The British celebrated Mothering Sunday on March 22, a sunny, warmish day. I spent that afternoon wandering Hereford's ancient, tree-lined park, content to observe parents enjoying the profuse flowers with their children on this special day. "Today's about praising mothers," solemnly intoned one little guy wearing knee socks, short gray pants, a little coat, tie and hat. (He reminded me of John-John Kennedy, saluting his presidential father.) Mums knew that today somebody else would prepare the Sunday roast. Dads smiled, and even family pets seemed delighted as they strained at their leashes.
Huge, century-old, leaf-bare oaks lined the paths. The River Wye tumbled vigorously along; rubber-clad fishermen standing in waist-deep water cast their lines, filling floating baskets with flapping fish to cheers from an appreciative audience watching from the gleaming white Victorian suspension bridge. Large, colorful primrose-stuffed flowerbeds shouted spring; food venders strategically clustered around the graceful bridge sold cappuccinos, candy, and, of course, wonderful Cornish ice cream, a perennial favorite with everyone.
I noticed one woman with a boy, perhaps 8, in tow; his eyes lit up when they came upon the vender selling "ices." "Please, Mum, can I have one?" Predictably, she smiled, and said, "Why not?" He made his selection, and indulged contentedly on a sunny bench along the flower-lined path. But something about the woman's demeanor seemed ... off. Her smile was ready, but reserved. She looked sad. In one hand the boy clutched a helicopter, making zooming noises between licks; mum looked away. Hmmm. I decided her husband might be in Iraq; Hereford is home to the secretive, exclusive SAS (Special Air Services), perhaps best known for their successful rescue of hostages during the siege at the London Embassy in 1980. (That feat won them much unwanted publicity.)
As he sat beside her, legs dangling, the child looked thoughtfully across the path toward the bedding plants; it was easy to read his mind. I imagined his dad saying, "Watch over your mum while I'm away, son." This was her special day, and he wanted to mark it -- but how? Proper English lads would never pick bedding flowers ... but what about the ones growing with cheerful abandon in the short grass? There were fat dandelions, and lots of bright English daisies, and even a lovely reddish pinecone, just there, along the path.
He studied the situation for as long as it took to finish the ice cream, but just before biting into the cone he turned, suddenly. "Mum, will you do something for me?" Puzzled, but game, she smiled. "Right, James -- what is it?"
"Don't look for a minute, please," he said, with a smile. She obligingly closed her eyes. He ran to the rain-dampened earth beside the river fence, and, scooping up a handful of soil, stuffed it into the soggy cone. The little pinecone went in next. (A smile told me a pineconed ice cream cone appealed to his sense of fun.) Finally, he plucked the nearest 2 long-stemmed dandelions, then snatched a cluster of tiny daisies, stuffing both artlessly into his clever container. Marching to his mother, arm flung out, he offered his masterpiece, saying, "Ta-da! You can look, now!"
She did, and her laughter rang across the green. Her cheeks brightened as she took the arrangement, exclaiming with genuine delight. It WAS clever; he knew it. As they rose to leave, she stood straighter, her step was firm, and James looked at her, knowing he'd made a difference. His helicopter happily "flew" around his mother, and she grinned.
That ice-cream-cone-bouquet had definitely rescued -- and sweetened -- her day.
Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are at 325 Sixth St. in Traverse City. Visit her Web site, www.deeblair.com for more information. Find more of her columns online at record-eagle.com/deeblair.
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