The "Calla Guy"

For the most part, I sell flowers to women.  Most men ignore the suggestion to consider a purchase of flowers, or defer the decision to their wives.  But when a man succumbs to the allure of flowers, I have him hooked for the season, so I give these male buyers nicknames.

“The Lily Man” stops to inspect the quality of my early lilies.  We agree that this summer’s crop does not measure up to last year’s.

“We had a wet spring,” I explain.  “In May and June we had almost double our average rainfall.  Lily bulbs hate wet feet.  They tend to get a disease that distorts the flower and turns leaves brown.”

He shakes his head sadly.  I imagine him trying to recreate the scent of lilies which he purchased last summer on a weekly basis.

My calla lilies are scooped up by “The Calla Guy.”  Red-headed and freckle-faced, he hovers around my table with queries.  When will the elegant waxy flower appear?  My supply is still spotty in early July, but he wants to buy a small bunch for $5. The blossoms are puny, I decide to ask only $3. I know he'll be back each Saturday for more.

“Callas were my wife’s wedding flower,” he tell me.  “And her mother carried them for her own wedding.”

He brings his daughter along each week to the market.

“See, honey.” He leans over to show her the bouquet. “We’re going to make Mommy very, very happy.”

One man passes my table with disdain each Saturday.  He does’t respond to my greeting but waits until I am engaged with another customer.  Then he stands back six feet or so and paces while he judges today’s assemblage of blooms.  He resists the delicate Queen Anne’s lace, the fragile profusion of blue hydrangea, the scented glamour of oriental lilies.  In late August, I bring my favorite orange dahlias.  They are as big as dinner plates with petals as orange as Cinderella’s coach.  Along the length of each spikey petal colors change from orange to yellow.  He spots them from across the market lawn and all but shoves people aside to get to my table.  He buys them all.