Only the very brave give flowers to a gardener. This is too bad.
I understand the hesitation. It would be like cooking dinner for a chef or praying for a priest. Did you know therapists go to therapists who specialize in dealing with therapists? It must be horribly intimidating to send flowers to a woman who grows a yard full of them.
She must have favorites. Flowers with sentimental value because they are transplants from her mother’s house. Flowers she cherishes because they are difficult to grow. Flowers she grows in abundance because they look pretty cut, arranged in a particular vase.
By extension, there must be varieties that bore her. Flowers she views as pedestrian, garish, or too obvious. She probably also has favorite places to buy flowers. Specialty catalogues, obscure websites, blogs you’ve never heard of. You can’t buy a gardener flowers from the grocery store, can you?
Of course, this is horribly ironic.
Of all the gifts to send a gardener, the one you’re afraid to send her is the one she clearly adores.
Maybe you should think about why she became a gardener in the first place. I see the roses blooming in my yard right now and among my memories are these:
Valentines Day in middle and high school. My dad always sent me roses so I’d always be among the privileged girls called to the office when the florist truck arrived.
My grandparents’ house. As long as my grandfather was alive, he grew roses. When guests visited, he cut them and set them out in every room.
The worst grade I got in college. My mom sent me orange roses – my favorite color since a boyfriend stole my dad’s glory sophomore year in high school.