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the flower shop on her own forced her to decrease her hours of operation on what seemed like a weekly basis.
    “Lilies and tulips this year, Wilma,” I said, raising my eyebrows at the absurdity of my mother’s choices.
    “Perennials and bulbs... convallaria majalis and liliaceae ,” she said, writing the names on a whiteboard that was mounted on the wall behind the counter. “I think you should add Shirley poppies to that list,” she said as she wrote. “That way you have a well-rounded assortment that consists of annuals, perennials, and bulbs.” She went on, “Now, what is the container of choice for this year?”
    “Clay amphoras,” Tami said as she walked the aisles, surveying the many pots and dried wreaths that lined the walls.
    “Interesting choice...that’s your mother,” Wilma said, shaking her head with a giggle. “How many?”
    I unfolded the crumpled list from my pocket. “Five large ones,” I said, rechecking the number.
    “The usual coloration?” she asked, adding to her notes.
    “That part never changes.” I arched my brow and smiled.
    “So...you’re gonna need roughly a dozen of each per pot, times five pots. That’s,” she punched the keys of the calculator and the paper spilled on the counter, “sixty per pot per kind, times three, for a grand total of one hundred and eighty,” she finished. “I’ll send the bill on ahead to your mother and I will have the flowers delivered,” she eyed the calendar and pointed, “August eleventh, and I will come out to the house on the twelfth and arrange them, as always.”
    “Thanks, Wilma,” Tami and I said in unison, heading toward the door.
    “You young ladies have a nice afternoon, it’s a hot one,” Wilma said, wiping sweat from her upper lip with a tissue.
    We climbed back into the car and over the next few hours made the rounds about town to the caterer and the rental and equipment supply store before finally stopping for lunch on Pierce Street at Papa Que’s Hickory Shack. It was the best BBQ in town. Hickory and mesquite billowed from the chimney, hovering over the city of Lafayette like the puffy cover of fall storm clouds.
    The time approached four p.m. as we headed toward home and our last stop, Côte Blanche Landing. As always, its proprietor, Gator, was perched on the deck, rocking back and forth to the blare of bluegrass from his old Victrola. We strolled the raised dock of worn logs, hopping over missing planks until we were at the water’s edge. I kicked the foot of the rocker until Gator snorted, wiping drool from the denim buckle of his coveralls, then looked up at us.
    Gator was an interesting fella, more water scavenger then human. The soles of his bare feet were strained black with tar and soot from his years of scrounging through the backwoods without the benefit of footwear. He owned a fishery along the bay, his shanty chipped of what paint had once adorned it and spotted with various boards and tree trunks that held the rotted walls of shoddy workmanship to its simple frame. The one positive thing about his character was his reputation as the best fisherman on the water. Admittedly, one had to overlook his deplorable grooming habits and turn a deaf ear toward his filthy humor and crude comments toward the opposite sex, all of which the locals chose to do for fear of losing the fresh crawfish and jumbo shrimp the bayou had to offer.
    “Well hey there, sexy duet,” he slobbered. “What do I do youse for?” He stood up, hiking and then fastening the hooks of his overalls. “Let me guess, Gator’s fresh crawfish.” He chuckled, scraping his fingernail over his teeth. “How many I do you for dis year?” he asked in an informal Cajun patois.
    “Sixty pounds,” Tami said with disgust toward his poor manners. “Right, Kari?” she asked, tugging on the sleeve of my shirt. “Kari!”
    “What?” I asked.
    “We need sixty pounds of crawfish, right?”
    “Oh right, yeah. Sixty pounds.”
    “What are you