Robert Kirby is still recovering from the aftereffects of inhaling cannonball fumes. This is a reprint of an earlier column.
I don’t like flowers. They’re OK in a field or in a planter around a building. I can ignore outside flowers unless there’s a bee in them. But I hate flowers on the kitchen table.
Flowers in my house mean that I did something wrong, and there’s a good chance I’m not even sure what it was. I’m just apologizing for whatever.
When my wife and I were first married, I came home from work, saw the look on her face and left immediately for a florist.