Years ago, I remember going with my mother to look at the flower show exhibits at the Washington Parish Fair. Even as a child I remember thinking they were the weirdest displays all pointed and bear with maybe one or two flowers protruding from one or two angles. She said she had a piece of driftwood she would use, and she always won. I obviously did not inherit her talents because I barely pulled out a third place and an honorable mention.
The honorable mention was the last place of four and the third place I feel certain beat out the honorable mention because her ball fell off the topiary pedestal and was cockeyed. So, I kind of snagged that one by default. My cattail entry followed the theme of the Red Wood Forest, and the Topiary was to mimic the Virgin Islands. The hydrangeas were to represent rainclouds that by the time I finished looked like a massive hurricane swirling over three tiny wooden boats on blue painted moss. It was a lot.
Even though I was not a natural talent at flower show exhibits, I was encouraged by one of the judges to keep at it and have fun. I did have fun with the horticultural entries. These came from my yard. So basically, I didn't have to arrange anything. I just plucked from Mother Nature five different specimens and stuck them in a glass jar. My antique jar was a bit cloudy, so I was dinged. My Knockout Rose did not stand straight up which in my opinion is how Pugga's beat me. My Parsley put on a show, and the Peace Lily I wrote about in the past knocked it out of the park. This made me proud.
What visitors did not know about this show was that earlier that morning most of us were stepping out onto our dew-covered lawns to seek out that perfect cutting. The president said we simply needed to clip some items from our front door to the car. Really? I watched these ladies eyeing those tables. They were weeding through those bushes and blooms with the scrutiny we women use with a double mirror to examine the back of our hair.
I never realized how many blotches, curling leaves, and wilting pedals can take away from the perfect flower. Or how rare or even impossible it is to find the perfect bloom. From a distance the brilliant colors all run together. But when I really started looking at them one at a time with coffee in hand, I began to understand why the rules were so specific as to how long one had to own these entries. Temptations of hitting up a local garden spot did come to mind.
I must say that as flower show clubs go these ladies brought their game tossing their hair saying, "Oh, I just threw something together." Oh, you didn't drive down the highway balancing a two-foot wabbling topiary in your lap? You didn't have actual dreams of roses and wax flowers mimicking a beach? By the time I was done I felt I owed both of my exhibits an apology for exposing them to foul language and a compliment to all the blooming bushes in my yard for finding fault. Afterall, my husband never has said, "Yes, Callie, your butt does look big in those pants." Who was I criticizing my beautiful yard?
Since my first show I have come across a dozen things I have thought, "Oh, that would be good for an exhibit." Even my husband rolled in from his hunting camp in Missouri toting a five-point deer antler and said, "Here, you can use this in your next flower show." Looks like it is becoming a family effort. Jars will be polished to perfection and see through saran wrap will be inserted so stem and blooms are straight and smiling because in the end it is all about having fun. And getting a blue sticker.
