On the twisting backroads to the YMCA camp I worked at for 19 years there was a flower farm–a single-wide home on a large lot with an enormous flower garden to the side–at the edge of the garden there was a worn, wood park bench with an old coffee can sitting on it. Around the can was a handmade wrapped sign “Flowers 10c” and a pair of garden shears balanced on the lid.
It was the honor system. I especially liked that.
In the summer on our time off, the staff would often swing by, dig into our pockets for extra cash and bring back armfuls of flowers–dahlias mostly–their mix of color and shade in a blossom that looked like the fireworks we watch off the dock at 4th of July. The flowers were never for us. They were for some unsuspecting friend or friends back at camp. We would bring them into the dining hall and place them in a plastic bucket we’d borrowed from the kitchen.
We bought dahlias because their personalities were big and their message was bold, just like we were.