Flowers From the Trash
I was wading through a stack of old photos, trying to figure out what to keep and what to throw when one caught my attention. Just a picture of roses in a vase. I was about to throw it away when writing on the back caught my attention: “Flowers from the trash.”
A thunderbolt of a memory: This is a ‘Grandma story’.
Grandma Carroll is my mom’s mom. She’s still with us today, 92 years old, a force to be reckoned with. She still dresses for the day, gets her nails done and matches her jewelry. She isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty, literally and figuratively. And she can recite her entire life story to any checkout clerk in whatever time frame it takes to bag her purchased items. (She is the grandma I referenced in my book Big Trouble in Little Italy who tried to set Cassie up with the checkout clerk at the pharmacy – which is a very true story about the many times my grandma attempted to set me up with random checkout clerks.) She is an instigator of water fights and food fights. She’ll laughingly push you into a pool if you walk between her and the edge of said pool and she was really good at April Fool’s jokes – exchanging salt for sugar, loosening the salt shaker lid, plastic wrap on the toilet seat – she loved those pranks. She also has a strangely broad “klepto” side. She takes plant clippings from restaurants and other peoples’ yards; a fork or spoon from a cruise line; small plastic butter dishes from steakhouses. The largest item she ever stole was a purple chair from a bar. (Yup, you read that correctly.)
Okay, the flowers in the trash can.
There I was, I’d just gotten over a bad breakup, just finished licking my wounds while living a few months back at home. With the help of my folks and my friends, I was duct taped back together and ready to rebuild (and move out.)
Moving on required a plane ride. So my mom drove me to LAX during rush hour and since my dad was at work, and since she wanted to use the carpool lane on the way home, she asked my grandparents to go with her. (I think there might have been a lunch planned after, or she invited my grandma and my grandpa said he’d go too then after they’d go to lunch … )
When my mom pulled into the airport parking lot – instead of curbside – my old school grandfather who was one of the last cowboys, never showed emotions, lived to work and was all business was disgruntled as he exclaimed, “We’re waiting with her?”
Yup!
Now, I had a backpack, two rolling bags and a duffle. And I was fine being my own personal sherpa, because it was a requirement at that time. (My mom had a bulging disk in her neck, my grandpa had just gotten out of the hospital a month prior and wasn’t allowed to carry anything heavy, and grandma needed her busybody hands to talk with.)
The running commentary from my grandma on my right went something like this: “Oh, Nicole. Did you see that blouse? I love your hair. Did you see that man? Want me to go ask if he’s single? Oh, you have such cute kids. Hi there, I’m a grandma.”
On my other side, after each paragraph of commentary, my grandfather sighed in an attempt to stop his wife, “Carroll.”
Meanwhile, my mom produced an impressive range of facial expressions that would put any mime to shame.
As our motley crew carved a path to check in, I thought maybe they should have dropped me off at the curb.
The line to check in was long, according to grandpa; curbside was just as bad. Plenty of time for my grandma to point and talk about people while my mom hushed her and my grandpa offered up ‘in my day’ one liners.
Insert a dramatic gasp and pointing and my shoulder being slapped by my grandmother. “It’s Dr. Quinn Medicine woman!”
That is to say, Jane Seymour passed by just then.
My grandmother hiked her purse higher onto her shoulder as she tried to get our trio to corroborate her excitement. But it was my turn to check in and my mom and Grandfather were being overly helpful.
So while we grumbled and argued amongst ourselves.
“I’m fine, mom. I’ve traveled the world by myself before.”
“I’m just trying to help. You have to advocate for yourself these days.”
“You know, in my day, people used to dress for flights and you could take as many suitcases as you needed. It was part of the cost of the ticket.”
When we were finished, because we hadn’t been paying my grandmother the proper attention, she’d grabbed a couple nearest and piled her questions and comments upon them. We caught the last of her verbal attack, “What’s the husband’s name? I didn’t know she was so short! Look at that red jacket, wow, I bet everyone will be wearing that jacket now.”
The confused, apprehensive looks on the couple’s face was explained once we dislodged grandma from them and they began speaking in French.
Grandma clapped as she headed back for round two, “Oh you’re French? I’ve been to France.”
“Grandma, c’mon.” I aimed a quick, apologetic smile at them and pulled her off.
Side note: Leaving home has always been difficult for me and my siblings. Our parents instilled a sense of adventure in us to go see the world and spread our wings wide. While at the same time, our mom decorated for every holiday, made sure we felt special on our birthdays, and often signed the napkin in our lunches ‘I love you, love mom.’ So whenever it’s time to leave home, even now, there is a bittersweetness to it.
And at this point, it was time for me to get myself back on track.
Ticket in hand, backpack on, I glanced at my mom and tears began to well. My mom pursed her lips, getting choked up. I glanced over at my grandpa who was frowning down at his watch, so moved onto my grandma, who was digging through a nearby trash can. Elbow deep.
The tears dried instantly.
“Mom, what is she doing?” I pointed.
“Mom, what are you doing?” She asked with a loud hiss.
Grandma came out of the trash, triumphant, waving a very large bouquet of red roses around.
“Grandma … “
Grandma grinned her way back to us, she’d already begun writing the story. “I don’t think she said yes.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “And look at this gorgeous bouquet!” It was a 36 red roses.
“Do you think we should look for a ring in there too?” I asked.
She pointed at me, a ‘good thinking’ sort of point; turned around and headed back to the trash can.
“Grandma! I was kidding.”
“Mom!”
My grandpa sighed, “Carroll.”
She returned, “I won’t look for a ring. But I’m keeping these.”
The flowers looked a little crushed. As if someone had indeed thrown them away in anger or heartache. “Do you want to take them with you?” Grandma asked.
I didn’t need to bring anyone’s possible bad heartache with me. I was turning the page and starting a new chapter.
“No, you keep ’em.” I would have told her my thoughts about not wanting someone else’s trace heartache; but she’d shoo the idea away.
When I was through TSA, I watched my mom herd my grandparents back the way they came; watched as grandma searched out people to make eye contact with her, so she could tell them about the flowers, pointing out the trash can, and even though I couldn’t hear her; I knew here well enough to know she was asking them why they thought someone would throw away such an expensive bouquet.
A few hours later, when I called to announce my safe arrival, my mom informed me that grandma gave away several of the roses to the curbside clerks with the instructions to ‘give them to the special someone’; two couples they passed, and the parking attendant. Of course, said roses weren’t passed over until the story of why she was at the airport, Jane Seymour, the French couple, and location of the trash can was all explained.
A week later, I received a letter in the mail with a picture of the flowers from the trash, or at least, a photo of the stems she kept for herself.
Looking at this picture today, I’m thinking of how my grandmother took someone’s heartache and changed it. Transmuted it. I know the flowers made her happy, and she might have made someone else’s day brighter by giving them a rose and telling them a strange story.
That day, when I gave my final hugs before it was my turn to walk through the metal detector, I hugged grandma and she said, “Do you think I should go find Jane Seymour and give the roses to her?”
Grandma’s still as sassy as ever. Still telling stories and on occasion, she ‘borrows’ silverware and glasses from the dining hall of her assisted living place and has, on more than one occasion explained to us, “If they catch me, I’ll just tell them I’m senile.”
(There isn’t any exaggeration to this story. Because also, written on the back of this photo, was a note I jotted that I’d written the whole story and where to find it.)
I was looking through my photo albums this week, trying to find old pictures of me and my sister. I found a lot of strange pictures, not sure why I’m saving them. I weeded out the stack, but then I found this picture of flowers and was about to throw it away when I saw this written on the back: “flowers from the trash.”
Like a thunderbolt the memory hit home, oh yeah. This is a ‘Grandma Carroll story’.
I am blessed to have both of my grandmothers alive and well. They are amazing women in their own right; compare the two, and they are polar opposites, but they get along well. My dad’s mom, Grandma Rosemarie, is a New Yorker who has been living in Georgia for over forty years now. This isn’t her story today.
Today, we’re talking about my mom’s mom, Grandma Carroll, from Southern California. She is a classy woman, who isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty; she can recite her entire life story to any checkout clerk in whatever time it takes to bag her purchased items. She is a complete instigator, and over the years she has been known to klepto items, mostly from restaurants. Her claim to fame is a purple chair she stole from a bar once.
And people wonder what led me to writing.
So there I was, I had just gotten over the big breakup with the first love of my life. I had moved home to lick my wounds. I was home for three months, sulking in and out of the days, I had gotten little job at a book store to keep my mind off of ‘that’ guys, and my friends took me out as often as they could to get my mind off of things. It all finally worked. I got a little stronger, I found my heart and anger and my mom duct taped me back together again and I shook the months of depression off and realized that I was living at home. Home had done what it needed to do, gave me back myself and rebuild me enough so that I could move forward. I headed back to Boise, Idaho.
I left on a day when my dad was working, so my mom had to drive me to LAX. She hates maneuvering the California freeways, so for company on the way home, she invited my grandparents along to see me off.
I knew we were in trouble when my mom pulled into the airport parking lot. My grandfather erupted, “we’re waiting with her?” So. Cal grandpa is old school, the last of the cowboys, never show your emotions, live to work, and all business sort of guy. The business of the day, as he saw it, was to drop me off at the airport and go home.
The second fun part, after I began to sherpa my luggage, because I didn’t want my mom to have to carry it with her bad neck, and grandpa had just gotten out of the hospital a month ago and wasn’t’ allowed to carry anything heavy, and grandma needed her hands to talk to us a hundred miles an hour.
Our merry band made our way across the overpass and found the line I needed to stand in to check in. Grandpa, not happy about the line, went outside to see if there was curbside check in. There was, but the line was just as long.
That’s when Jane Seymour showed up. Dr. Quinn Medicine woman herself. My grandmother loves star sightings. She hiked her purse up on her shoulder and began pointing Dr. Quinn out to me, my mother, and my grandfather. It was my turn to check in, so because we weren’t paying her enough attention. My grandmother grabbed the person nearest to her to start pointing out Jane Seymour, “and what’s the husbands name? I didn’t know she was so short, look at that red jacket, wow, I bet everyone will be wearing that jacket now.” We didn’t pay very much attention to grandma until I was checked in, I turned around and noticed that the couple she had decided to verbally attack had very confused, frightened looks on their faces. I figured out why, when they turned to each other and began speaking in French.
Oh no.
“Grandma, come on, it’s time.” I smiled apologetically at the couple and pulled grandma off of them. “Oh, they were French? I’ve been to France, do you think I should tell them?”
“No.” Was the politest way I could answer her.
My mother has done a wonderful, loving disservice to her children. She has made our family a tight knit group. She decorates for every holiday, and makes sure we always feel special on our birthdays. She is the queen of surprise parties, and as kids, always signed the napkin in our lunches ‘I love you, mom.’
She has also instilled a sense of adventure in her kids. None of us live close, we are spread all over this world, but we always come home. And each time we leave, it’s heart breaking.
It was now time for me to get back on my own adventurous path, ticket in hand, backpack on my back, I started to cry, mom started to cry, grandpa was looking at his watch and grandma was digging in the trash. The tears stopped instantly.
“Mom, what is she doing?” I pointed out the problem at hand.
“Mom, what are you doing?” My mom asked.
Grandma came out of the trash, triumphant, waving about a big ass bouquet of red roses.
“Grandma, put those back.” People were watching now, grandma was giggling.
“I don’t think she said yes.” Was her comment, she was already writing the story in her own head. Someone had shown up at the airport with flowers to propose, she said no, he threw them away.
“Do you think we should look for a ring in there too?”
The compromise was that she didn’t dig in the trash any more and she could keep the flowers. They looked sad, like someone had indeed thrown them out in anger, or heartache. It was the reason I declined them when my grandmother offered them to me to take with me. I didn’t want to begin this new chapter with an item of heartache attached.
Finally, we parted ways. I watched as my mom herded my grandparents back toward the car, watched as grandma stopped two more people and told them about the flowers, pointed out the trash can she found them in and wondered at someone who would throw away perfectly good roses that were obviously so expensive.
Later, when I called to report I arrived safely. My mom told me that grandma gave away two of the roses to baggage handlers with the instructions to ‘give them to the special girl in their lives.’ Of course, said rose wasn’t passed over to the baggage handlers
I was looking through my photo albums this week, trying to find old pictures of me and my sister. I found a lot of strange pictures, not sure why I’m saving them. I weeded out the stack, but then I found this picture of flowers and was about to throw it away when I saw this written on the back: “flowers from the trash.”
Like a thunderbolt the memory hit home, oh yeah. This is a ‘Grandma Carroll story’.
I am blessed to have both of my grandmothers alive and well. They are amazing women in their own right; compare the two, and they are polar opposites, but they get along well. My dad’s mom, Grandma Rosemarie, is a New Yorker who has been living in Georgia for over forty years now. This isn’t her story today.
Today, we’re talking about my mom’s mom, Grandma Carroll, from Southern California. She is a classy woman, who isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty; she can recite her entire life story to any checkout clerk in whatever time it takes to bag her purchased items. She is a complete instigator, and over the years she has been known to klepto items, mostly from restaurants. Her claim to fame is a purple chair she stole from a bar once.
And people wonder what led me to writing.
So there I was, I had just gotten over the big breakup with the first love of my life. I had moved home to lick my wounds. I was home for three months, sulking in and out of the days, I had gotten little job at a book store to keep my mind off of ‘that’ guys, and my friends took me out as often as they could to get my mind off of things. It all finally worked. I got a little stronger, I found my heart and anger and my mom duct taped me back together again and I shook the months of depression off and realized that I was living at home. Home had done what it needed to do, gave me back myself and rebuild me enough so that I could move forward. I headed back to Boise, Idaho.
I left on a day when my dad was working, so my mom had to drive me to LAX. She hates maneuvering the California freeways, so for company on the way home, she invited my grandparents along to see me off.
I knew we were in trouble when my mom pulled into the airport parking lot. My grandfather erupted, “we’re waiting with her?” So. Cal grandpa is old school, the last of the cowboys, never show your emotions, live to work, and all business sort of guy. The business of the day, as he saw it, was to drop me off at the airport and go home.
The second fun part, after I began to sherpa my luggage, because I didn’t want my mom to have to carry it with her bad neck, and grandpa had just gotten out of the hospital a month ago and wasn’t’ allowed to carry anything heavy, and grandma needed her hands to talk to us a hundred miles an hour.
Our merry band made our way across the overpass and found the line I needed to stand in to check in. Grandpa, not happy about the line, went outside to see if there was curbside check in. There was, but the line was just as long.
That’s when Jane Seymour showed up. Dr. Quinn Medicine woman herself. My grandmother loves star sightings. She hiked her purse up on her shoulder and began pointing Dr. Quinn out to me, my mother, and my grandfather. It was my turn to check in, so because we weren’t paying her enough attention. My grandmother grabbed the person nearest to her to start pointing out Jane Seymour, “and what’s the husbands name? I didn’t know she was so short, look at that red jacket, wow, I bet everyone will be wearing that jacket now.” We didn’t pay very much attention to grandma until I was checked in, I turned around and noticed that the couple she had decided to verbally attack had very confused, frightened looks on their faces. I figured out why, when they turned to each other and began speaking in French.
Oh no.
“Grandma, come on, it’s time.” I smiled apologetically at the couple and pulled grandma off of them. “Oh, they were French? I’ve been to France, do you think I should tell them?”
“No.” Was the politest way I could answer her.
My mother has done a wonderful, loving disservice to her children. She has made our family a tight knit group. She decorates for every holiday, and makes sure we always feel special on our birthdays. She is the queen of surprise parties, and as kids, always signed the napkin in our lunches ‘I love you, mom.’
She has also instilled a sense of adventure in her kids. None of us live close, we are spread all over this world, but we always come home. And each time we leave, it’s heart breaking.
It was now time for me to get back on my own adventurous path, ticket in hand, backpack on my back, I started to cry, mom started to cry, grandpa was looking at his watch and grandma was digging in the trash. The tears stopped instantly.
“Mom, what is she doing?” I pointed out the problem at hand.
“Mom, what are you doing?” My mom asked.
Grandma came out of the trash, triumphant, waving about a big ass bouquet of red roses.
“Grandma, put those back.” People were watching now, grandma was giggling.
“I don’t think she said yes.” Was her comment, she was already writing the story in her own head. Someone had shown up at the airport with flowers to propose, she said no, he threw them away.
“Do you think we should look for a ring in there too?”
The compromise was that she didn’t dig in the trash any more and she could keep the flowers. They looked sad, like someone had indeed thrown them out in anger, or heartache. It was the reason I declined them when my grandmother offered them to me to take with me. I didn’t want to begin this new chapter with an item of heartache attached.
Finally, we parted ways. I watched as my mom herded my grandparents back toward the car, watched as grandma stopped two more people and told them about the flowers, pointed out the trash can she found them in and wondered at someone who would throw away perfectly good roses that were obviously so expensive.
Later, when I called to report I arrived safely. My mom told me that grandma gave away two of the roses to baggage handlers with the instructions to ‘give them to the special girl in their lives.’ Of course, said rose wasn’t passed over to the baggage handlers until they had heard the whole story of Jane Seymour, the French couple she scared and the trashcan where she found these perfectly good flowers.
A week later, I got a letter in the mail with a picture of the roses on the table in grandma’s house. The flowers from the trash.
My southern California grandmother is a little crazy, but then again, she’s also a champion of the downtrodden. She and the flowers just make sense. As I write this, I am thinking of waxing poetically about grandma Carroll, until I remember her parting words to me, “Do you think I should go find Jane Seymour and give them to her.”
That’s grandma.
until they had heard the whole story of Jane Seymour, the French couple she scared and the trashcan where she found these perfectly good flowers.
A week later, I got a letter in the mail with a picture of the roses on the table in grandma’s house. The flowers from the trash.
My southern California grandmother is a little crazy, but then again, she’s also a champion of the downtrodden. She and the flowers just make sense. As I write this, I am thinking of waxing poetically about grandma Carroll, until I remember her parting words to me, “Do you think I should go find Jane Seymour and give them to her.”
That’s grandma.
