Hydrangea Flashback

Summer in Palmerston North, 1958.

Westend Primary School.

The excitement builds as we prepare for the School Gala Day.  Until then, I didn’t even know what a gala day was. It had to be explained to me.  It sounded really exciting.  Our teacher informed  us also that we were all going to have an opportunity to win a prize in a flower arrangement competition.  We all had to bring flowers to school, and  arrange them artfully in a saucer of damp sand.  They would be on display for all to see, and a panel of judges would choose the three for first, second and third prize.

I asked mum for flowers and after a hunt around the flats where we were living at the time, she gave me a couple of heads of hydrangea.  She suggested helpfully that I could disassemble the flowers and arrange the florets in an attractive pattern.

This I did.  Try as I might I could not make it look anything other than a hydrangea flower stuck in a saucer of wet sand.  Never mind.  I had given it a shot, and I was quite content and settled in my mind with the fact that though my effort was not going to win a prize, I had completed my first flower arrangement.  Maybe someone would like it. My Grandmother liked everything I did.

Gala day arrived at last and I had sixpence to spend.  Wealth.  You could get a lot for 6d in 1958.  The Gala proved to be just as exciting as expected.  I looked around at all the amazing things I had never seen before in my short life, and filled with anticipation of how I might spend my pennies.   The first thing, though, was to hurry to the room where the flower displays were set out on  trestle tables.  Just to see my work laid out for all to see, and maybe admire.  There they all were; the three best marked “First Prize, Second Prize, Third Prize” and a few “Honourable Mentions”.  The remainder were laid out along the table right down to a rather sorry effort of wilting daisies and dandelions arranged in concentric circles around a single nasturtium flower.

I circled the trestle several times looking for my own contribution.  It should have been easy to spot, but I could not see it anywhere.  Then I saw an empty saucer on the windowsill and with a chill presentiment I went to look in the waste basket near the door.  There was a little pile of sand and some fading blue florets and petals.  My arrangement.

Rejected.  My work had not even been worthy of display.   The only one of them all to have been considered so bad that it was summarily thrown away.  The hurt lives with me still.  You never forget your first put-down.

That is why I hate hydrangeas.

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

About Alan

Alone in a sea of spinifex.
This entry was posted in Life, don't talk to me about life!. Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to Hydrangea Flashback

  1. Alan says:

    Dave! What can I say?

    At least it taught me never to disparage my own kids’ efforts… Not that I ever needed to. They are both so Brilliant!

    Like

  2. dayvebutler says:

    I have an almost identical recollection. Similar age, same kind of display, Mine was a snail on a cabbage leaf, why I thought it was something to display I do not know. But I still remember the feeling of wanting to just vanish when I saw it on the table amongst all the pretty flower arrangements. As with you it remains with me still after 55yrs.

    Like

  3. Alan says:

    Aye Laddie. 60 years old and still haven’t decided what I want to be when I grow up…

    Like

  4. 1985… Your are older than dirt… jus like me… Life does make us who we are… The good, the bad and the ugly. I have several things that remind me of tramatic times too. You never forget those especially the ones when you were younger…

    Like

Please comment!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s