Florence

On the third anniversary of my mom’s passing (January 10), I’m feeling quite…reflective.

First off, let me say my mom was an amazing woman:  a trailblazer, organizing unions when she was just in her 20s, mobilizing a neighborhood force—Ogontz Area Neighbors Association—in the 1960s in Philly, fighting segregation in the community and in the schools, acting on behalf of the voiceless for civil rights, youth programs, a local library and so much more. 

She was on the front lines, and behind the scenes too, always so serious and determined. 

Yet, she also reveled in the simple pleasures, often reminding me to take time to smell the flowers.

For her, that advice was as literal as it was figurative. She cherished the hours she spent working in her garden, tending to the rose bushes and petunias and lilies of the valley.    

I didn’t want to plant and weed and water like she wanted me to. I didn’t get what all the hoopla was about with flowers.  Sure, they were colorful and pretty, but they were time consuming and dangerous too.  As a kid, I was always getting pricked by the rose bushes on our lawn when we played tag or chased lightening bugs at night. 

In my teen years, I had more important things to do than take care of flowers, like talk on the phone endlessly with my friends about boys: who liked whom, who said what to whom, etc.  It never got old.  It made my mom crazy.  

Fast forward decades later…my mom was living alone in an apartment, and we all wanted her to be aware just how special we knew she was.

In an effort to do that, my sister and I would always bring her fresh flowers; sometimes, it was unclear whether she was happier to see me or the new bouquet (I’ll have to ask Sherrie if she felt that way too).

Upon replacing the wilted arrangement with the fresh bunch each time, I noted another downside of flowers—this time in a vase, not the ground—their shelf life is very short.  With few exceptions, they go from being vibrant and full of life to sad and on their way out in no time at all.

Well, I still don’t want to garden, and I continue to spend a lot of time talking to or texting with my friends about anything and everything, but one thing that changed when my mom passed away is my relationship with flowers. 

I now have one…and it’s a loving one, too. 

    

I even buy them for myself from time to time, based on what I would have picked for my mom on any given day.

I’m not sure if it’s the flowers themselves, or the reminder to take time to smell the flowers, that I find so compelling.

Either way, I was so touched recently when my daughter Allison told me she bought sunflowers for her home because she knew I loved them…because my mom—her Bubbe—loved them.

I am glad it didn’t take a lifetime for Allison to appreciate one of my mom’s—and now my—passions.