The Great Mother's Day Flower Crawl Misunderstanding

It has come to my attention, through the fog of advancing years and the occasional haze of medicinal whiskey, that our fair Virginia City has added yet another peculiar celebration to its calendar of festivities. The "Mother's Day Flower Crawl" happened on May 6.

Now, in my day, a "crawl" was something undertaken with considerable gravity and determination. It usually involved moving from one establishment of liquid refreshment to another, testing the limits of one's sobriety and the structural integrity of one's knees.

There was a certain nobility to it, I tell you, a test of character, if you will. A man who could successfully navigate the treacherous path between saloons without losing his hat, his dignity, or the contents of his stomach was a man to be reckoned with.

But times, as they say, have changed. The sight of a grown man crawling from a drinking establishment, whether propelled by his own power or dragged by concerned companions, gradually fell out of fashion.

Society became altogether too proper for such displays of spirited enthusiasm. The crawl, once a symbol of masculine endurance, became something whispered about in polite company, like gout or unpaid debts.

And now, oh, the irony of it all! The crawl has been resurrected, but not in its former glory.

No, it's gentrified, domesticated, and, dare I say, feminized. Some enterprising soul, with more imagination than sense, has decided that our dear mothers should be included in this tradition of public inebriation.

The "Mother's Day Flower Crawl," as I understand it (though my understanding, according to my editor, is somewhat askew), involves ladies of a certain maternal disposition partaking in beverages while admiring floral arrangements. Instead of staggering from saloon to saloon, they presumably meander from teacup to teacup, stopping occasionally to smell the roses and remark upon the charming color combinations.

To the genius who conceived this notion, I tip my hat, provided I can locate it after last night's medicinal research. It is high time that mothers everywhere had the opportunity to crawl alongside their husbands, children, and whoever else might be embroiled in the noble pursuit of public intoxication.

Why should men have all the fun of discovering, through empirical evidence, precisely how many drinks it takes to make the floor appear unusually friendly?

My editor, a woman whose sense of humor was surgically removed at birth, informs me that I have entirely misunderstood the nature of this event. Apparently, it has nothing to do with mothers consuming alcoholic beverages and everything to do with them receiving flowers while perhaps strolling about in a leisurely fashion.

The "crawl" part, she insists, refers not to the mode of locomotion but to the visiting of multiple locations. To which I say: nonsense!

What sort of crawl is it if no one ends the evening negotiating with the floorboards? What sort of celebration is it if no one wakes the next morning with a mouth tasting of what might be described as a badger's hindquarters? And what sort of Mother's Day is it if dear old Mom doesn't get the opportunity to discover, firsthand, why her husband sometimes looks at his breakfast with such profound suspicion?

But fine. If I have misunderstood, then so be it.

I shall gladly drink to that misunderstanding, and perhaps another, and possibly a third for good measure. After all, there are a few problems that cannot be solved with the application of sufficient whiskey, and those that remain are probably not worth solving anyway.

So here's to the Mother's Day Flower Crawl, whatever it may truly be. And here's to mothers everywhere, may they crawl, stroll, or remain stationary as they see fit, and may their flowers be as lovely as their disposition after a proper day of celebration.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I have some research to conduct regarding the medicinal properties of rye whiskey. It's a demanding job, but someone must do it.