Numbers, names, $$'s and sense

We’ll Never Forget??

Once a year I have a “grave blanket” placed upon Aaron’s grave in Amarillo. Since I’m five hours away, I’m forced to deal with a florist. Florists, to me, are much like funeral directors and life insurance salesmen. “Trading” with them reminds me of an old military acronym: BOHICA (Bend Over Here It Comes Again).

I have the blanket placed upon my son’s grave on December 11th for several reasons. Aaron, my blanket-baby, was supposed to be married December 11, 2004 and instead gave his life on April 26, 2004. Too, December is freezing in Amarillo and usually it’s best to visit in the warmer months. Christmas was Aaron’s favorite time of year, and finally, Doug, my son’s dad, takes care of the flowers for the remainder of the year since he’s out at Memorial Park once a week to “visit Aaron’s marker” as he says.

I begin the process two weeks ahead of time. It’s a weird thing to be on the phone and perkily ordering flowers for your son’s grave at Christmas in the first place.

Once we finally get everything straight over the phone (though last year we never did), after I explain the size, explain that I want it natural, consisting mostly of pine needles, a few pine cones, and please go easy on the red bows, and yes, I want the large one, it should cover the grave, after I go through giving his name, his location (to a degree—I never go and look up numbers), I make sure they understand Lance Corporal, Iraq, and that even though our last names are different, I am indeed this child’s mom. At last the transaction is complete and within minutes my Visa is charged somewhere in the neighborhood of $150. This year it was $173, 4 or 5 something and a few odd cents. As I said, I don’t look up numbers, but just get the general gist or sense of things—even money.

Yesterday I called the florist and asked if once they placed the blanket if they might take a photo and e-mail it to me. Her brisk and condescending reply went something like this. “No. We don’t have that capability.” While row after row of costly wreath is going through my head—I do remember searching the florists’ website, but yet they don’t have this capability?? Perhaps they’re like Mom and haven’t moved into this decade’s technology, I’m thinking to myself, but no, that’s not it.

“Believe me, you are not the first person to ask this. We do not have time to take pictures of all that we deliver. Our deliverymen are on a crazy schedule,” Kitty says.

I feel a little bruised but then hope rises. I get a call from Texas. His name is Juan and he’s the supervisor for the grounds at Memorial Park in Amarillo. “Yes, Ma’am, the delivery boy is standing here. He says he has a wreath for Aaron Miller.”

Once again, I repeat his rank and name.

“Oh, yes, Ma’am, I know exactly where Lance Corporal Austin’s grave is.” I’ll get it handled.

He also said he’d send me a photo, but I don’t have it yet. I’m hoping it was my Texas accent mutilating my own e-mail address over the phone that has prevented its arrival, but nonetheless, I don’t feel quite up to finding out different.

Be kind this Christmas. So many of us still need to believe.