I bought sunflowers from the Russian Farmer at the Arkansas Certified Farmers Market this morning. I carefully selected each one for color and texture and took them to the aforementioned farmer to pay. Feeling like the Arky version of Mrs. Dalloway, I handed him the money. He looked at my, I thought, well put-together bouquet, held out his bear paw hand and said, “Geev them to me.” I obediently handed them over whereupon he added another sunflower, cut the stems, arranged them to his liking and put a rubber band around them. He thrust them back at me and said, “There, now they look ceevilized.”
I try to be an adult, I really do, but foreigners see right through me, because they really are adults and they‘re not putting up with any unruly sunflowers.
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