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Flowers from Mom
by Joy Richter

On the way to my brother's farm in Southwestern Nebraska, I sometimes stop in at a small town where my parents used to live. It's just about two miles off my route, and is worth the little step back in time that the visit affords me.

Mom and Dad moved to this small, rural town in the early 1980s from a large Midwestern city. They had both recently retired and Dad wanted to move back to Nebraska, the state where he was raised. Mom hated to leave her friends and social life, but she followed, determined to make the best of the situation (truly, a “Bloom Where You Are Planted” lady). Mom experienced “culture shock”, but being the outgoing, social lady she was, she quickly made friends and became involved in the Historical Society and the Garden Club (where she was the “youngster” at age 62). Both parents became active in the Senior Center.

Mom spent most of the summer days working with her flowers. She planted cannas and marigolds, had pots of petunias and geraniums, and even one summer, had morning glories clinging to strands of string, twisting and vining up her front porch. How pleasant it was to sit on her porch swing on a summer evening and be hidden from the view of passers-by. Neighbors from all over town commented on the evidence of her green thumb, and Mom had always said that her flowers and digging in the dirt, were her “therapy”.

As I entered town, driving past the grain elevators, a car dealership, and the long-ago closed laundromat, I traveled slowly through “downtown” (about four blocks), passing the family owned variety store and the “Mom & Pop” cafe that my mother used to patronize. She’d meet up with a friend at the cafe for a much-needed outing, or, when I visited, we’d both dine on thick hamburgers and fries, fully aware of all eyes being on the “out-of-towner”. If Mom happened to spy a friend, she wouldn’t hesitate to bring them over for introductions and a little chit-chat. Of course, small town cafes are usually full of “friends’, or at least acquaintances.

And small town grocery stores are a unique lot... each one having their own quirks, but all seeming to have several things in common: just a few small grocery carts, a few aisles, products stacked and piled everywhere due to a lack of storage space, and invariably, a limited inventory. In one instance, when shopping there with my children, we asked for bagels; the store owner said that he had heard of them, but no, he didn’t have any... my citified children were flabbergasted and giggled about that for years.

On this particular visit, it was a sunny but chilly day. The calendar said spring would soon arrive, but the melting snow said, “Not so fast!” As I drove along Main Street, a certain building caught my eye -- the town barbershop, still in use. The other buildings were drab and dirty, showing their age, but this building, even though it was old, was blinding white and welcoming on the sunny side of the street. I looked closer and noticed the beautiful colors of flowers; the large, storefront windows were full of pots of beautiful red, pink, and salmon colored geraniums, waiting patiently until warmer weather arrived and they could be set outside. How Mom would have loved to have seen these jewels!

I had to stop. I knew in my heart that this was a special moment. Since I was an outsider and know how small town folks tend to be, I thought it best to first step in, say “Hello”, and be friendly and honest about what I wanted. As I pulled open the creaking screen door, and gave the heavy, glass-front door a push, a bell tinkled overhead and a little old lady greeted me. I commented on how beautiful her flowers were, and asked if she minded if I took a picture. She thanked me, gave me permission, and I stepped back outside and began snapping away.

That day, as I drove past the establishments, I thought of Mom, and even though she died a few years ago, and even though I know full well that she is in heaven praising her Lord, I wanted to imagine that at any moment I'd see her coming out of the grocery store or post office, carrying a sack or her mail. She would stop and laugh and talk with someone she had passed on the street--- she never knew a stranger.

As I left town, I realized that I didn't see Mom on the street that day as I passed through, or even on her front porch as I drove past her former home, but I like to think that this very special moment, this chance encounter with the flowers, was just for me -- just a little gift to a daughter from her Mother.

Joy Richter is also the author of two blogs: www.goodmorningmarysunshine.blogspot.com and www.freshairlife.blogspot.com. She can be reached at richter.joy@gmail.com.

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