Category: Parenting

So yesterday I went to a workshop on floral arrangement.  I mused on the way over that with today’s social media environment and daily battles in the mom wars selling books and magazines and page views, a gal with a graduate degree taking a flower arranging workshop on a Thursday morning had morphed into a political statement.  Pffft, Leaning In or leaning out, I simply enjoy arranging flowers.

I’m good at it, too.

 

I liked the idea of learning something new, as any arrangement I’ve ever done has just been me at the kitchen sink with a pair of scissors and bunches of flowers from the local grocery store.

Johnny was our instructor and he didn’t disappoint.  There were some great Pinterest worthy tips he shared to get my kitchen flower arranging “to the next level,” as folks in reality TV shows would say.

Johnny had great stories to share, too, as he does all the flowers for shows like Chicago Fire and has some celebrity clients.  My favorite story of Johnny’s was when he shared why he went into flower arranging.  His partner had died in an accident and he wanted to make a memorial.  He had never done anything like that before, and a kind gal at the flower shop felt badly for him and took him into the back workshop.

Johnny was hooked.

I felt a kinship with Johnny, because for me, too, flowers are an expression of love.  Some gals fuss over appetizers or dinner or their hair when they entertain, I fuss over floral centerpieces.

I made a nice arrangement yesterday.  I didn’t love it, but I really didn’t understand the process Johnny was teaching us until it was finished.  I’ll use his tips on my own next time and I know what I create will be better and more beautiful for it.

After class was over, I found myself unexpectedly sharing with Johnny that I had done all the flowers for my daughter’s burial service.  I did the arrangement that rested on Donna’s tiny casket and some things for our home where people were helping us sit our modified shiva.

It came back so clearly as I talked to Johnny.  There I was at the local grocers (I miss you, Dominick’s) early in the morning, alone, picking the flowers that would adorn her casket.  They were for Donna, so they had to be Donna worthy.  And, being at the grocery store, I had to work with what they had.

It worked out.  The flowers were beautiful.

A couple of people had sent arrangements when Donna had died two days earlier.  I broke all of those bouquets down and handed a single flower to each of the 30 folks or so who joined us that brilliant fall day in October.  At the end of the service, after her Dad and auntie and uncle and I had lowered her down into the ground, everyone who loved Donna most dropped their flower on top of the casket — their floral goodbye.

Grief is a really odd thing and you never know when it will strike you. Yesterday, it was at a grocery store in the West Loop.

But listening to Johnny and his story gave me truth and perspective in my own story.  No one would have made a more beautiful, more worthy arrangement for Donna than me, her Mama.  It was another way to parent her, another way to say goodbye, another way to know and feel how she inspired me.

Plus, you know, I can be a control freak about things I care about.  Like flowers on my daughter’s casket.

I come from a family of practicality.  We had what we needed and were happy enough and satisfied enough with that.  My Dad never brought home flowers for my Mom.  I can hear his voice now, saying what a waste flower are, “They’re just gonna die in a few days!”

Yep.  That’s what happens with flowers.  You get them, you appreciate their beauty and lushness of life, they bring you joy, and then, too soon, they wilt and die.

A lot like Donna.

It all made perfect sense to me in that moment talking to a stranger.  I wonder, now, if that is why I take photos of the arrangements I make, that they somehow remind me of the fleeting nature of beauty and life and, sadly, sometimes love.  That I want to preserve those flowers by taking their photo, just as I work so hard to preserve Donna by still writing about her.

I don’t think I have ever loved flowers more because now, thanks to a stranger in a grocery store, I understand better what they mean to me, how precious they are, and that an expression of beauty, fleeting as it may be, is worthy.

Thanks to Johnny at Mariano’s in the West Loop for his time yesterday.  I will see you, Sir, at the Chicago Flower and Garden Show.  

Yesterday our next door neighbors moved.  Not far — just about six blocks away, but still, they moved.  And this makes me sad.  Sigh.  Wah.  Sigh.

The move for them is a fantastic thing.  I get that and am so happy for them.  There is a great school just a few doors down from their new home and no morning drop-off commute is a Godsend with little ones.  There is a house instead of an apartment building.  There is the ability to stay in the same neighborhood, which we all love.  Such good things.

But here I am, still sad.  It’s so selfish and I completely own that.

When you live in Chicago, you get to know a lot about your neighbors, whether you want to or not.  There is the “Bird Lady” across the way that shouts at anyone who barbecues in the summer — the smoke is not good for her feathered babies.  There is the scrap dealer across the alley who precariously stacks the back of his pickup with found metallic treasures.  There are the little kids who help their Dad wash his cab in the warm months.  He keeps a very clean cab.

The gal that lived next door to us was quiet and kept her curtains closed all the time.  She was probably sick of seeing us.  We have sliding patio doors in our dining room that lead to our deck and just opposite the large picture window of the neighboring dining room.  We never got around to getting window treatments as we didn’t see the point.  We love the light and to see the plants on our deck.  Her curtains and windows were closed at all times.  She was very pleasant whenever I ran into her in the alley, but a quick hello and wave was as far as we got.

When she moved, I was not sad.  I didn’t know her.

Soon after, spring arrived on the heels of a long Chicago winter.  Windows and patio doors were opened to air out the remnants of the shuttered months.  We noticed lights across the way and speculated that someone would move next door soon.  Sure enough they did.  Our new neighbors.

They looked nice.  We knew this because, like us, they opted out of window coverings.  There were children, there was laughter, there was mom and dad.  A lot like us.

Soon, with the warm months and the open windows, we heard and spied more and more of one another.  They spoke French.  Oui, il est vrai.  If you’re like me and grew up in the Midwest and never lived anywhere else, the French language is romantic and exotic and beautiful, even when it only involves admonishing a toddler.  I joked with my husband that the neighbors were so French they were from France.  Ooh la la.

The ice broke one early summer day when I was out on the deck and the lady opened her dining room window to say hello.  We introduced ourselves and shared the happy coincidence that we had sons close in age.  I noticed she was pregnant.  Hooray!  She admired my window boxes. We were friendly.

Soon after, we spotted one another at the local mall and chatted while our boys played.  She was nice and sweet.  I liked her.

Before you knew it, we were friends.  Everybody liked everybody else.  How often does that happen?  They were a happy, boisterous family, full of life and love.  We would wave to one another from our respective dining rooms, the missing curtains nurturing our budding friendship.  They welcomed a new baby.  Our boys celebrated at one another’s birthday parties.  They joined our family for new American customs like Thanksgiving dinners and Halloween trick-or-treating.

It was lovely.

There is a comfort to knowing and trusting your neighbors.  She taught me how to roast a chicken properly and our husbands enjoyed Maloort together.  If there was some sort of emergency or need, we watched one another’s kids with short notice and it was nothing to ask or be asked.  I would pick up a gallon of milk for her or she would loan me an egg.  Easy.  They were curious about Donna and didn’t shy away from our sadness.  They cheered us on through our adoption and listened when we had doubts or concerns.

How lucky we’ve been.

They moved yesterday and the windows are dark.  Their parking spot is empty.  I miss them already and feel, I think, disproportionately sad at their leaving, especially considering it would take me ten minutes to walk to their new home.

Gone is the sharing of the early morning hustle and bustle, getting our kids out of the house on time for school.  Even when I didn’t see them, I saw their lights and felt the solidarity of raising kids together.  I will miss the spontaneous summer evenings spent sipping something cool on their patio while our kids played nearby, laughing happily and always finding mischief.

We have witnessed and supported one another in our day-to-day lives of raising kids in loving homes these past two years.

It turns out, that is quite intimate.

Oui, how lucky we’ve been, vraiment.