The Sheraton-Park Hotel in Washington, D.C.

BUCK writes in response to my post about flowers in the trash:

I should love flowers, but I don’t. I certainly should know a good bit about them, but I don’t, except for the annual rose that blooms on its own just outside my front door every spring and the surrounding trees and bushes that do whatever they do.

Ironically, my dad was a florist. However, neither of my parents grew anything. They had no intellectual interests, there was no music or art and there was little conversation. The only thing we had in common was the advent of TV. Mom read pulp fiction. Dad read Playboy. But there were always flowers. They were just there. It seems odd and almost dishonest that they were there, as if they were intruding or defying the natural order.

Dad was a hard man. Turns out that mom was harder. They were a Hollywood good-looking couple, from different planets. The last thing I would have expected a tough old farmer to end up doing after the war was arranging flowers. Apparently my dad was very good at it.

The shop was in the old Sheraton-Park Hotel in Washington, D.C. It had the largest hotel ballroom in the world. It was amazing. The annual national flower show was often held right there in dad’s own house. It was an unimaginable week long display of flowers. My brother and I got to visit the shop once in a blue moon.

When they were filling orders, a ton of cuttings went straight to the floor. Several trash cans full more than once a day, swept up in an explosion of fragrances that was overwhelming. I couldn’t take it for long. But I loved the hotel. It was huge with endless hallways. My favorite room in the world is still there. It hasn’t changed in my sixty-five years. It’s a long straight ground level corridor about sixteen feet wide and two hundred feet long (memory). It’s all windows and comfortable seating on both sides – old school, classic. It slices through a magnificent flower garden and leads you into the hotel or out to the street where it ends in a magnificent display of flowers that present to the street. I visit it every so often, usually by myself, walking the length of it and back, then sitting for a while. It was my favorite indoor space as a kid. I’d run to get there, then walk it end to end. I’d sit if no adults were around. It was always quiet and serene, almost surreal. I’m disappointed that I can find no photos, only the one of the street entrance above, which doesn’t do it justice at all.

—- Comments —

Karl D. writes:

I found Buck’s story about his “tough farmer” father arranging flowers for a living quite interesting as it reminds me of my grandfather. My grandfather drove a flower delivery truck out of Manhattan’s flower district most of his life. He was illiterate, most likely due to dyslexia which was not even recognized in those days. Something which was passed down to myself. His illiteracy made him an angry and mean individual to those in his family, but he was a prince to those in the street. He would walk down the street and everyone knew his name or would comment, “Looking good, Joe.” My mother used to call him a “house devil and a street saint.” He was very good, however, at design, color and anything visual. He was always dressed to the nines and was something of a dandy. Up until the day he died, he would never be caught dead without his fedora and a well put-together outfit.

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