Calling a truce in war of the roses

Ronda Rich's picture

What we have here is a serious inability for the opposite sexes to understand what is sacred for the other side.

Take for instance, the significance of flowers to women and ballgames to men. Neither side understands why it is important to the other. The matter is further complicated by the human need to understand before we can accept. Due to the serious lack of understanding, these two issues become, without a doubt, the biggest source of constant conflict in the battle of the sexes.

Let’s dismiss with such foolishness and get down to the business of accepting without understanding.

It’s that simple. We will accept the male addiction to sports if they will accept our devotion to flowers.

I was doing a book signing in Greensboro, Ga., when a beautiful bouquet of red roses appeared in the door. The man holding the roses maneuvered his way around the crowd, up to the table and set the roses down in front of me.

“These,” he announced with a gallant flourish of the hand, “are for you. It is a thank-you for all the joy I get when I read your stories. Thank goodness for someone who will write so lovingly of our wonderful South.”

That man, Joel McRae, owns the floral shop in town, a fact that started me daydreaming about what it would be like to be married to a man who owns a flower shop. Would that be heaven or would that be overkill?

It might be like the cartoon I watched, when I was a child, about the little kitten who could never get enough milk. Then, by the kind of miracle only performed in cartoons, he got to go to the Milky Way and drank so much milk that he never wanted it again.

Would it be possible for a woman to never want flowers again? It’s impossible to imagine that.

A few weeks later, I arrived on St. Simons Island to, again, find my hotel room decorated with flowers from local florist Edward.

Though men will never understand, flowers are important to us. And, frankly, it doesn’t matter if men understand the importance of them, as long as they give them to us.

“What are you looking for in a man?” someone asked me.

I hate that question because I never have a decent answer. I’ve never stopped long to think about it or analyze it. In retrospect, I realize I have normally been drawn to tall guys with blue eyes, a rakish approach to life and undeniable sense of humor. Still, I’ve never processed it enough to quickly reply, “Laughter and reckless abandon are important, [and] blue eyes.”

No, instead, I normally stare stupidly, slack-jawed and speechless. But, in recent years, I am becoming wiser and more practical. I am looking past personality and looking toward the necessities of life.

I thought about the rolling hills, a former pasture, that surrounds my house. Those acres can quickly become a tangled mess of waist-high grass and briars. I’m at the mercy of Mike who is married to my best friend, Debbie. Generously, he will occasionally load up his tractor and come over to attack the wilderness and attempt to tame it. It was primarily for Mike’s sake and well-being that I stated my preference.

I sighed heavily then replied a bit reluctantly, “A man with a bush hog.”

It’s the least I can do for Mike after all his kindness.

But, gee, I hate having to be practical. I would much prefer a man who sells flowers. If I had my druthers, that is.

I wonder, though, if I could find a man who owns a flower shop and a bush hog. For me, that’d be the perfect man.

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