The Unclaimed Delivery

 I'm embarrassed to say, I still do not know my neighbors well. Oh, I know their names, basically what they do, but other than that - peanuts. I'll confess it is my fault and I should be ashamed on myself. 

Last week when I came home, I noticed a box, the size and shape of those of flowers come in, sitting outside my neighbor's door. "What a nice thought," I said to myself, "Coming home to fresh flowers." 

The following morning as I left for work I noticed the box still there. No doubt she will get them later this day, I thought. I bet she was already home when they were delivered yesterday. We've all done that. Who checks their front door after they have come in for the evening? Can't say I do.

When I came in from running errands the following day, the box was still there. Later when I took the pups out my back door for their afternoon walk, I made a note to knock on my neighbors door and tell her about the box. Then I noticed her car was not where she usually parks. Note to self - check with her tomorrow. 

Friday, I left for work, and  the box were still there. Since her car was parked out back, it dawned me, unless she had company, she rarely used her front door. So I sent her a text. "Noticed there is a box on your front stoop, know you always use your back door, figured you hadn't seen it."

About an hour later I got a text back from her, "Thanks so much."

It wasn't long before there was another text. "The box is for you, just had the wrong address."

I texted back, "Thanks, I just wasn't nosy enough to check the name on the box."

Immediately she responded with a laughing emoji.

That evening when I got home, the box was in front of my door. Sure enough the label showed my name but my neighbor's address. And, it was a box of flowers - "fresh" flowers.  Well, fresh as flowers could be 4 days old (all the while sitting on a stoop in warm weather). As I opened the box, I feared what I would find. They were impeccably packed with the blooms carefully wrapped so they would not get messed up in shipment. They were in a nice water vase, that was sealed around the stems so it would not spill. Well, a nice empty vase that was.

Miraculously, the flowers had survived, a bit worse for the wear (or neglect), but still intact. I cut their stems and filled the vase with water. As I placed them on the table, I thought, what a conundrum? If I had been a nosy neighbor, I would have gotten the flowers the second day I noticed them on the stoop. But, why in the world would I have done that, it wasn't my business. 

Does this mean, after a package has been left, unclaimed, I should check the address? I think not. If it looks to be a box of flowers? Maybe?

Ah, The Magnolias

I have recently taken up painting some of the photographs I have taken over the years. It is cathartic, relaxing, and each one brings back the memory of the subject. Where I took the picture, how I found it, and what it took to get there all come to mind. But all this aside, my work pales in contrast to my mother's talent. Mama could paint, very well, and in oils. 

My mother had many talents - seriously. She iwa a seamstress. (She made my all my school clothes until I went into total revolt.) She was a great cook. (Unfortunately, she never let me in the kitchen, so I never learned from her.) But most of all she was a very talented artist.  As I was growing up she would dabble in oils, a camellia here, a sea scene there, but her pes des resistance was a project she undertook as a present to my father in celebration of their 15th wedding anniversary. This mission of hers took a year to complete and turned our dining room into her private studio for that entire time. According to her - the light was right. Knowing her proclivity for the bottle, it was close to the liquor cabinet and the ice in the refrigerator.

The subject of the picture was Magnolias and it was large - 3 feet by 5 feet. So for a year she would go in and out of the dining room carrying various magazine articles on Magnolia grandiflora. The dining room table was covered with an oil cloth and she had an assortment of different tubes of paints and linseed oil. She would bring leaves and branches in to make sure she had the texture correct and in June the room had the delightful fragrance of the blossoms themselves as she refreshed her vases daily.

This was all behind closed doors - we were not allowed in. Once I crept in to survey her progress. There it was, this huge canvas, the background in dark gray with the beginnings of the leaves and branches. This was going to take a while. And it did. But eventually it was completed. On the back, she wrote in pencil, "To My Husband, Happy 15th Anniversary, With Love" and presented it to him. He was touched by the gift, she was proud of her work, I was thrilled the ordeal was over and we could have our dining room back. The picture went on the living room wall and our life went on.

Fast forward 20 years - during their divorce (our most recent unpleasantness). In one of her moments of non-sense, my mother demanded the Magnolia painting. She said it was her work and she was entitled to it. My father reminded her that it was a gift from her and he had her hand writing on the back to prove it. The Magnolia went to him. That very afternoon, he showed up at my front door with the painting. "I never want to see this again", he said as he handed it to me and left. I always liked the painting, so I put in on my dining room wall.

As many times as she was in and out of my house, my mother never commented on the painting. It was hard to miss. Most people don't have an original oil painting of that size hanging in their dining room. Then one day, she stopped and looked at it, and then looked at me. "When did you get that?" she asked.With that I knew her battle was over, my mother was back, and I was thrilled.

No Plastic Flowers - Please

On the back window of the car in front of me, in large script letters, read "In Loving Memory of  LaQuaChaniqua Jones, now with Jesus, 1966 -2010." (This is not an unusual sight down here.) It reminded me of some business I need to take care of. Not that I have any plans of going any where any time soon. In the case of my demise, it is very important that someone handle the following:

·   Before my body assumes room temperature, please go to my house and clean out my refrigerator. Short of condiments, just toss it all  and wipe it out. Don't worry, posthumously, I'll take the blame for not having any food in the house.  (Trust me, the church ladies will make sure my family does not starve in their time of grief, it is the south after all.) 

·  For God's sake, make sure there are no plastic flowers or silk arrangements involved. If some should appear, I would appreciate someone just anonymously seeing that they are delivered to some other bereaved family, it's the least I can do.

·   And, no daisies or carnations please, they are the dearth of arrangements. (I have gone out of my way to make sure all the arrangements we have sent over the years have not included them, and I damn well expect  repayment in kind.)

·  Yes, and one last request, needless to say, don't even consider putting my name on the window of your car.