The hydrangeas are full on the bushes, weighing down the branches, just turning now from white to a rusty pink. As I stand on a step ladder clipping a bushel of them, they release the previous night's rain onto my face and shoulders.
I am clipping these hydrangeas for a wedding. My mother, the florist, gave me the task, but I failed to count the bucket of already clipped hydrangeas before starting so we end up with an extra armful that now sit bunched in vases on the dining room table. As mistakes go, this one is delightful.
Setting up a wedding involves last minute rushing to ensure the freshness of flowers, followed by a lot of waiting at the venue between the set up and the handing off of the bouquets and pinning of the boutonnieres.
Tomorrow my mother has to prep flowers for a funeral. I think of the strange intersections in the deeply personal that being a florist means.
My mother's shop has no website, and being well practiced in wordpress I plan to set up a new website for her. Just as soon as I finish the long list of other things I'm supposed to do. Not least of which is landing a new full time position.
At night I'm reading a John Grisham novel that was left behind by my lawyer sister. I have several books I brought with me to read, but was too tired the first night to dig them out and ended up picking this one up. Your word from the book is:
Keep on word-nerds.