That is the title of a lovely folk song written in the 1950’s by Pete Seeger (Grammy Hall of Fame).  It must be outstanding because it later became a hit for both The Kingston Trio in 1958 and Peter, Paul, and Mary in 1962. The lyrics and tune entered my head as I awoke this morning, evoking those days, many years ago, when I was a teenager and folk songs meant a lot to me.  Apparently this one still does.

The lyrics go full circle.  The flowers are picked by young girls who, in turn have taken husbands “every one.”  Husbands became soldiers who, in turn, have gone to graveyards “every one.”  And in the end the graveyards are covered with flowers, “every one.”

The refrain to each verse –

“When will they ever learn?

“When will they ever learn?”

Some of us, understandably, may find this to be a somewhat grim view of life.  I find it sad, but uplifting.

Perhaps I’ve been thinking of flowers because in the past week, as part of my rehabilitation and what, I’m told, should become a part of my permanent routine, I’ve been taking walks in the neighborhood.  Since I can’t yet look up, or even straight ahead, I find myself looking down.  And what do I see along the road?

Flowers.

I’ve lived in the same neighborhood for almost fifty years.  Fifty years, folks, and I have never before noticed the flowers.

In my teens I certainly noticed the young girls.  During the Viet Nam war I saw more than enough soldiers on TV.  After the deaths of my mother, father, and younger brother I visited the graveyard, which held more grass than flowers.

And here I am.

Where have all the flowers gone?  Nowhere.

The flowers have been there all along.

Alan

During the past few years I’ve been recording hour-long episodes of the popular TV series Shark Tank.  Since this is their tenth season, I have more than one hundred shows ready to go whenever I’m struck by the impulse to use my elliptical machine for a morning workout.  But since this show has now consumed about 80% of my recording capacity, I have dug into the backlog and begun to view episodes from the comfort and convenience of my couch, while recovering from neck surgery.

On each episode, five wealthy business people listen to “the pitch” of four different entrepreneurs seeking cash to expand their fledgling businesses.  Most of the time an offer is negotiated and accepted.  Occasionally the entrepreneur leaves empty handed (always vowing to press on and prove the “Sharks” were wrong not to have invested with them).  Mostly, I agree with the sharks.

Two men who usually sit on the panel of sharks include Mark Cuban, the famous billionaire owner of an NBA professional basketball team, and “Mr. Wonderful” who is known for picking the presentations apart as he explains to each supplicant why they are totally overvaluing their business.  His favorite parting line when his lowball offer is rejected: “You’re dead to me.”  Truly a wonderful guy.

On a recent show one young woman, a single mother of two, was seeking a $350,000 investment for 25% of her dress line for young mothers who wanted to spend more time playing with their children.

“To my four-year-old son,” she said, “a grass stain is the sign of a day well spent.  To me, it’s a large dry cleaning bill.”

Her dresses were quite fashionable, but could still be thrown into the washing machine at the end of the day.  She had been in business for five years, and her annual sales for the previous year had reached $1,200,000.  Even Mr. Wonderful was impressed, though he argued that she had valued her business at much more than he thought it was worth.  This position, of course, is always part of his negotiating strategy.

When asked by one of the women on the panel, the entrepreneur shared her back story.

Though she was a single mom, she was determined to help other moms play more with their young children. She had taught herself to sew even though she didn’t previously know a thing about sewing or patterns.  Her own mother, she said, hadn’t played with her. There had been abuse and addiction, but the mother “did the best she could.  We all have trauma in our childhoods,” she said, “and I needed to leave that behind to pursue my goal.”

At this point even Mr. Wonderful took out his handkerchief to dab tears from his eyes.

One of the women on the panel offered the full amount asked — $350,000 for 25% of the business.  Everyone was thrilled, the two women hugged. The entrepreneur had succeeded where few others had – obtaining her exact asking price.

Surprisingly, as Mr. Wonderful was putting his handkerchief back in his pocket, he said, “This is the best fashion presentation I’ve ever seen in the past ten years.”

Amen, Mr. Wonderful.  Amen.

Alan

Many years ago I arrived to a funeral twelve minutes late hoping I could quietly take a seat in the back. But when I walked into the chapel it was empty. I inquired, and was told that a fight had broken out among members of the family and the service had been, shall we say, short.

I’ve also attended several funerals at which the clergyman began with, “I never had the good fortune to meet the departed, but he (or she) was…”

Somehow, I find that disrespectful.

For my father’s funeral last Tuesday morning we decided to hold graveside services with only family and a few close friends attending.

One of his grandsons was scheduled to return Monday night from a week long vacation on Maui but, alas, the plane leaked fuel onto the tarmac and his flight was canceled. This was at the end of the three-day Memorial Day weekend. Fortunately he was able to rebook himself on a return flight through Seattle and arrived at graveside a few minutes before we began.

Dad’s eight grandchildren served as pallbearers, and everyone told touching tales about Dad, many of which were new to me. Among the last to speak, movingly, was one of his great-granddaughters.

After our brief family gathering my nephew pointed out that my brother David’s grave was nearby. All of us spent a few moments there in silent remembrance.

Unlike the other funerals I mentioned, at my Dad’s memorial the feeling of family unity, spanning three generations, was unmistakable. The man from the mortuary said it was one of the most moving tributes he’d ever seen.

The morning had been quite difficult for me, recovering from two recent cervical spine surgeries, and I was flat on my back most of the following day (although I have been told, repeatedly, “this too will pass”).  It will take months.

But last Tuesday I was comforted to know that the two generations of my family who come after me are in the hands and hearts of articulate, kind, and caring people, and, knowing this comfort will endure forever inside me, I am at peace

My heartfelt thanks to all.

Love,

Alan