Tiptoe Through the Tulips

When I was around six years old, my younger brother John and I wanted to give our mother a very special gift for Mother’s Day. We had no money since there was no such thing as an “allowance” in my family, and we were certainly too young to have jobs. We were just little tykes, but we were resourceful.

Our home was an old, converted cottage on Portage Lake, a small summer resort area about fifty miles west of Detroit. By converted I mean that the walls were insulated, a furnace was installed, and the place was inhabitable twelve months a year. Most of the structures on all sides of our home were still summer cottages; we only saw the owners from June, when school let out, until the beginning of September when school started again. During the winter months we would snoop around the vacant cottages and peek in the windows, and even play on their porches.

Good fences make good neighbors.

There was no such thing as a fence between the cottages, but owner’s planted beautiful garden borders that served as a kind of property line between the yards. Our next-door neighbors had a way with tulips. Now that I think of it, they were probably Dutch because their last name was Van-Something-Burg. Brother John and I knew true beauty when we saw it, and we knew those tulips would make our mom smile. Besides, I reasoned, the Van-Something-Burgs wouldn’t even know their tulips were missing since it would be another month before they arrived for the summer.

That was probably the first time I was ever aware that people could cry and laugh at the same time. John and I each presented Mom with armfuls of the loveliest, fresh-ripped tulips you can imagine. And she kept saying, “Oh my God! Oh my God!” through her laughter and her tears. Of course the Van-Something-Burgs came out to the lake, (we always said the city folks “came out”), soon after Mother’s Day to get the cottage ready for summer—and probably to admire their tulips. Poor Mom. She never punished us, but she did tell us years later that it was one of the most wonderful horrible days of her life.

Your turn.

Now I’d like to read your stories about your mom, being a mom or step mom, or any mom you know, love, remember, or miss. Please try to keep your story under 500 words. I know you can’t condense a lifetime of love into one short piece, but please share one especially touching, funny, or sad incident with us. I'll be posting your stories, for everyone to read, from now until Mother's Day. Thanks.

Send your story to me at donna.hodgson@gmail.com. (Copy and paste this address).

I think of my mother often; and always when I see tulips.
Donna