Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.
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The first Mother’s Day gift I remember giving my mom was a bouquet of flowers fashioned in first grade from colored tissue paper and pipe cleaners, plus gobs of paste, and a bigger glob of love.
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, 33 years ago – more than half my lifetime – was a store-bought bouquet. More importantly, I delivered the lovely flowers in person; most importantly, they came with a hug. She might have preferred a single dandelion and a bouquet of hugs.
These bookend reminisces bring to mind a story I once heard, perhaps apocryphal, that seems fitting to share ahead of Mother’s Day.
Harry was an extremely successful, and extremely busy, businessman. The Friday before Mother’s Day, when his secretary phoned in sick, he suddenly realized he had forgotten to have her order flowers for his mom. He would now have to take care of the matter himself and made a beeline on foot to a florist shop two blocks from his office.
The owner began to show him a variety of special arrangements, but Harry was in a hurry. Truth is, he was always in a rush. In the business world, after all, time is money. He hastily ordered one 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, with his attention already focused again on work, Harry collided with a young boy stooped down to lock up his bicycle.
“You nearly tripped me!” Harry snarled.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the boy apologized, then added bravely: “Can you lend me three dollars?”
“Don’t you mean give you three dollars?” Harry acerbically corrected. “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, and he asked the boy where he lived.
“About five minutes that way,” replied the boy, pointing down the street.
By now Harry had pulled out his wallet, withdrew three singles from within, then a new idea came to him. He put the crisp bills back and plucked one of the roses from the bouquet for his wife – surely she would not notice – and handed it to the boy.
“Give this beauty to your mom,” Harry offered with a wink.
“I’m gonna take this to her right now!” the boy said and promptly 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 grumbled, gesturing.
“It is,” the boy replied. “But the cemetery is this way – my mom died last year.”
“Oh, 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: “Please put them all on her grave.”
“Really? Wow!” said the boy, his face beaming. “Thanks, mister!”
After the boy pedaled away 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 would like two dozen roses right now, please, to-go. I’ve decided to deliver them today personally.”
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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn
Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is now available in paperback and eBook at Amazon (click here), other online bookstores, and is orderable at all bookshops.
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Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter