It's been decades since I've been to the Wilmington Flower Market that takes place Thursday through Saturday every Mother's Day weekend. It used to be an annual outing with my kids, usually Saturday after shabbos services. They offered a central free parking location with a shuttle bus. I could get some tomato saplings which would go into my backyard garden the next day or two. The children would run around, maybe go on a carnival ride, maybe get treated to ice cream or cotton candy. Then we'd take the shuttle back to our car. That was decades ago. I don't really know why I stopped going.
The local newspaper always had a feature section on the flower market. They had committees, entirely women. Many were socially prominent, descendants of the DuPont's or married into the family with its familiar subnames. Many were wives of medical colleagues, registering in my mind as social climbers, though to be fair, quite a number chaired committees and the event was always expertly executed. And really nothing at all snooty about those docs. No Jewish names, but I just assumed Jews had not yet achieved full acceptance in the generational social tiers, irrespective of their economic attainments and professional stature. Doubt if that contributed to my loss of interest in attending.
Even it's location hints that you had to be somebody to live nearby. Art Museum and adjacent mansions two blocks away, Mt Salem Church built originally to service workmen of the expanding enterprises in the 19th century, with its maintained cemetery across the street. The most exclusive private school around, the place where heirs became literate for generations, around the corner. Even my section chief, a man of heritage who married into relatively new money and mastered the skills of social climbing, lived in one of the smaller elegant homes, built before we had McMansions. He even invited me over once.
The market itself comprises tents in a preserved area called Rockford Park, known for its stone tower. No shuttle buses this Thursday afternoon, it's opening day. They offered parking for $10, helped by police signs to prohibit parking along the closest city streets, and neighbors protecting their own parking spots by wheeling their garbage receptacles beyond the curb. With some driving, I found a legal space, walked about three blocks past the cemetery, mostly uphill, then a little more uphill to reach the park with its tents.
This event raises quite a lot of money for local children's charities, so I am willing to be a sport. Vendors from banks to artisans purchase display space. There's a section for food trucks, the largest collection of them I've seen in any single place in Delaware. A section for movable carnival rides. And the tents that display the plants for sale, vegetables in one place, herbs in another, and larger ornamentals needing bigger pots separately near the hanging plants.
Despite being faithful to my treadmill sessions, age has reduced my ability to walk uphill. Still, I only sat at a picnic table for a few minutes, taking my time as I admired the contents of the various displays, from food to rides to containers suitable for transplant into my Square Foot Garden. Not really hungry. Garden pretty much already planted. I know the proceeds are for an admirable cause, but I purchased nothing.
Walking the perimeter counts as laudable outdoor time, steps recorded on my smartwatch. Returning to my car, with the apprehension that the police would find some reason to place a violation notice under my left windshield wiper, I took my time walking more downhill and over a different route than the one taken to Rockford Park, past what seemed to be the toniest homes in the Highlands neighborhood. I had parked legally after all.
Pleasant hour or so, but I understand the multi-decades gap since my last sampling of this iconic local institution.
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