One of the jobs that I thoroughly enjoyed as a college freshman was delivering flowers.
Yeah. I was the Delivery Guy. I’d report to work at 1 p.m. or so after classes at community college, fire up the Ford van with a three on the tree (three-speed standard transmission with the shifter mounted on the steering column for those of tender years), pick up my “Go List”, and hit the road.
I love to drive. Always have. Always will. So this was a great job.
Better than my first job, which was driving a delivery van for a large laundry with 15+ stations, as they were known. I had to follow a route and timing was everything. Arrive, bring in the clean garments and other items, pick up the nylon bags of dirty laundry, get to the next station. No deviations, no unscheduled stops.
Mike, my boss at the flower shop, was an entrepreneurial type in his late 20s who didn’t care how or where I drove. I could use back streets, seldom-used shortcuts, or the new interstate connector that ran through our city. He didn’t care how fast I drove. Just get the flowers, in good condition, into the hands of the people by the time promised.
I learned a lot more than which flowers are appropriate for which occasions. I got to know the folks who staffed the three large and several smaller funeral homes in the city and their standard words of comfort and support, which always sounded special to grieving relatives. I learned which hospitals made it easy for those of us on a schedule to make a delivery quickly and which hospitals made it a challenge. I learned that if you want to impress a woman, you had flowers delivered to her place of work and not to her home.
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Mike prepared for Mother’s Day as a general would prepare for a battle.
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As you might imagine, holidays generate sales for those in the floral business. And the mother of all floral holidays is Mother’s Day. Even bigger than Valentine’s Day. Not everyone has a valentine. But many have a maternal figure who likes flowers.
Mike prepared for Mother’s Day as a general would prepare for a battle.Huge containers of flowers, two additional phone lines (landlines in those days), crates of glass vases, two more refrigerators to keep the flowers fresh, three extra people to work the shop, and even an extra driver for that Saturday between 9 a.m. and 3 p.m. We were ready.
I reported at 6:30 a.m. that Saturday, Pepsi Cola in hand. This would be a test of my stamina and my driving skills, not to mention my ability to consolidate deliveries along routes in order to save time. The van was already filled with arrangements, potted plants, vases and boxes of flowers. I jumped in the driver’s seat, saluted Mike, thought about popping the clutch and getting a squeak from the rear tires despite the anemic 6-cylinder FoMoCo power plant (but prudently did not), and pulled out onto South Logan Street.
My day was a blur of streets, stops, smiles (people like receiving flowers), and a quick lunch at Burger King. On an average day I might make seven or eight deliveries. On that day I had over sixty. And each time I returned to the shop there were more last-minute orders.
“Dave, can you do one more? Just got a call … our last dozen roses, and I reduced the price. It’s not too far from here. I’ll give you an extra two hours pay.”
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6:39 p.m. Finally. The van was empty except for the usual flotsam and jetsam—some petals, broken shards of green glass (I always carried an extra vase), and tissue paper.
I was tired and hungry as I wheeled the van into its parking place on the south side of the shop. Mike had promised that he would take everyone out for a big meal to celebrate a record-breaking day.
Uh, oh. Mike was there to greet me. “Dave, can you do one more? Just got a call … our last dozen roses, and I reduced the price. It’s not too far from here. I’ll give you an extra two hours pay.”
Mike said they would order for me at the restaurant. I could go directly to the restaurant after making the delivery and then drop the van off after dinner.
Got it.
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Mike may have embellished the “not too far from here” part. I recognized the street and knew the area—a third generation neighborhood that surrounded a large automobile assembly plant. It was a good fifteen minutes from the shop. “No problem” I said.
Seventeen minutes later I found the cross street I was looking for, turned right and then left, and began looking for the address.
Turns out I didn’t need the address. The house stood out from the others. The neighborhood was—there’s no other way to say it—old. Most of the homes were showing their age with peeling paint and weeds sprouting in lawns. But this house was different. Someone had done just about everything you could do without investing a lot of money to make this house nice. The lawn was immaculate. Shrubs carefully trimmed. Windows gleamed. Even the mailbox looked as though it had been freshly painted.
Okay, Westy. Get the flowers. Walk up. Deliver. Hit the road.
Typical—screen door with an aluminum frame on the outside. Thick wooden door with a small window at adult eye level on the inside.
I pushed the doorbell. The wooden door opened, slightly.
A voice asked, “Who is it?” A little voice. A little girl’s voice. A very little girl’s voice.
“Ah, flowers for Mrs. ______”, I said.
“Just a minute”
Whispering.
Then, the wooden door swung open. It was the little girl behind the voice. Maybe six or seven years old, but very much in command.
“We can’t let strangers in even though my grandmother is here. Can you wait outside on the porch?”
I agreed but with a glance at my watch as though to say, “Let’s get this deal done.”
Another moment passed. Then, the screen door lock snapped and the girl and her little brother—I figured he was three years old—came out. The girl was holding a large glass jar in her arms—one of those old-fashioned large-mouth jars that were used for pickles with a big white enamel top. Only this one was filled with coins. Lots of coins. Mostly pennies.
I saw my steak dinner vanish. Along with dessert.
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“I hope this is okay,” she said with the authority of a society matron and the direct look of a woman who wouldn’t tolerate an early version of mansplaining, “but we had to keep this a secret from my mother. Can you help us count? I’m sure we have enough to pay for the flowers that Mr. Mike promised us.”
Sigh.
She and her brother had been checking the streets and sidewalks for coins after the snow melted, and she had earned some money by selling lemonade.
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“Sure, I can help” I said. And then felt ashamed. When I was her age I was thinking about the next Disney movie, the new Marx Fort Apache 150-figure (with horses) set, and playing second base. Flowers for mom was something my dad would do and my brothers and I would sign the card.
So, we sat on the tiny porch in the early May evening and counted coins. I took the pennies. She took the nickels. There were a few dimes. No quarters.
We talked. She told me that her grandmother was sleeping in the living room, that her father had taken her mother to the Holiday Inn for dinner, and that her parents were due home very soon. She told me how nice Mr. Mike was and how he said a nice man would get the flowers there by 7:15 p.m. She told me that she and her brother had been secretly saving coins since Christmas. Their father was in on the deal, I learned. She and her brother had been checking the streets and sidewalks for coins after the snow melted, and she had earned some money by selling lemonade.
When we finished counting, she looked at me and asked in a cautious tone, “Do we have enough?” I said, “Of course. You actually have a little more than I need,” and I gave her the dimes and a few nickels.
Her smile—and I am sure that somewhere she is still lighting up lives with that smile–made me think, “If I ever have a daughter, may she be just like this young lady.” It made my weariness and hunger disappear.
I gave her the flowers—the red roses—with a little bow. She thanked me and then took her little brother by the hand and pulled him inside.
I walked back to the van and got in.
Okay. Now we’re really done. Let’s eat.
But I hesitated. In the driver side rear view mirror I spied a late model Oldsmobile Cutlass turning the corner and coming down the quiet street.
I can wait, I thought.
The car slowed as it approached. The right turn signal flared. Sure enough, the Olds turned into the driveway of the house. The driver put it in Park. The engine shuddered from post-ignition—bad plugs, most likely.
Time for the flower delivery guy to drive off into the sunset. This was their moment, not mine.
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The Dad got out. He was smiling—I have always suspected that he saw the lettering on the rear of the van. He was wearing a well-worn blazer and a tie that might have been fashionable in 1946 and what looked to me like khaki pants that at one time were Army issue. But he was smiling. Then Mom emerged from the passenger side. She wore a flower print dress that was most likely as old as she was, but she was young and vivacious and her cheeks were flushed—probably a glass of the house wine.
They held hands and walked up to their house and stood by the porch for a moment. The little girl came out with the roses followed by her brother. And the Mom put her hands to her face and then knelt to hug her son and her daughter. Dad looked away and seemed to have difficulty seeing for a moment—he put his left hand to his eyes.
Time for the flower delivery guy to drive off into the sunset. This was their moment, not mine. I tried not to stare—to keep my eyes focused on the street ahead—but I had to look one more time in the right-side mirror. The little family was still on the porch as I made my turn.
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The nice people at the restaurant kept my dinner in an oven. And when Mike apologized for the last-minute run, I said, “Wouldn’t have missed it.”
Didn’t explain.
Didn’t need to.
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Image credit: iStock
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This Post is republished on Medium.
Awesome story Dave. I found myself wiping my eyes. Thanks for a great start to a great day.
What a great story! Happy Mothers Day to all!!!!
Love, to all the mothers