt Leona’s or anyone else’s yard, or located otherwise than our own flower beds, you may not pick them, unless you have been given specific permission.
4. You may pick up blossoms that have fallen to the ground, unless you were the cause of their descent and demise.
5. Some flowers are better left in the fields.

Despite these rules, which she has for the most part grudgingly adhered to, although I’m pretty sure that on occasion some of her “ground-found blooms” are actually those she’s caused to be there, her enthusiasm for the blooming arts has not been curbed.  On a walk in the woods, she picks flowers.  On the roadside, she picks flowers.  From the vases of blossoms donning my dining room table, she picks flowers.  From the floors of the stores, she picks flowers.

Now I’m not saying that picture bouquets are going to resolve her flower-scavenging ways, although a few late-blooming hydrangeas owe their extended life on the limb to them, but that’s not why I’m grateful.  I’m grateful, heart-meltingly grateful for the relationship my daughter has with her Paw Paw, my Daddy.

Frequently moving, living hundreds of miles or more away from my parents each time, I never thought either of my children would even remotely develop the kind of relationship I had with my own maternal grandparents.  I figured there would be a few telephone calls or letters and cards each year, an exchange of gifts, perhaps a visit or two, nothing more.  Yes, of course there would be love, a tender spot in their hearts for their grandchildren, at times a wistfulness for fewer miles or more frequent visits, but not the rooted, tended, cultivated affection steeped in constant contact that I experienced as a child.

And yet it has happened.  The two have connected.  Boon companions, peas in a pod,  regardless of the distance, they share that special bond.

So I’m thankful for the wildflower bouquet sent from miles away, simply because they reminded him of her.