Growing up in San Francisco was wonderful. There was always something to do and see, but what I remember most is the delight my Mom brought to those small adventures. One of my favorite things was going downtown with her. The cable car stopped around the corner from our flat, and we rode it to the end of the line, Powell and Market Streets. Across Market Street stood the Emporium, a huge department store my Mom loved. I loved watching her take it all in—the familiar streets, the busy store, the simple pleasure of being out together.
On nearly every visit, we saw an older man with a green pushcart in front of the Emporium’s main entrance, selling flowers—especially gardenias. My Mom always noticed them, and I was fascinated by the flowers too. The gardenias were beautiful, fragrant, and wrapped in bright green around the stem, with a pin to attach the flower to your date. Each time we passed the cart, I would hound my Mom for change so I could buy one for her. I can still picture the happiness on her face when she received it, as though that little flower had made the whole outing even more special.
How gallant of me, asking my Mom for money to give her a flower she had actually paid for herself. I don’t remember whether the gardenias cost a dime or a quarter, but they were top-notch, and she always admired them. She would thank me with such genuine pleasure that I felt I had given her something enormous. Those moments stay with me: her smile, her warmth, and the quiet joy she found in being remembered. The gardenia in the image here is from a plant I’ve nurtured at home, and caring for it brings those days back to me. I loved our time together, and I loved seeing how happy she was. Thanks, Mom, for everything.
