Junior Rosebud
I enter my first flower show, age 11, under duress.
“You can force me to do it, but you can’t make me enjoy it.” - Me
I didn’t wake up one morning and start arranging flowers.
Rather, my mother barged into my bedroom one Saturday and said, “get up and put on a nice dress; you’re going to garden club.”
“But, I’m not in a garden club,” I said.
“You are now.” And that was that. (More about my mother later.)
The next thing I knew, I was a Junior Rosebud. The caption in the above clipping says I was elected treasurer, which is hilarious in light of my math grades.
The club’s formation, I later learned, was a plot on the part of parents to keep their prepubescent daughters programmed and out of trouble. Today, however, being an active member of a garden club is a good way to get into trouble.
Shortly thereafter, Mama—once again without asking—signed me up to do an arrangement for Daffodil Time, a flower show sponsored by a local garden club. There was a special class just for juniors, and all arrangements had be created—as the title implied—with daffodils. I don’t know how many of you have ever tried to arrange a daffodil, but their stems are hardly conducive to being plunged into floral foam.
I was no stranger to daffodils; every spring, our yard was full of them.
But I always thought they looked happier blowing in the breeze or chilling in a bucket of water. I had never seen daffodils artfully arranged. Having said that, years later, I came across the photo below. It’s an arrangement of daffodils by the French floral designer Marie Françoise DePrez. (Google her.)
I didn’t know you could do that to a daffodil; it borders on contortion. If you want to learn to do something like this, I suggest you fly to Paris and take one of Mme. DePrez’s workshops.
To prepare for Daffodil Time, Mama dropped an assortment of flower arranging books in my lap, told me to peruse them, and pick out one I liked, then she would help me figure out how to do it in daffodils.
I explored the books, and the only one I wanted to try was something called a ‘line-mass crescent’.
A line mass crescent , in case you don’t know, is a floral design where the overall shape resembles a crescent moon, achieved by using a combination of “line” flowers (providing structure and defining the curve) with a “mass” of flowers clustered together to create a fuller, more substantial appearance within the crescent shape.
Mama blanched noticeably when I showed her what I wanted to do, and suggested I find something simpler (see below).
All I had to do was substitute the mums for daffodils.
My mother was not a competitive flower arranger; she had bigger fish to fry—and I mean that metaphorically because she couldn’t cook—not a lick. And she wasn’t one of those mothers who masterminded and constructed my science projects, but she made damn sure I had everything I needed to succeed.
For this daffodil arrangement, she introduced me to the tools of the trade: the clippers, the nippers, the vases, pin holders, and floral foam, then showed me how to cut the daffodils different lengths to achieve a crescent shape. Since daffodil stems are flimsy, she insisted that I bore pilot holes into the Oasis® with a #2 pencil, and it worked like a charm.
She also never passed up an opportunity to work in a life lesson. “Flower arranging,” she said, “is basically problem solving. And life is full of problems, young lady, so you might as well get used to it.” She was right about that.
For the next three days, I practiced my line-mass crescent until I could do it in my sleep, working my eleven-year-old ass off to make my entry look just like the one in the book. Failure was not an option.
When we pulled up to the exhibition hall the day of the show, Mama parked her station wagon in the shade, then helped me collect my stuff.
“Got your clippers?”
“Yes ma’am.” I patted the patch pocket of my apron.
We made our way to the back door, where we were met by Louise Floyd, the flower show chairman. In addition to starting garden clubs all over town, Mrs. Floyd taught children ballroom dancing on Friday afternoons. Her husband was the local undertaker.
“Good morning, Louise,” Mama said.
“Martha.” Mrs. Floyd nodded.
“Delivering my Junior Rosebud, as promised and on time.” Mama made a move to enter the building.
“Well, this is as far as you go.” Mrs. Floyd blocked the door.
“My lord, Louise, I’m just helping Mary carry her things.” Mama stopped smiling and stood a little straighter.
“You can leave everything right here,” said the flower show chairman. “Mary, if you can’t carry it all inside, you’ll have to make two trips.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“What do you think I’m gonna do, Louise? Go in there and arrange the damn thing for her?”
“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time,” said Mrs. Floyd. “We’re not taking any chances. No mothers allowed inside.” Looking down at me, she smiled. “Mrs. Staples is your class advisor, dear. She’ll tell you where to set up.”
Mama leaned down and said, “You can do this—I’ll be in the car.” She handed me my bucket of greens, set the daffodils down by the door, then turned and marched across the dusty parking lot.
I squeezed past Mrs. Floyd into the building. Once inside, it was utter chaos. Mrs. Staples told me to put my things on one of the tables.
“Mary!” A fellow Rosebud hurled a daffodil in my direction. “Put your stuff over here by me.” Her area was littered with stems, leaves, and a spilt soft drink. I scanned the room for better spot.
“Hey, Skinny Minnie!” shouted an older girl I didn’t know. “Who let you in here?” I could feel my face redden as I turned and went back outside to retrieve my daffodils. When I returned, I found a spot away from the mess and went to work. Unlike the other girls, who appeared to be winging it, I had a plan.
Mrs. Staples, wearing a tight smile and a crisp blue dress, ordered everybody to pipe down. “When you girls finish your arrangements,” she said, “come find me, and I will pass them.”
Pass? I panicked. What if mine didn’t pass?
I turned back to my container and inserted my greens, one stem at a time, just as I had practiced. I was about to insert my daffodils when the older girl who had called me “Skinny Minnie” loomed over my shoulder. “What’s that?” she asked.
“It’s a line-mass crescent,” I said, under the impression she was interested.
“A what?” She laughed. “Hey, y’all! Look-a-here! Skinny Minnie’s doin’ a loud-mouth peasant!”
The laughter was almost more than I could bear, but I didn’t blink, and in a rare burst of bravery, I turned to face my tormentor. “My name is not Skinny Minnie, it’s Mary Chapman.”
“No, it’s Skinny Minnie,” she said.
“Why don’t you just shut up.” The room went dead quiet. Mama said “shut up” was common, and I wasn’t allowed to say it, ever.
“Wha’d you say?” Twice my size, she glared down at me.
“I said, ‘shut up’, and I meant it.” I tuned back to my arrangement, fully expecting a blow to the back of my head. When none was forthcoming, I lined up my daffodils according to height, cutting them when necessary, then poked holes in the foam and inserted the flowers one by one. Start to finish, it took me less than twenty minutes. I waved to Mrs. Staples, and she came right over.
“I’m through,” I said, wiping my hands on my apron.
She stared at my entry, then at me. “Who did this?”
“Who did what?” I asked.
“This arrangement,” she said. “Who did it?”
“Um, I did?”
“Wait here.” She left the room.
I looked around at the other girls’ arrangements, most of which were just daffodils stuffed in vases, no design to speak of. Some had greenery, some didn’t.
A few minutes later, she returned with Mrs. Floyd. “Louise, look at this.” She pointed to my arrangement. “She says she did it all by herself.”
Resting an elbow on her full bosom, Mrs. Floyd put a thumb and forefinger to her chin and studied my line-mass crescent.
“You did this?” She sounded doubtful.
“Yes ma’am.” I wasn’t sure what was going on. Was something wrong with my arrangement?
“No one helped you?” Her eyes scanned the room suspiciously.
“No ma’am.”
“None of the mothers have been in here have they?”
“No,” said Mrs. Staples. “I’m certain of it.”
“Well, I guess Mary is finished. Help her fill out her entry card.” With that, Mrs. Floyd walked away. She didn’t say she liked my arrangement, but she didn’t say she didn’t. Mrs. Staples told me to pick up my entry and follow her into the big hall where everything was being displayed.
“Put it here.” She pointed to a long table covered in a white cloth with one of her perfectly manicured red fingernails “Do you know the names of your plant material?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I handed her my list. She gave it a once over, told me to attach it to my entry card, and print my name clearly on the back, which I did.
“You may go,” she said.
I found Mama sitting in her car. She was knitting a sweater and listening to the radio.
“That was quick,” she said. “How’d you do?”
“I dunno, it was kinda funny.”
“What do you mean?” She stopped knitting and looked at me.
“I don’t think they liked it.”
“Mary, why in the world would you say such a thing?”
I shrugged.
She started the car. “How ‘bout we go get a burger and a milkshake.”
Sunday morning, Daddy sat down at the breakfast table and opened the newspaper. “Well, what do you know?” he said. There, on the front page of the second section, was a big spread on Daffodil Time, including a photo of my line-mass crescent. The article referred to my arrangement as “an amazing showing for someone so young.”
“Impressive,” said Louise Floyd, when we bumped into her after church. “How’d Mary do it?”
There is this thing my mother did with her forehead when she was about to blow—it rose dramatically, causing her hairline to recede. I recognized this seismographic sign and braced myself. “What are you suggesting, Louise? That Mary pulled a fast one? That I did the arrangement and magically slipped it through the wall?”
“Well, no, I just meant that…”
“I know exactly what you meant, and if we weren’t standing in church, I’d give you a piece of my mind. But to answer your question, Mary takes instruction well—that’s how she did it.”
I won a blue ribbon and enjoyed the experience so much that I didn’t enter another flower show for thirty-five years.
Feedback is welcome and appreciated! If the spirit moves you, please like and leave a comment, below.
So enjoyed loved reading it! I see a book and a movie on the horizon!
I can see Martha’s expression right now! Boy do I miss her! 🥰