I was robbed for flowers. Can you believe it? We live in the hood. It is a neighborhood that is getting re-gentrified slowly. I repeat slowly. We live in a house that was built in 1880. It is a historic home. I fell in love with it when we moved to North Carolina. It just had a writer’s glow to it. When I looked at the house, there was even a typewriter where the woman who lived here before wrote (Aunt Billy). She wasn’t my aunt, but the family that was selling it referred to her as Aunt Billy and the name stuck. It was a house where writers should live. And I am a writer so do the math! We bought it shortly after my initial courting with the house and my husband was reluctant to say the least since the neighborhood wasn’t all that great, but we were dumb out of towners who saw a bargain and a beautiful historic home.
I grew up in the suburbs of Chicago in a great neighborhood. All the neighborhood kids cut across our neighbor’s backyard back and forth. We flew in and out of each others house, depending on who was hosting the kid party. We played on the streets after dark and just had a good ole 80’s childhood time.
I moved to Wyoming when I was 15. I thought it was a strange place at first, but I kept coming back. I moved back after going to college in the Northeast. I love Wyoming and have recently come back from a 3 week vacation where I stayed with a friend and she didn’t lock her doors and she left the keys in the car, unlocked of course. And I just feel safe in Wyoming. To be honest, I always felt safe in Chicago (suburbs) too.
This flower pot stealing business has got me really upset. This is not the first time flowers have been stolen in our neighborhood. Last summer a bunch of people’s flowers in planters and pots got stolen. The dumb-ass has the audacity to stick them in the same flower pot and put them out on their porch. Now living in the South, one thing is for certain, you most likely have a grand porch if your house was built in 1880. We do have a great porch – wraparound. I love sitting on my porch on hot summer nights and cool winter eves and enjoying my flowers.
Now with the recent flower pot thievery, the flowers (what is left of them) are inside the house, guarded against the thieves.
Last night, our Lab/Shepard one year old puppy was so annoying waking us up in the middle of the night. He woke me up once and my husband up twice. Now we know why he was waking us up. There were thugs (I can only assume thugs would steal someone’s flowers) on our porch, shopping, well stealing, like they were at 7-11 picking up sodas and candy.
Now the porch is bare and does not have flowers. The flower pots they stole have sentimental meaning to me – they were my father’s flower pots. They were a nice pair of painted floral ceramic pots with geraniums in them. We thought they would be too heavy to steal, but oh no. They lifted them quite easily. Then they must have walked down the long wrap around porch and stole the clay pot filled with another geranium. This pot was placed on a table by two papison chairs we like to sit on when relaxing on our porch. Now what you can look at, is the circle where the flower pot once sat, very happy I would like to add.
Back to the sentimental meaning – my father died in 2003. It was a long recovery from sadness, grief, and more sadness. But eventually I got to the other side of grief. And I embraced the things I could remember my father by. He was an avid gardener. His flowers were the talk of the town in Wyoming. As Wyoming is not an easy place to grow flowers. He not only grew them; they flourished in his hands. He lined them up on top around the brick wall that went around some of the property. Of course they were flowers in pots and were so beautiful. And when my father died, I picked my favorite flower pots to remember him by. The two ones that got stolen. They came in a set of three. The big one didn’t survive the move to North Carolina, but the smaller pair did.
After his death, it was too difficult to have his earthly treasures in close proximity so I stashed them in the garage or in boxes buried in deep closets where I didn’t have to look at them. Then the years passed, as did the grief, and gradually, like a field of crops, I was able to see the seeds of his soul flourishing into flowers. I took out the flower pots and planted memories of him, with each geranium, with each petunia, with each impatient, I saw more of the beauty instead of the death.
So, you can see why I am bullshit about this. I really am pissed. Does this robber have any idea how important those flowers were to me or the pots they rested in? Probably doesn’t give a shit – he’s a thief. Some thug. I wish I could just tell the thief what they meant to me and have him burdened with the pain this loss has caused me, but it doesn’t work that way does it?
So, I am now feeling a little better since I have blogged my feelings into a semi-decent essay, but let’s not call me Twain or anything – this is not an essay, but a blogesy (blog+essay=blogesy). I know that was kind of funny, eh!
What is the moral of the story? I don’t have a clue. Why don’t you tell me, because I think people are better than this. I believe in people and their goodness. I mean, what is the going rate for flowers these days on the black market? What did the thief get from this stolen treasure? Maybe some crack, who the hell knows. Is revenge a flower best planted wet?
Now the porch is bare and I have purple petunias gasping for outside air inside my living room. They really just look funny inside and they told me they want to go outside and take their chances, but I am not giving in. They are now prisoners of the hood, inside my living room.
Thanks for listening to my rant and blogesy. Feedback is welcomed…what would Jesus do? Since everyone is trying to get me to take Jesus as my personal savior down here in the South, I am open to feedback.