Monthly Archives: January 2018

Opalescence – On The Edge

I was reminded today that being human takes practice and it is, thankfully, not as hard as propagating orchids. I did not know, when I headed to the Meijer Gardens Orchid Show, that I would learn that flowers grow in forms of glass, peat moss dreams, and human bonding–both casual and eternal.

Bonfire Peach 3
The Bonfire Peach – Not an orchid, but too pretty to feel insecure about it.

*

Sleepless after ill-conceived, late-night revels with the Princess Bride and Futurama, I staggered to Meijer Gardens Saturday towing a camera with a mostly-dead battery.*

Thank goodness for iPhones.**

My son dragged me to a corner and refused to budge while we both waited for salvation in the form of a fearless babysitter incentivized by college debt and the promise of at least a Benjamin to keep the orchid’s safe from harm.

Stained Glass
I so wish I were less clumsy…and hampered by morals…or I would have flower-napped this stained glass.

The minute my child disappeared with his sitter, I was off. My goal—to photograph as many blooms as possible before my teenager got bored and came back. So, basically, like the count down timer on a nuclear device–I was set to go!

iPhone camera in hand, I stalked exotically named flora.

I hadn’t hit my stride when I ran into a mother and her 26-year-old son. We were fighting to capture the same bloom without flashing each other to blindness.

The mom struck up a conversation as I waited my turn at the luscious fuchsia petals that somehow managed to be the stealth bomber of the orchid enclave.

Phal Unkonwn Hybrid 2
Phal. Unknown Hybrid – which basically means they don’t know who’s the daddy and mommy.

I was too focused on the flowers. I almost missed hearing that this well-spoken young man has Asperger’s. And like a flower turned to the sun, I lit up meeting him.

To his mom, I said, “My son has ‘classic autism’, he’s non-verbal.”

“I know. I saw you earlier with him.” She confided, nodding toward her son, “We reached him through his love of photography.”

Her son took a break from photographing the coveted blossom. We shook hands. He told me his name and then asked me for mine. I spelled my name out for the young man. He dutifully entered it into his phone—taking delight when I asked if he knew how to spell my last name—citing the Harry Potter – Salazar Slytherin reference. He showed me his phone and he had it letter perfect.

Unfortunately, in the hustle, I totally missed taking his name down. (The day was about photography not blogging, so my notes were whatever I could slap into my phone between pictures.) Looking later, high and low, I couldn’t find his name. If you know this young man, tell him I said ‘Hi’ and ask him to find me.

But, because I met him, my whole day changed. I wasn’t there just for the flowers, but to flower in the company of human experience.

And in writing about each person I met, I decided, I needed to invent an appropriate orchid name.

First, I met…

The Freckle-Dusted, Curly Charmer – a/k/a Rachel

Rachel - Freckle Dusted Curly Charmer
Blossoming in situ with a lovely display of Star Wars Fandom Memorabilia

In such a small space, it is not hard to run into people—several times even—at various stations.

I inadvertently stalked this couple throughout the gardens: Rachel and her very tall, camera-shy companion, Kyle—a smug owner of a Samsung Galaxy phone who taunted me periodically with the amazing shots he could take.

Not to be outdone–here’s one of the best I captured:

Phrag Besseae 4
Phrag. Besseae – My favorite at the show looked like an opera singer trying to hit the C two octaves above middle C.

We exchanged observations while snapping pictures.

Almost every plant had a ribbon—though some of them could be the floral equivalent of an ‘Honorable Mention’ participant award as far as I knew. I have a policy of admitting my ignorance up front—it saves time and effort.

“They all look so beautiful,” I told her, “I really don’t know how the judges could evaluate the merits of any flower.”

That’s when Rachel dropped her orchid bomb!

“I’m sort of a cheater.” She confessed.

When pushed to explain, she said, “I was a biology major at Grand Valley [State University] and I had this professor who showed us how to propagate orchids using a method of injecting genes to create new flowers. So, I understand a bit more about this than most.” ***

This whole time I’d been standing next to an orchid whisperer and hadn’t known it!

Columbine
When asked what she liked in a flower, Rachel confessed, “I like the weird ones.” So Rachel, this Columbine is for you!

Later, while trying to recapture what she told me, I tried to find an appropriate article on ‘gene splicing’ but failed. I did, however, stumble across an actual process to gene-test an orchid’s D.N.A. to discover its parentage: Orchid DNA

Basically, you can C.S.I. an orchid’s ass to find out ‘Whose your daddy?’ so to speak.

Octo or Squid Orchid 2
I missed getting the exact name of this one – but a search for ‘tentacle orchid’ turned up variations on an Octo/Squid Orchid that looked like siblings of this funny variant.

In our many encounters, I mentioned how rare it is for me to get out and interact with the world.

(True Confession Time: I was a bit giddy at the orchid extravaganza. I probably seemed a bit drunk with excitement—kind of like a deranged puppy with a floral fixation.)

I asked if I could take her picture for my blog—and tried to set a ‘privacy’ setting so her picture wouldn’t be plastered all over my feed. But the challenging wifi or vicious internet pixies played havoc with the Facebook options.

Rachel shrugged, saying she didn’t mind. This only encouraged me.

“It’s hard for me to go places sometimes.” I laughed and gave my iPhone a little shake. “So, I kind of live on Facebook. It’s weird, I can live so close to people I know but never get together with them. And yet, this summer, a friend from Japan is coming here and we’re going to meet at the nearby mall!”

Then Rachel said something profound.

“Facebook—it makes the far world closer and the close world farther away.”

It struck me as so true, I made her repeat herself so I could type it in my phone. Yes, I am that pushy.

Den Angel Kisses 3
Den. Angel Kisses – the closest you can find this side of heaven.

Every time I ran into Rachel and Kyle, we’d fall into conversation. Well, I babbled at them and Rachel willingly exchanged floral witticisms that I could not possible recreate here. You’ll have to come up with your own horticultural insights, I’m afraid.

Except, I can share one universal truth: “Crab grass is the bitch bane of gardening.”

Everyone I met was friendly, tolerant of my intrusions, polite and sharing. None more so than my next flowery friend.

Gratia Umbra a/k/a Elizabeth N.

A slender blond with an elegance that matched the floral occasion, Elizabeth carried with her a functional camera and used it like she knew what she was doing. So, of course, I asked whether she was planning on posting them online and could I ‘friend’ her to see them.

She politely accepted.

If I were to name her using floral taxonomy, the Latin to describe Elizabeth would be A Shade of Grace or Gratia Umbra.

To Elizabeth, who got the shots I could not make. Thanks for sharing.

Elizabeth's Orchid 2
Stolen with permission from Elizabeth N. Admire those sideburns!

I could not conclude this story without letting you know of the absolute perfect ending that almost didn’t happen. A providential duo I would regret not knowing.

Defining them by a flower name that accurately tells you who they are is impossible. But I’ll try. For this couple, you absolutely have to use a crossbred variety. Match a shy, subtly engaging flower with a showy, over-the-top genus to create an utterly unique new combination. I give you:

Painted Hearts x Mirrored Souls

Sometimes, you just know. You look at a couple and know they are meant to go together  So it was when I met Nick and Oberon.

I was done photographing the official orchid exhibit. But there is an arboretum that is part of the Meijer Gardens that is a glassed-in heaven in January.

I almost didn’t go. But, rare is my chance to visit the gardens and luxuriate in the peace it brings. And I’m so glad impulse led me to meeting a very special couple.

I wandered to the wall of orchids and sniffed to try and find the one that exuded a glorious, heavy smell that was sweet just to the point of being overpowering.

One of the garden volunteers—the human variety, not the plant kind—corrected me when I told her I loved a particular flower for its heavenly perfume.

“Smell this.” Is all she said.

She thrust a small pot under my nose–tiny fringy leaves with even smaller white flecks you could mistake as dots among all the greenery.

Those dots were actual orchid buds, so small, you had to pay attention to see them.

I did as instructed.

It was like being punched in the nose by the goddess of spring. This confirms a long-held suspicion and I told her so.

“I think the smaller the blossom, the stronger the smell.” I nod in satisfaction. “To make up for not being so showy and bright.”

Saying nothing, she put the pot back and I moved on my way.

Without knowing it, this was the perfect segue to my last encounter of the day.

Getting ready to depart, I was stopped by an incongruous sight.

IMG_6158
NO! Not these self-described ‘Blue Birds of Happiness.’

Among the elderly wanderers, nodding white heads in appreciation of the wonderful view, the families with children, grandparents, and photo-happy parents, there sat a glaring anomaly—a tattooed duo dressed as if headed for a punk rave or a New York grunge art review. Ready for something, anything, more hip than an arboretum.

IMG_6153
Nick and Oberon – The Perfect Hybrid

To Nick and Oberon—for the story about the beehive ink alone—I am indebted. The explanations of a clamshell with the number 13 drawn on your wrist. The laughter and the stories too personal to share here. The tattoo review was the most unique floral exhibit of the day. So if I had to pick flowers to represent you, it would have to be these two–so similar and yet so different, and perfectly matched.

You opened up to a stranger, one arguably stranger than most. You shared your origin stories like the super heroes you are. You let me take pictures that said a lot more about you than words could.

You let me remember what it was like to be young, in love, and filled with the adventure of it all. Thank you.

And yes, I will happily descend upon you the next time I’m in Chicago. I’m dying to color in all those black and white tattoos. Let’s find out if you are brave enough to hand me a needle to try.

And to my final floral tribute – the young man who made it all possible.

Mysterious One
To my Velvet-Petaled Open Invitation, I hope we meet again.

You invited me to be part of the human race instead of just an observer. At 26, you understand that connecting with people is more important that getting a perfect shot. I will remember you always and name you for your warm spirit as well as the small bits of fuzz that dotted your baby face.

My Velvet-Petaled / Open Invitation

You are not in my notes, my phone, my email.

I’ve looked for you everywhere.

You are the one who caused me to look up.

To put the camera down.

Hopefully this will find you, somehow.

To the autistic young man at the flower show.

You reminded me to be as well as see.

Thank you.

 

I dedicate this blog post to you, for without you it would not have happened.

You will forever be a gentle poem in my heart:

________________________________

And for those curious as to the title of this post, it was the flower name I most identified with. We should all be opalescence on the edge!

Opalescent - On The Edge 2
I claim this as my spirit flower–Opalescence on The Edge

Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes:

*If you ever catch me with a fully-charged device, assume I’ve been kidnapped by aliens and that this is a clone doing research for the impending invasion of Earth. Act accordingly.

**Curse you, Kyle, and your fancy Samsung with those neato photo features. Smugness does not become you!

***This quote is from memory. So, take it with a large grain of salt that I got this at all right.

 

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Don’t Lick This Card…

I started this post about ten days ago…but caught the flu so bad, I couldn’t finish writing it. I kind of collapsed instead.  I am finally crawling back up on my personal hobby horse–the bedeviling holiday traditions that trap you in a tinsel choke-hold and won’t let go!

 

***

 

I won’t say that I am single-handedly keeping Hallmark alive, but of my entire family, I am the only one I know who sends holiday cards because I have to and despite the fact that I lost all religious affiliation years ago.

I have never been diagnosed with OCD (?Overly Cheerful Demeanor?), but it’s the only explanation I can find for why I put up a Christmas Solstice Tree, bake and decorate a bajillion festive cookies and, of course, send out the ubiquitous holiday cards.

It’s a sickness really.

I waited too late this year though. The holiday came and went (a Day Early) and I had yet to write out a single card. You’d think this was a sign! Maybe this year would be the year? Can I break the cycle?

Turns out…no. I can’t.

Four boxes of holiday cards at the ready—espousing nicely generic season greetings—printed family photo montage highlighting 2017 high (and low) points ready to go, festive stamps at hand, I sat at a table and manically wrote out a personalized greeting to everyone on my list.*

Did I mention I was suffering the worst plague at the time and, maybe, started hallucinating about half-way through the pile?**

To say some of my cards were a bit weird…well…I really wish I had taken pictures of some of the better entries. Fortunately, friends were willing to send me a few as proof of madness friendship.  Seeing them now, they don’t sound nearly as weird as I thought they were at the time.

But, I do remember a few choice comments I wrote:

“Dear Boston-Family,

Please remember on New Years Day to toss a roast beef out your front door before heading out. This is to feed the dragon perched on your gables. It need not be cooked—many dragons prefer a raw gift—but a nice sear is also appreciated.

Do not forget to watch for acid-spitting lizards though. They are much more temperamental and you’d be advised to crawl out a side window to avoid them…”

 

The longer I wrote, the more like a cry for help some of the cards started to resemble:

Dear Chicago Friends,

“I do not understand why or how this tradition started?! Nobody writes physical mail anymore! What is the point? This is going to reach you well past the New Year and, honestly, I’ll probably have babbled ten times equally dull daily complaints on Facebook. Maybe next year I’ll just do that. I’ll Tweet my greetings! Except, that I am a Luddite, and eschew Twitter. Not just because a certain member of our government has made it his bilious verbal diarrhea playground…but because I have standards. Dammit.

I practically accused my California cousins of outright smugness in their choice of vacating Michigan winters for the dubious joys of living on the San Andreas Fault:

 

christine-card-_li.jpg

Then there were the feeble attempts at humor involving the likely contagion I was spreading this season:

Dear Philly Friend,

“…can you catch depression when you catch a cold? Mostly it’s the fact that I had all of my cookie rolled, cut, baked and nearly all frosted when this cold happened. As a result, I didn’t dare send them to anyone…for fear of spreading the contagion…

Apparently, I’m less circumspect with card distribution. Don’t lick this card. You’ve been warned. Probably too late though. You’ve already licked it haven’t you? Sigh. Oh Well, swift recovery to us both in 2018!”

InkedDon't Lick This Card_LI - Erased image

Then I hit the wall I always hit after about four hours of writing inane holiday greetings (interjected with subliminal pleas for the madness to stop–see below). I start doodling to fill up the dreaded white space:

 

Holiday Card - Boston

I have a list of about sixty people to whom I send cards. I had enough holiday stamps for about half of the list…after that, you got a Wonder Woman or Star Trek stamp depending on your likeliest affiliation. When in doubt, I used one commemorating the eclipse!

The later on the list your name appears, the weirder the card entry you’ll likely get. Also, the more my dyslexia and spoonerisms would crop up.

I can only imagine what the person getting this one thought of it all…

Tingling Coccyx Greeting.
I am planning on writing a carol entitled: “May All Your Coccyges Be Bright!”

 

I have no choice. I have to send them. Then again, THEY have no choice, poor people, but to accept them. And secretly, I hope they like them and send me one in return.   It is the obsessive compulsive gift that keeps on giving!

In the end…only Hallmark really wins.

Booger Car Ride Signature

Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes*:

*I cannot send a blank card. Really. Unless I am at death’s door, so a few of you may have one of these rare creatures. When I hit that marathon writer wall, I autographed a few and called it good. I’m still shuddering from the absence of ink though.

**I started to feel a little human, but the persistent cough worried me. So I went to a med center and caught a completely different virus. If this piece is unfinished, I probably died mid-sent…

 

 

Death Plague Victim
Erk…Ack…arghh…Aaaaaahhhhh….