FLOWERS FOR PIE [W, 10-15-25]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Irrelevant Reflections of An Old Man—FLOWERS FOR PIE [W, 10-15-25]

 

Some might say it is because we’ve been married 66 years. Maybe…

After Crumble Bums—a coffee-drinking consortium of retired quasi-intellectuals--I went to the post office to mail some art to our granddaughter. She is turning her apartment into an art gallery for her birthday, inviting all her friends and family to provide art as well as to attend the gallery opening. We live about two thousand miles too far away to grace the opening with our presence, but since the post office is still doing what Benjamin Franklin intended—making it possible for all citizens to be in community with one another, rather than the current idea that every government service should be “privatized” so a few can make money off the many while excluding from community those who have no money—I was able to send art pieces.

I am not an artist, of course, except for a severely limited ability to do a line drawing of a cat sitting, facing away, on a one-rail fence. The ears are no problem, but I can never decide whether the cat’s tail should curl to the left or to the right.

So, for my art, I claim community-building. Thus, I sent Brigid the letter from my high school class sweater, since it was in the Oakland City High School Class of 1955 that I began my community-building efforts, and I think of her as the heir of my particular artistic ability.

 

At the post office, there were three young women standing in line in front of me. I was prepared for this; I had brought my cane. I can walk just fine, but if I have to stand straight for a while, like in a wait line, it’s hard on my back and hip. Leaning on the cane helps.

Naturally, I said, “Oh, I’m in the wrong line. Clearly this is the line where the good-looking people are supposed to stand.”

Now, there are people, mostly in my family, who say, not exactly because of intellectual curiosity, “Why do you always say weird things to strangers?” Well, because it builds community. All three of those women turned and smiled and assured me that it was okay for me to be in line with them.

So, I was feeling good as I drove home. Along about where Staples used to be [This is how you prove you belong; you use places that no longer exist as landmarks for directions.], I realized that with just a little bit of dangerous maneuvering through a parking lot, where no one knows, or cares, who has the right-of-way, I would be passing directly by Fresh Thyme, where they have a varied selection of pies. When you’ve been busy building community, a pie is a nice reward.

 

In the store, I had to pass the flower department to get to the pies. But a pleasant man, who looked homeless except for his name tag, asked me if he could help. “Yes,” I said, “if you know what my wife would like.”

I meant which flavor of pie, but the woman at the flower cart heard me and stuck out a rather glorious handful of multi-colored cut flowers and said, “She would like these.”

So, I bought flowers instead of a pie. As I checked out, I assured the cashier that I had done nothing wrong, that these were not apology flowers. Yes, remember, community building.

When I got home with the flowers, I discovered that while I was out building community, Helen had baked a pie.

 

John Robert McFarland