Day 179

When I worked at the firehouse, we all took turns doing chores and cooking. One evening I was in charge of dinner, and decided to take a risk and be a girl. I went outside and clipped some daisies from the landscaping, brought them in, and put them in a glass on the dinner table.

They were good guys, so they tolerated my flowers without giving me too much grief. Just like I had tolerated their breast-shaped meatloaf (complete with two breasts and nipples) a few weeks before...

I wound up putting one of the daisies behind my ear to be funny during dinner. And like many nights, the alarm dropped before we could clean our plates. It was a medic run, and it wasn't until we got back from the hospital that I realized the daisy was still stuck behind my ear.

I gave the guys hell for letting me walk around like that, but it was too late. The name stuck. The nickname "Daisy" soon made it's way to the back of my fire helmet, and the assignment board in the great room. My one lieutenant said it fit my personality and how it represented who I was at the firehouse. I wasn't overly flowery like a rose, yet still a flower. A happy flower that didn't wilt under summer heat or die in the winter- just came back time and time again, steady and true. I took that as a great compliment. It wasn't easy being a woman in the firehouse those days, but my time there wound up being some of the best in my life.

And so the happy, steady flower became my signature flower. Daisies have been a part of many of the major events of my life, thanks to that fateful day at the firehouse. Daisies were the main flower in my wedding, a symbol of happiness and long-lasting love that could survive all sorts of conditions. My husband brought me daisies when our son was born, and I have happily received them over roses for anniversaries and as the famous "I'm sorry" bouquet.

My mom bought me a tub of white Shasta daisies when we bought our house. That one small tub has now transformed into a sea of summer flowers that I have been able to not only split and spread throughout our own property, but share with others- giving me the opportunity to share my happiness, and sometimes a daisy story,  with others.

Early this spring, I transplanted  some of my Shasta and Black-eyed Susan daisies to the backyard by the vegetable garden that my husband built for me. Today, the first blooms opened up, and just the sight of the bright white-and-yellow flower instantly brought forth both memories and smiles.

So tonight's picture celebrates nicknames and the daisy- a hell of a flower, and one I still aspire to be like.