The Flower Man

It was a small town –a small, plain, town that no one would spare a second glance at. There was really nothing special about the place. The streets were cracked, the buildings old, and the downtown was home to the only stoplight in town, which never turned green and guarded a mostly vacant intersection. Regardless of the weather, the stores down town always had business. Though you wouldn’t think it by looking at the mostly empty parking spots that sat before them.

                In the winter, down town was bustling with life. Cars were parked along the roads. People honked in frustration, looking for a place to rest their vehicle. Tempers flew, people cursed, and then smiles were given. No matter how mad you were at another, you always made sure to bring a bit of holiday cheer with you.

                Yet, in the summer, when the days are long and the sun too hot, very few cars could be seen. With shorts and tank tops the townspeople wandered around on foot. Their skin getting gloriously sun kissed. Shop owners loved those days. Their doors would be propped open, box fans would be blowing beside them, and people would wander in for the sake of getting out of the heat or for a friendly chat. It wasn’t about business on those days. It was about community.

                On one such day, near the middle of the hottest season, a couple of kids ran out of the local coffee shop. Their hands held freshly made smoothies in clear cups with large neon straws. Their sneakers thumped as they raced after each other, giggling.

                “Run, run, as fast as you can!” chanted the little boy with a mop of dirty curls. His orange colored smoothie was held tightly in his hands.

                Chasing after him was a girl a bit older than he, with pigtails of the same dirty curls. She had been entrusted with his safety for the hour, while their parents socialized with the coffee shop goers…and the lumberman…and the sheriff…and any other person they happened upon on their way to the town barbeque that was taking place at the town square.

                “Maxie! Slow down!” The girl huffed as the distance between her and her brother grew.

                “You can’t catch me! You can’t catch me!” The little boy did a twirl in the street.

                “Watch out!” the girl screamed just as her brother tumbled back. Baby blues grew wide as he tripped on the cracked street, falling back into a man riding by in his motorized scooter.

                “Woah, careful there,” the man grinned down at the child who had fallen at the wheels of his transportation.

                The girl rushed to her brother’s side. She quickly picked him up, her eyes scanning him for any injuring. The man above them chuckled, and she looked up –knelt on one knee and still holding on to her brother –to see him grinning down at them.

                “Looks like you gave your sister a scare there, little man,” the skin around the man’s eyes crinkled with glee. His face was folded, as were his hands, from the years he had endured. There was nothing more than a small wisp of snowy hair atop his otherwise bald head. Freckles covered his face, and spread down his neck, like someone had splattered chocolate across his flesh. His brown eyes twinkled at the children.

                “Sorry, mister,” the girl apologized as she stood up and drew her brother closer to her.

                The elderly man was a common sight around town. Though neither of the children knew his name. They only knew what they saw daily, and daily he was seen driving around town in his scooter with a bag of groceries and a camera in his wire basket.

                The man chuckled again, his polo covered chest shaking from the force. “Now there, there’s nothing to apologize for.”

                “Sorry,” the little boy mumbled.

                “No blood, no foul,” the man assured again. His smile was so kind that both children found themselves lacking fright. In a town where everyone basically knew everyone, they were standing before a man they had never met. A man who everyone knew of, but didn’t know personally. At least, the children had never heard anyone call him by name. He’d always been referred to as the flower man.

                The man had a reputation in town. Everyone knew of his daily routine. He’d leave his small, one bedroom home early in the morning and spend the entire day riding around town. He’d never go home without a bag of groceries and a new picture on his camera. A new picture of a flower.

                His entire day was dedicated to finding the perfect flower to take a picture of. And it had to be a flower he had never taken a picture of before. He’d ride thought he parks, through down town, by the gas station, pass the police station, by churches and homes. He’d inspect every flower he’d see. But, it would take him hours to find one that he deemed photo worthy.

                No one knew why he did what he did. All they knew was that he seemed to enjoy doing it. There was a rumor that he was a retired nature photographer, and another that he collected photos of flowers. But the most wide spread rumor was that he was a veteran who suffered Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. That rumor said that he had fought in World War II and that, after seeing all the bloodshed and losing all his friends, that he had come home and started taking pictures of flowers as a reminder to himself that there was still beauty in the world.

                Despite there being rumors, and despite him being a frequent customer of the down town shops, no one had ever asked him of his past. It wasn’t because they didn’t care that they didn’t ask, but that they feared triggering painful memories. They knew not what the man had experienced in his life, and they didn’t wish to inflict pain upon him by inquiring of his experiences.

                “Say, do you two think your parents would mind if I borrowed you for a bit? There’s this flower, in the barrel sitting outside Jenkin’s Hardware, that I’d like to get a picture of,” the man asked. “Problem is, I can’t seem to work my camera today. My hands are old and sometimes my bones down’ want to bend right. But it’s important that I get this picture. Do you think you could help?”

                The brother looked up at his sister, who looked down at him before nodding. “Sure.”

                The man’s smile widened. “Oh good!”

                He lead the children across the street and to an old barrel that sat outside the hardware store. With shaky hands, he carefully handed his camera to the sister and instructed her as to how he wanted the picture taken. “That purple flower there, dear. Get down close, so you can see inside. Not too close now. Back up a little. That should be about right. Now, take the picture.”

                The girl pressed down on the camera’s button. A small click was heard as the shutter was snapped shut. She pulled the camera away from her eye to look at the image displayed upon its screen. “Is this okay, mister?”

                “Yes, dear,” the man praised. “That’s perfect!”

                The man took the camera from the girl and, for a moment he didn’t say anything. He stared down at the picture of the purple daisy. Its petals were soft. The lighting had been perfect.

                “Do you know,” the man spoke up with watery eyes. “Why I take these pictures?”

                The children shook their heads.

                “They say you’re a veteran,” the girl spoke, “that’s wants to see beauty.”

                “They say you’re crazy,” the little boy added.

                “I am veteran,” the man’s smile was sad now, “and I am crazy, but neither of those rumors are right. I take these pictures because my beautiful bride loves flowers. When we were younger I would shower her with flowers. She use to keep the most beautiful garden. Children would flock to our home to gaze into the pond and dance among the rose bushes, but sadly they’ve all stopped coming now. Those children grew up, and had their own children, and made their own gardens, and never come to call. But my bride, she still loves those flowers. She still loves their smell and their beauty. She still loves the way the sun looks on them and the way they can make a person smile.”

                The man paused, shutting off his camera and placing it back in his wire basket. “My bride and I are frail now and gardening is not something we can do. She’s been very sick. Has been for many years. She can’t leave the house now. Can’t even leave the bed. So, I bring the flowers to her. Every day I take a picture of one of the pretty flowers those children that use to roam through our yard have grown, and I stop by the drug shop and have it printed out, and I give it to her. You should see her smile,” he beamed. “Ninety-four years old and she still looks as pretty as she did when we were sixteen. My Elma Mea. My lovely bride.”

                The children didn’t know what to say, so they stood silent until they saw their parents leaving the coffee shop. The adults caught sight of them right away and crossed the street to meet them.

                “Well you two didn’t get very far,” the mother announced.

                “I’m sorry, Sally,” the old man greeted the woman, “Your daughter was just taking a picture for me.”

                The mother’s eyes softened. She opened her mouth to say something but was interrupted by the man, who said, “I should be going now. I need to have this picture printed.”

                “You should come to the barbeque,” the father suggested.

                “Oh no,” the man laughed, “All that smoke. Not good for my old lungs. You and your family have fun though, John.”

        

        “Will do, sir,” the father smiled back as the old man began on his way.

                “Daddy, Mommy,” the little boy spoke up. “You know him?”

                “I thought no one knew him,” the daughter stated.

                “Of course we know him,” the mom smiled, her eyes watching the old man as he thanked a young lady for holding open the drug store door for him. “We use to play in his and his wife’s garden.”

                “Mommy?” the little boy asked.

                “Yes, baby?”

                “Could we go see him tomorrow?”

                The woman looked at her husband, who smiled down at their son. “You know what, Maxie, I think that’d be a great Idea.”