Once upon a time, I planned a wedding. Mine. It was a budget but joyful community celebration at a friend’s house on Winter Solstice. But this story is not about the wedding (great wedding, bad marriage, good divorce). This is the story of Mike the florist.

When it was time to order flowers, I knew immediately I would have Mike do them. His shop was a few doors down from a favorite restaurant and the hippie grocery store, and I knew it was ace. He was the owner-operator so most of the time, customers were dealing with Mike directly.

At the time, Mike was about 50, with short graying hair. He always wore bright golf or Hawaiian shirts, khaki shorts and athletic shoes, even in winter in the desert. He kept a pencil behind his ear and a florist knife in his shirt pocket.

When I stopped in to discuss wedding flowers, the shop was empty, and he had plenty of time to visit.

I said, “The wedding’s on Dec. 21, so I don’t know what’s really available. Can we do some spider mums?” My mother carried spider mums at her tiny chapel wedding in 1944, and I wanted to honor her.

“Oh, no problem, I can get those any time of the year pretty much. What about daisies, carnations, roses? How do you feel about those?”

Our conversation went back and forth like that. The flowers were an important part of the day because of what they symbolized, the beauty they added – even that fresh floral scent would add to the meaning of the day. I knew a little bit about the florist business and seasonal limitations. What I chose made me happy but it was nothing earth-shattering.

He wrote everything down and asked about delivery. Not needed — I had someone to pick them up on wedding morning.

Mike stopped writing, looked at me and laughed, “Wow, I think you are my easiest bride all month!”

“I guess people can get a little crazy?”

Mike rolled his eyes. “Oh ,you have no idea! You would not believe it, especially mothers of the bride!”

He then launched into a story about a mother of the bride who insisted on a flower that was completely unavailable on their Big Day, or during that entire season.

“I told her, nicely, that it would be impossible.

“And she just went off! She was yelling at me, calling me names and said, and I quote, ‘My daughter will be devastated if she can’t get that flower for her special day. This is a catastrophe!’

“When she used the words ‘catastrophe’ and ‘devastated,’ I got triggered.” Mike blushed. “Well, I gave her a piece of my mind… and I didn’t care who heard me….

“‘Lady, let me tell you what’s devastating. Before I bought a flower shop, I was a social worker in family court. I wore a suit and tie for 20 years and dealt with the worst of the worst – abandonment, abuse, neglect and every kind of dysfunction. I saw babies who had nothing to eat in the house and nothing clean to wear because the grown-ups had to get high instead.

“I told her the gory details about how once I had to show up with a deputy at midnight to remove three children under 8 who were home alone, and there was a meth lab in the spare bedroom. The dad was already in prison, and the mom was now under arrest with her meth-dealing boyfriend downtown.

“I looked this woman in the eye and said, ‘Lady, I can tell you that was devastating to those babies. But the fact your baby can’t get the flowers she wants? Lady – this?”  — Mike waved his arms around the shop — “‘This, this is just flowers!’”

Mike took a breath and then said to me a little sheepishly, “I switched to flowers to get out of the pain and drama. So yeah, your order is easy. Thank you for that. We will have them ready for pick-up.”

On the Big Day, they were indeed lovely.

Since that conversation with Mike, when I hear someone (maybe it’s me at a weak moment) ask to see the manager in that tight, affronted voice, or say something minor is a catastrophe, I think, “Lady, it’s just flowers.” In life, as in cars, objects in the mirror may appear closer, or more important, than they are.

That’s my story. Tell me yours?

Jay Ann Cox, Editor