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

My Not So Funny Valentines

Saturday, February 14th is Valentine’s Day, the day we’re reminded to express our love for sweethearts and other dear ones. We all know we need to show our love more often than once a year; but in our lives, for some reason we have had such great expectations about this one day in February.

Before starting this post, I checked out several web sites and blogs to get other people’s thoughts on this holiday. I wanted to know if others had experienced the kind of mishaps that I had while trying to express my love. There were over three million hits for “I Hate Valentine’s Day.” Their intensity ranged between “Valentine’s Day is not all hearts and candy for everyone” to “Love Sucks Month.” Believe me, I don’t hate Valentine’s Day at all; but some have not gone so well.

Recycling is not the answer.

My mom could always be counted on to buy short. When she brought home the box of twenty-four valentines for my thirty student third-grade class, I had to get creative. Having saved the previous year’s valentines for some reason, I selected a few, covered the senders’ names with plain white paper, signed my name, and voilà! My problem was solved. There were a few boys in my class I didn’t like so much, and I chose them to receive the recycled cards. After all, my third-grade brain reasoned, a previously gifted valentine was certainly better than none. No card at all would be embarrassing, wouldn’t it?

Wayne, one of the boys to receive a recycled card, pulled my carefully pasted and signed backing from the card, exposing the name of another boy beneath it. I will never forget his angry tears as he confronted me with his discovery. No amount of explaining on my part helped.

Obey the Prime Directive (Star Trek fans will understand).

When my son was in the fifth grade, he had a crush on Anna, a girl in his class, and wanted to give a special valentine to her. We purchased a very sweet “secret admirer” card in addition to the usual box of inexpensive children's valentines. I printed “from your secret admirer” on the special card so no one would recognize his handwriting. Since I was room mom, I organized the class party and was there when disaster struck. Someone saw Robert drop the slightly larger card in the custom-made valentine box perched on the corner of Anna’s desk and blew the whistle on him. Anna, a tall, willowy, wisp of a fifth grader was still in the “I hate boys” stage of girlhood and now she hated Robert, a sweet little boy she had hardly noticed before. I did learn from that experience and have never interfered in Robert’s romances since.

The Orchid and the Roses.

When my husband Jim and I were first dating, I lived in San Diego and he had just arrived at Camp Pendleton Marine Base in Oceanside, California. He was broke paying off college loans and helping to support his family in Illinois. Our dates were definitely budget-style. For our first Valentine’s Day together, he stopped at a florist on his way to my apartment and purchased a single, beautiful anthurium orchid for me.

Meanwhile, my friend Bev, who lived in the same apartment complex, had a long-distance romance going with the guy back home in Wisconsin. He sent her a dozen long-stemmed red roses and sent me a single rose just because I was Bev’s friend. The florist switched the orders and delivered the single rose to Bev and the dozen roses to me. After dropping off his buzz killer bouquet, the delivery man turned to head back to his truck. And there we stood—me with a gorgeous spray of long-stemmed red roses in my arms, and Jim, with a single anthurium orchid in his hand.

“What’s going on?” I asked. “I believe that’s my question,” Jim had replied. At the time Bev was angry with her guy back home and wouldn’t take the dozen roses from me. Not wanting Jim to be forced to gaze at the extravagant roses all evening, I hid them in the bathroom and placed the orchid on the coffee table. To this day, I never see an anthurium orchid without thinking of that Valentine’s Day.

Send me your Valentine story.

There’s evidence all around my house that my family and I have shared some lovely Valentine's Day celebrations through the years: the vases that held the roses Jim has given me, the heart-shaped cookie cutters I used to bake cookies for Jim and Robert, and the heart pendant collection in the jewelry box. So why can’t I let go of those regrettable memories? Perhaps it's because of the lessons they taught.

If you have a funny or not-quite-what-you-planned Valentine’s Day tale you’d be willing to share, send it to me at donna.hodgson@gmail.com. I plan to work your stories into next week’s post on Valentine’s Day. First names only (or no name, if you prefer), will be used. I can’t wait to read your stories.

Donna