by Anna Kunnecke
By late fall, the chrysanthemums are magnificent. Earlier in the year it was all about showing off a prize dahlia or an iris in everything from Styrofoam boxes to antique china pots, but now the chrysanthemum is the new 'it' bag, smugly displayed on fashionable arms and front steps. The flower's status as the national flower does not save it from the indignity of plastic sticks, fluorescent string, and bamboo rakes being required to hold it up, because it is as top-heavy as a burlesque dancer. A very dignified and symmetrical burlesque dancer.
When I worked in a Japanese flower-shop during college, I was puzzled by the identical bouquets you always saw in one rack: an upright lindo, some spray mums, and one or two big fluffy chrysanthemums. They were there all year long, and the formula changed only a little as the seasons determined what sort of frilly filler would be added. I once tried to group several of them together into a more substantial bouquet for a customer who wanted an armful of seasonal flowers, only to have the wrath of the shop owner descend upon me like a dry-cleaners bag. A quiet, furious, deadly sheath of plastic. If the customer hadn't been present, I think she would have happily whacked me over the head with those damned chrysanthemums. You see, those bouquets are for decorating graves, and ONLY for decorating graves. That little tip might have been a useful part of my store training, but oh well! So just take it from me, if you want to take flowers to a party some time and you see these nifty pretty bouquets all pulled together, just the right size and price for a hostess gift--don't. Just don't.
And then it gets cold, which is a relief after those itchy chrysanthemum days, with their stalks that must be broken by hand, not cut, and the resulting hives and scratches, and the piles of yellow pollen that make everyone sneezy and grouchy.
And pretty soon before you know it everyone is cutting bamboo and twisting rice straw to make the traditional end-of-year decorations. Stalks of pine, straw-wrapped casks, wreaths festooned with red berries and white sacred papers for good luck--it's hurry, hurry, hurry, because it's all about to end.
Only of course it's just starting over. The camellia trees have been yawning and preening. Their leaves go glossy in the crisp air and you can spot hard little knobs forming like secrets. The buds are swelling, bursting, potent with new life. And there we are, right back where we started, waiting for the petals.
By late fall, the chrysanthemums are magnificent. Earlier in the year it was all about showing off a prize dahlia or an iris in everything from Styrofoam boxes to antique china pots, but now the chrysanthemum is the new 'it' bag, smugly displayed on fashionable arms and front steps. The flower's status as the national flower does not save it from the indignity of plastic sticks, fluorescent string, and bamboo rakes being required to hold it up, because it is as top-heavy as a burlesque dancer. A very dignified and symmetrical burlesque dancer.
When I worked in a Japanese flower-shop during college, I was puzzled by the identical bouquets you always saw in one rack: an upright lindo, some spray mums, and one or two big fluffy chrysanthemums. They were there all year long, and the formula changed only a little as the seasons determined what sort of frilly filler would be added. I once tried to group several of them together into a more substantial bouquet for a customer who wanted an armful of seasonal flowers, only to have the wrath of the shop owner descend upon me like a dry-cleaners bag. A quiet, furious, deadly sheath of plastic. If the customer hadn't been present, I think she would have happily whacked me over the head with those damned chrysanthemums. You see, those bouquets are for decorating graves, and ONLY for decorating graves. That little tip might have been a useful part of my store training, but oh well! So just take it from me, if you want to take flowers to a party some time and you see these nifty pretty bouquets all pulled together, just the right size and price for a hostess gift--don't. Just don't.
And then it gets cold, which is a relief after those itchy chrysanthemum days, with their stalks that must be broken by hand, not cut, and the resulting hives and scratches, and the piles of yellow pollen that make everyone sneezy and grouchy.
And pretty soon before you know it everyone is cutting bamboo and twisting rice straw to make the traditional end-of-year decorations. Stalks of pine, straw-wrapped casks, wreaths festooned with red berries and white sacred papers for good luck--it's hurry, hurry, hurry, because it's all about to end.
Only of course it's just starting over. The camellia trees have been yawning and preening. Their leaves go glossy in the crisp air and you can spot hard little knobs forming like secrets. The buds are swelling, bursting, potent with new life. And there we are, right back where we started, waiting for the petals.
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