In a World of Flowers

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.



