Thursday is flower day on the second floor:
a nearby grocery store donates their past week's flowers before the fresh lot arrives for the weekend. Sometimes it's just a few buckets. This week we got a grocery cart full of bouquets.
I spread the flowers out on the long activities table and invited everyone around to help cut off the cellophane sleeves.
Rob [not his real name] is a quiet man who spends most of his time doing puzzles, alone but at a table in the public area. (Some people stay alone in their rooms.)
When I ask him if he want to do something, mostly he just shrugs. I haven't been sure if he's hard of hearing, doesn't fully comprehend me, or truly doesn't care one way or another. He shrugged at the flowers, but got up and walked over to the table.
I'm trying to be calmer at work, but with all these flowers, and lots of people needing advice, I was in a bit of a flurry. I took the flowers Rob had freed and shoved them in a vase. The florists usually sheath the floppy stems of gerbera daisies in a green plastic straw, but they'd missed one.
"Oh, look at this one," I said to Rob, holding up a daisy that was flopped-over in half.
"We'll have to..." I paused, distracted.
". . . put it in the middle," Rob finished.
"Oh," I said, "right. Yes, I'll put it in the middle where the other ones will support it."
In fact, I had been going to say "throw it out."
______________________________
One of these days I'm going to do some of my own art again, but in the meanwhile, here's this nifty watercolor by blogger Elizabeth Merriman:
a nearby grocery store donates their past week's flowers before the fresh lot arrives for the weekend. Sometimes it's just a few buckets. This week we got a grocery cart full of bouquets.
I spread the flowers out on the long activities table and invited everyone around to help cut off the cellophane sleeves.
Rob [not his real name] is a quiet man who spends most of his time doing puzzles, alone but at a table in the public area. (Some people stay alone in their rooms.)
When I ask him if he want to do something, mostly he just shrugs. I haven't been sure if he's hard of hearing, doesn't fully comprehend me, or truly doesn't care one way or another. He shrugged at the flowers, but got up and walked over to the table.
I'm trying to be calmer at work, but with all these flowers, and lots of people needing advice, I was in a bit of a flurry. I took the flowers Rob had freed and shoved them in a vase. The florists usually sheath the floppy stems of gerbera daisies in a green plastic straw, but they'd missed one.
"Oh, look at this one," I said to Rob, holding up a daisy that was flopped-over in half.
"We'll have to..." I paused, distracted.
". . . put it in the middle," Rob finished.
"Oh," I said, "right. Yes, I'll put it in the middle where the other ones will support it."
In fact, I had been going to say "throw it out."
______________________________
One of these days I'm going to do some of my own art again, but in the meanwhile, here's this nifty watercolor by blogger Elizabeth Merriman:
