Tulip Tradition

A flower spent should not be sad - but
         It's leaving should make us glad - that we
         were privileged to view - a miracle that was
         passing through.

  

One of the best parts of working in the floral industry is all the stories you hear about the flowers. Not just colors, varieties, shapes and sizes, but deep meanings, symbolic actions and thoughtful moments. While the Sun Valley team was down in Miami recently, I spoke with a fellow vendor named Hilliard. He works on the horticulture side of things and we've been booth neighbors at many a show over the years, his accent betrays his tanned skin and his demeanor makes me think of him as a classic British gentleman.

The flower stories I hear are generally positive, yet they often start off with a life changing event.  Several years back Hilliard's mother passed away. Flowers express the inexpressible and sometimes grief and remembrance are the emotions that we have to deal with, taking the bad with the good. When Hilliard's mother died, he and his brothers and sisters took her ashes to the top of a coastal peak in central California. They opened the urn and let the Pacific wind blow the ashes into the sky, said a few prayers, shared some stories and then hiked down the mountain.

Sun Valley Summertime Tulips

Now a dozen years later, Hilliard has one of the more touching traditions I've ever heard. He is an avid mountain biker, still looking fit in his mid-fifties. Every year for his mother's birthday which is in June, he wakes before dawn and hops on his bike with a special cargo tucked into his Camel-Back backpack.

His mother emigrated from England, and all through her life her favorite flower was the tulip, one of the simplest yet poignant flowers cultivated by man. She always had them growing in her garden and explained to her children and grandchildren that they reminded her of the previous life she lived in England.

Every year now, the day before his mother's birthday Hilliard stops by the market and buys a 10 stem bunch of tulips.  As he recounts his tale, he adds that he always looks for our tulips. The folks growing flowers, bushes and all sort of other plants in California have a natural bond. It is cemented by the Pacific Ocean, earthquakes and high real estate prices.  It seems we all do business with people you know, people you can relate to and people you trust.

In the predawn light Hilliard gets on the saddle of his mountain bike and sets out to honor is mom, or "mum" to hear him tell it. After riding a few miles to the old fire road that leads to the peak, he downshifts into the low gears and arduously ascends the mountain.

When he reaches the peak, just as the sun rises in the east, he takes a few minutes to catch his breath, enjoy the view and think about his mom. There is a flat stone placed by time just perfect for such tasks.


When the time feels right, Hilliard takes the tulips from his bag, pulls off the sleeve and snips off the rubber band holding them together. He stands at the edge, looks to the heavens, then back at the beautiful tulips. Then with both hands holding the tulips, he bends his knees and tosses them high into the air, each stem catching the wind and the light differently, spiraling, twirling and spinning into the expanse between here and there.

"Happy Birthday Mum."