The flower room

By Christine Tailer
HCP columnist
 
I remember the room so well. It was covered in wallpaper adorned with big bright flowers. A tall white metal framed bed was up against one wall. The bed was so tall I had to do a running belly flop to jump up into it. My little brother slept on the low-lying trundle bed that slid out from underneath it. The little bed had rope slats running under the mattress. Both beds were covered with thick quilted comforters.

The room was magical in so many ways, but one thing in particular captured my imagination, the wrought iron flower stand that stood in the corner. It was painted white to match the bed, and had four tiers, on which were displayed beautiful glass beaded flowers that had all been brought to the room by my grandmother whenever she came to visit. 

Some of the beaded flowers were dainty and small while others were large. They had all been crafted out of glass beads, strung along wires and bent to shape. Their detail was amazing. They almost looked real, and when the sun shone through the room’s windows and fell across them, they glistened like jewels.

I imagined my grandmother walking through a French market with a baguette and some good hard cheese stowed in her cloth shopping bag. I imagined her walking up to a flower vendor and selecting just the right blooms to make into a bouquet for her apartment's breakfast nook. 

The vendor would smile and inquire if, for a few coins more, she would prefer that her choices be everlasting. She would reply with an affirmative nod. Of course, she would like to purchase undying flowers. The vendor advised that they would only last until the end of time if she placed them in the day's first light for seven consecutive days. Coins exchanged, she would then head back to her apartment, arrange the flowers on the breakfast nook table, and wait the requisite time.

I imagined how on the seventh day, as she sat at her breakfast table, and the sun shone in through the window, the flowers that she had so carefully arranged, began to sparkle and look like jewels. Transformation complete, she carefully took the arrangement apart and wrapped each flower in tissue paper, and placed them in her luggage to carry back with her to the states.

There, on the first night of our visit to our Aunt Laura's farm, the sisters would send my little brother and I upstairs to bed. Teeth brushed and faces washed, we would call down that we were ready to be tucked in. We jumped into our beds, eagerly waiting for her to come into the flower room for a good night kiss.

She'd step inside, tissue paper wrappings tucked under her arm. "Now look at these", she would say in her soft voice, as the unrolled the wrappings on the bed spread. She handed each of us a small bouquet of beaded flowers. "I wonder where we should put them?" she'd inquire with a smile. 

We would all turn to the tiered flower stand, and then carefully place them, here and there, until they all looked just perfect.

Then, with a peck on the forehead and a gentle tuck of the comforters around us, we'd fall asleep, dreaming of the French market and the magical flower vendor.

When I would wake the next morning, I could smell the scent of dew wet box elder filling the room. The mourning dove's song floated in on the breeze, and sunshine spilled in through the open windows. The sheer white curtains danced ever so slightly, but the real magic was flower stand.

I would lie in bed and watch as the slanted rays of sunshine started to fall across the flowers. They glimmered like jewels.

I don’t know what became of the wrought iron bed, or the flower stand, but I do know what became of some of the beaded flowers. They now live with me here at the creek. They still have a small tag, held by red thread that says "Made in France."

I’ve placed them in a blue bottle on a window sill, and they sparkle like jewels in the sunshine.

Christine Tailer is an attorney and former city dweller who moved several years ago, with her husband, Greg, to an off-grid farm in Ohio south-central Ohio. Visit them on the web at straightcreekvalleyfarm.com. 
 
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