The day before Mother’s Day, when I was about ten years old, I rode my bike down to our village, (with all of my saved-up allowance money- probably around $5) and headed straight into Woolworth’s.
A shopping mecca by anyone’s standards.
I spent what felt like h-o-u-r-s going up and down the aisles in search of the perfect gift for my perfect mother, until I stumbled upon the artificial flower department.
Genius! Neon colors never seen in nature and plastic to boot!
They would live forever as a physical reminder of my awesomeness and great fashion forward home decor atheistic.
Day-glo orange roses were selected and purchased.
Like mind-numbing glo-in-the-dark screaming meemee Orange.
I had never been more proud.
My mother accepted them with the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ and hugs and kisses that were the expected result of my expression of love- and style, and the 70’s hippie coolness that was ‘me’.
I was satisfied. My job was done- but hers was not.
That night my parents were hosting a dinner party.
The table was set.
The crystal was sparkling.
The linens were pressed.
Perfect- like always.
And there, at center stage, were my gamma ray plastic orange roses arranged in all of their glory!
But wait- it get’s better… as the guests arrived and eyed her ‘choice’ of centerpiece, she never said a word.
Not one word.
All damn night long!
God, I LOVE that woman…
|One of my favorite photographs that I took of my mother, in her early Fifties.