Please Don't Send Me Flowers Anymore

My love for baking bread came in handy with our move from Utah to Nevada. Friends, Smoky and Dee, opened a little diner on Kietzke Lane in Reno. Serving small loaves of bread with soup or salad was all the rage and they wanted to add that to their menu. They supplied the ingredients. I supplied the labor, mixing dough enough for 100 small loaves at a time, all by hand, in my kitchen. With the first rise complete, the dough shaped and resting in small, individual foil pans, the batch was transported to the diner to be stored in the freezer, proofed and baked a few at a time. Divorce fouled the friendship that began as a couple. My bread baking career was short-lived.

Simmy and I met in a floral arranging class at the community college. She opened a shop in Sparks when classes ended and offered me a job. Foreign born, she was a woman once caught in an abusive, arranged marriage. Children born of such a union became the property of the husband, as was custom. Escaping meant leaving alone. Once in the states, she fought for her daughter tirelessly and finally won the battle. She re-married and built a new life for her family. She worked hard. In the shop, she worked me hard. She wanted her money's worth, and a little more. I was officially on her payroll; my kids worked for McDonald's food, a real treat to them at that time.

We piled into Simmy's truck one weekend. "Where did this woman learn to drive?"  She brought us along to collect as many pine cones as possible to use in the shop. She taught my kids how to wrap wires with floral tape and how to make ribbon bows. The kids, mine and her's, camped out in the back room with snacks and TV if we were working during high production times--holidays, proms, graduations. With just we two, in the beginning, it was a challenge to keep up with orders and if the truck carrying fresh flowers from the California markets was held at Donnor pass, we were finished when we were finished, if and when the flowers showed up no matter what time of the day or night it might be.

During my first week as a florist, Simmy left me in charge while she went to California to buy a few gift items for the shop. I had little experience using a cash register during my salon days. By mid-morning, the register locked, quickly making that an 'exact change only' day. Among the 'treasures' from her trip was the most horrible, gruesome looking, teeth-bared-monkey hanging planter. "That will never sell!" I blurted out as she unpacked her wares. She just smiled. With more customers every day, shoplifting was an issue so she used my son as her security person. He could make conversation, walk among prospective customers, point out merchandise, and keep an eye on the sales floor. Then one day, the unthinkable happened. She and I saw him talking with a woman, browsing as she waited for her flower order. Before leaving the shop, she purchased that hideous planter. Simmy just smiled.

Bessie, another student from our original floral class, came on board as Simmy's partner. The business was growing. I learned to use Tele-Flora and FTD. Through these services, a gentleman located somewhere in the US was a happy customer when I was able to have several dozen red roses delivered to a leading lady as she finished her performance on a stage in Paris, France. We often received orders from men, a bouquet for the wife, one for the mistress. Simmy and Bessie joked about switching the gift cards.

I loved doing detailed work--wedding and corsage pieces, especially. Perhaps it was the influence of her Asian background that gave Simmy such a good eye for big pieces or simple, Oriental designs. We made a good team. Harrah's Casino in Reno hosted a show for florists and designers. She jumped at the chance to show what a small shop could do so we made several designs for display. There was a banquet, convention-like speakers and entertainment. She insisted I attend with her. Panic attack! I felt my kids were at that in-between stage--too young to be at home alone at night, yet too old for a sitter. I had been making do with the same few pieces of clothing forever, none of it anything I could wear to an event of this kind. I knew she would show up in elegant, full-length brocade, maybe a short fur cape, and jewelry. Penney's Outlet to my rescue so I could "Fake it 'til you make it!", as a friend use to tell me. I remember walking through my front door after mid-night, totally drained by the experience and with a headache so bad I wished I could just die right there on the couch, and then was afraid I might. But I couldn't die just yet. I had Valentine cookies still to bake and decorate and make ready for the morning, enough for two school classes--complete with a classmate's name written on each of them.

We had a big order for a wedding, for the daughter of a prominent, local, Italian Catholic family. Bridal bouquets had become something of a specialty for me. I loved designing these and was good at it. "Dress comfortably. You'll be on the floor tacking down white paper carpet for the bride to walk over." The camper shell was again put into service. Simmy situated me where I could balance the big, chapel baskets with outstretched legs, steady pew trims with one hand and hold onto the bouquet and other wedding party flowers, with the other. Again, she drove like something you'd see in a movie, the camper leaning this way and that, driving too fast I thought, then stopping on a dime when she didn't quite make the light! The business could not yet support a delivery van purchase, but after this trip, I prayed she'd give this more thought.

The chapel looked beautiful. Dressed in our 'work' clothes, we were out of there before guests began to arrive. Simmy was tutoring the bride's father on the finer points of walking his daughter down the aisle. It was time to pin flowers on the wedding party and give the bride her bouquet. There was drama brewing between Momma and her daughter. "You've had several fittings, adjustments each time, the last one just last week so why won't your dress zip? Let me try..." Oops! Broken zipper. Time was running short, now. The bride was pinned into her dress. Now Momma insisted that we had forgotten a flower for one groomsman. Guess who made the long walk down the chapel isle, totally under dressed for this occasion, to pluck a carnation from the back of a basket, turn to face the seated guests in the now full-to-capacity room and make that long walk back to the staging area, as though this had been planned all along. In the meantime, what was thought to be lost had been found. Simmy held onto the father's arm until just that perfect moment when the door opened, oohs and aahs were heard from the crowd, then step one, toe pointed to the front, a little kick of the dress... "So after the ceremony, did the bride break the news to her momma?"

Finally, Simmy hired someone to make deliveries, a young guy--long stringy, blond hair, waif-like, thin.  Not finding most residents at home, he simply left each order on a doorstep. Next day, we replaced about a dozen frozen bouquets that had been sent out the previous day. Gave the guy one more chance. Flowers could still be delivered right to a hospital room. Our guy delivered, took a few steps back, then burst into song. Think Tiny Tim. No worse than that. Think Lisa Kudrow of Friends,  no real guitar cords, no tune, made-up words. Worse than that! Our delivery boy had forgotten to mention his intent of using flower delivery to break into show biz! The patient called the shop. "PLEASE, ... don't send me flowers anymore!"