Washing Paper Flowers

I'm in spring cleaning mode.  I've taken this week off work, and, frankly, nothing in my house that's dirty or cluttery is safe or too sacred.

That goes for things I've saved and cherished for years.  Well, not all things.  But, even if something serves a functional purpose, but I've had it for decades and it's ugly and broken, it had better beware.

My stack of newspapers is gone.

The lamp that was a birthday present from my parents on the first birthday when I was married (and the only present I got that year) has been replaced.

These are scary times.

Walls are being washed.  Blinds are being scoured.  The carpet cleaner is scheduled. 

My books, which have been associating with Paul's books at random in ways very supportive of diversity have now been organized by type and ordered by greatness.  Shakespeare, of course, takes prominence on my beautiful new Christmas bookshelf, and it goes down from there.  (Don't worry--I'm not an apostate.  Scriptures are in another place.)

My children were all enlisted to clean their rooms--yes, even under the beds--before we could go out and have any spring break fun.

These are the best and worst of times.

That is why, when bustling my way through the living room yesterday, I did not hesitate much when I came to a philosophical crisis.  My vase of paper flowers.  The vase and the flowers were my first anniversary gift.  You know, the paper anniversary.  Paul had picked out twenty-four lilies, daisies, and flags made of sturdy paper for me.

I have kept them.

Fifteen years.

I've dusted them off many times, but, as I'm sure you can imagine, it is not easy to brush dust off of textured paper.  With hollows and crevices.  For fifteen years.

Dust had been embedded in them, and, over time, some of the petals had curled up.  All right, a lot of the petals had curled up.  Honestly, they were pretty unsightly.

The sentimental me lost a quick arm wrestling match with the spring cleaning me.  They went into the kitchen wastebasket, and I cleaned out and polished the vase.

I'll buy some more, I told myself.  Surely, no one else I know who keeps a clean house would keep paper flowers for over fifteen years.  Surely, Paul would understand.  Surely, I could find some more that I liked just fine at a craft store.  Surely, it would be okay.

Paul came home from work just as dusk was falling gently in the dimly-lit bedroom and I was completing my last set of abs.  "Hi," he waved at me from the door.

"Wait," I said.  "Come in."  He sat on the edge of the bed, but I could hardly look at him.  "I did something I feel bad about," I told him.

He gazed back, as unflappable as ever.  At least outwardly, Paul takes bad news like he's hearing a weather report.  He honestly believes me to be the most honest person he has ever known.  He is firmly convinced that I could never ever in a million years cheat on him.  Because of this, it's impossible to make him jealous.  Which is smart of him.  And, I'm sure he's right.  Sometimes, it has been infuriating that he believes that about me.  Also, that he is right about it.  But, I digress.

I told him I had relocated his first anniversary present from the bookcase in the living room to the kitchen wastebasket a few feet away from there.  I said it in a tone that attempted to make it sound like a perfectly reasonable thing to do.  After all, who would keep dirty paper flowers?  Right?

"I noticed they were missing," he said.

Paul, whom I suspect could probably not describe what I wore that very day, had noticed they were missing.

"I kept the vase," I said.

I told him of my plan to purchase new ones to replace them with.  I talked about how dirty and crumpled they were.  Then, I showed him.  He said the right things--that he could understand the reasons why.  He was less sure about my ability to replace them.  He went to the computer to look up places to buy paper flowers and came up pretty much empty.

I told him that I could also replace them with silk flowers.  He didn't exactly say it, but I could tell from his tone that the idea of replacing paper flowers with silk ones made no sense at all to him.  It had been our paper anniversary, not our silk one--that was anniversary number twelve.

To me, the point was to have a beautiful home, and, whether the flowers in the vase were paper or silk didn't matter much, as long as they were not dirty or cluttery.  I told him I would always remember that he had given me the paper flowers.

This morning, we went shopping for lamps and paper flowers.  The lamps we found.  Paper flowers, not so much.  We went to a store that had an overwhelming supply of silk flowers.  There were many lovely options.  Too many.  I could tell that it would take me a couple of hours to sort through all of the possibilities to find the ones I wanted the most.

Also, looking at all the silk flowers they had made me sad.

None of them was like the ones I had thrown away.  Not a one.  I could see that Paul's unspoken thought was true.  What he had done for me was not replaceable.  I began to regret my action in a big way.

"Let's go," I said.  My new feelings gave me a profound sense of urgency.  "Come on!  Let's get out of here," I urged.  "I won't find what I want here."

I could hardly wait to get home.  While Paul got ready to assemble the lamps, I rushed to the wastebasket.  "They have other stuff dumped on them by now," he said, and he was right.  But I didn't care.  Why on earth had I not tried to save them before throwing them away?  If I was going to wash dust off them, I could also wash off the egg shells from the kids' breakfast and bits of the yam he had thrown away. If they were ruined, they were ruined.  I would not be any farther behind than I already was.

I gathered up all twenty-four and set them aside on a towel.  One by one, I washed their stems and let the water from the faucet run over their petals.  Lovingly, I rubbed the petals and reshaped them into the lovely flowers they had been to begin with.  It was surprisingly easy to resurrect them.  Only once did I rub one so hard that the paper started to come off the center. I quickly put it back in place and handled them more gingerly.  Only once did a petal tear.  Only one flower fell apart to the point that I might throw it away for reals.

It was amazingly easy to save and restore the paper flowers my husband gave me for our first anniversary, all those years ago.  I wish I had thought of this sooner.  So often, we think we don't want anymore something given in love, when only a little bit of thought and loving care would make it as vibrant as new. We take for granted that we can replace something unique and precious.

I think we're good for another fifteen years.