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Special Delivery for
Mother’s Day
The first Mother’s Day gift I remember giving my mom was a bouquet of flowers fashioned from colored tissue paper and pipe cleaners, plus gobs of paste and a bigger glob of love, that we made in first grade.
Mom, naturally, acted as thrilled as if it were a dozen long-stemmed roses because that’s what moms do.
The final Mother’s Day gift I gave my mom, 28 years ago – it is difficult to believe it has been that long – was a bouquet of real flowers. More importantly, I delivered them in person with a hug. She probably would have preferred a single dandelion and a bouquet of hugs.
These bookend reminisces bring to mind a story, perhaps apocryphal, that seems fitting to share on Mother’s Day Eve.
Harry was an extremely successful, and busy, businessman. The Friday before Mother’s Day his secretary called in sick and he realized he had not asked her to order flowers for his mom.
Harry believed in supporting local businesses so instead of going online he took a quick break and walked to a florist shop a few blocks from his office.
The owner began to show off a variety of special arrangements, but Harry was in a hurry. Truth is, he was always in a rush. In the business world, time is money after all. He hastily ordered a dozen long-stemmed red roses to be delivered two days hence on his mom’s doorstep 200 miles away.
“Those are for my mom,” Harry noted, adding: “Give me another dozen of the same, wrapped to go, for my wife.”
Exiting the shop, in a blind rush back to work of course, Harry collided with a young boy standing beside a bicycle.
“Watch where you’re going!” Harry snarled.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the boy. “Um, could you lend me three dollars?”
“Don’t you mean give you three dollars?” Harry acerbically corrected the boy. “You aren’t planning to pay me back. Why do you need three dollars anyway?”
“Today’s my mom’s birthday and I want to buy her a beautiful flower,” the boy explained. “But I don’t have quite enough money.”
Harry’s heart softened, slightly. While reaching for his wallet he asked the boy where he lived.
“About five minutes that way,” replied the boy, pointing down the street.
Harry left his wallet in his back pocket. He had a better idea and plucked one of the roses from the bouquet for his wife – surely she would not even notice the difference between a dozen and 11 – and handed it to the boy.
“Give this beauty to your mom,” Harry offered with a wink.
“Wow! Thanks!” said the boy. “I’m gonna take this to her right now!”
With that the boy hopped on his bike and began to ride off – in the opposite direction of where he had indicated that he lived.
“Hey, son, I thought your house was that way,” Harry said, gesturing.
“It is,” the boy replied. “But the cemetery is this way – my mom died last year.”
“I’m so sorry,” Harry said, his voice cracking.
Eleven heartbeats of silence passed, one for each rose in Harry’s hand, before he spoke again. Handing the boy the remainder of the bouquet, he said: “Here, please put these on her grave.”
The boy took the full bouquet of roses and rode off while Harry wheeled around and went back inside the florist shop.
“I need to cancel that out-of-town delivery I just ordered,” Harry said. “Instead, I need you to put together two dozen roses to-go as quickly as possible. I’ve decided to deliver them today personally.”
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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.
Check out my memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and my essay collection “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” …
- Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com