Fuchsia Funk

Every year for mother's day, our father took us to the local nursery where my sister, brother and I selected the biggest, pinkest, purplest, overflowingest hanging fuchsia plant we could find. The nursery man, our mom's nursery man, Michael, a handsome, dark haired, blue eyed Italian, accent and all, liked my mother because she liked her garden and shared his interest in horticulture. Michael ensured that we had the perfect plant for our mom. He'd wrap a luscious hot pink satin ribbon around the hanging plant and we'd rush home to present it to our mother who was wiling away the morning in bed.

Rather than traipse through the house with the gigantic potted shrub, we'd hang the brilliantly colored, drooping teardrop shaped florets on a tree outside our parent's bedroom knowing that our mother would be able to see it from her supine position. Next, we'd run into the bedroom, lavishing our resting mother with hugs, kisses and cries of "Happy Mother's Day, Mom. We love you, Mommy. Get out of bed, Mommy. We have a surprise for you." She'd roll over, open her eyes halfway, smile oh so slightly and she'd tell us that she'd be up and out shortly. "Happy Mother's Day, Mommy, look outside," we'd yell in unison while our father ushered us out to the kitchen where we'd prepare toast and tea, set a tray with a linen napkin, our Mother's best china and silver, and a blossom from the fuchsia plant. "Surprise," we'd yell. Our brother, the littlest, would whisper, "She's sleeping, shhh." My sister and I, older and wiser, would quietly reply "we know, silly, but it's Mother's Day and breakfast in bed will get her up."

It didn't. Not Mother's Day. Not breakfast in bed. Not a brilliant colored fuchsia hanging outside her window. Not even parades comprised of the three of us banging wooden spoons on pots and pans. Mother was not much of a day person. In our early years, she was a sad person. Somehow, though, over time, she managed to make it out of bed to let us know how delighted she was with the fuchsia, "Oh, honeys," she'd exclaim with a smile, what a beautiful, big, purple and pink fuchsia" she'd say and we knew we were loved. The flowering plant would last through the summer and well into the Fall.

Whenever I see a fuchsia now, I think lovingly of my mother who died a few years ago. These days, the plants come in all sorts of color and size variations. Ranging from light blue to dark, lavender, purple, clear white to dark red, pink, coral, and orange. A few have yellowish tones. There are plants with fat blossoms, some with skinny, long, short, full or narrow but the classic fuchsia flower shape remains the same. And so, it seems, does the concept. Last year, my children gave me a fuchsia. The difference, however, is that I was up and out of bed before they were. Carpe diem, mommies.

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