It’s Pumpkin Time Again
I grew up not knowing what Halloween was. We didn’t have it in Belgium. I hear it’s different now and the holiday is getting popular over there. Kids dress up and eviscerate cucurbitae (I couldn’t resist the funny word) just like they do in the U.S. It was inevitable. Marketers jumped with glee on an opportunity to draw people to the stores smack in the middle of the shopping desert between Back to School and Christmas.
Instead of October 31, we marked November 1 – La Toussaint (All Saints Day) – and November 2 - La Fête des Morts (All Souls Day) on the calendar. Even with the word “fête” in there, it wasn’t terribly festive and definitely not as colorful as Día de los Muertos.
Yet, it had special meaning for me, as a kid. For a couple of practical reasons. The most important being that November 1 was an official holiday and school was off the entire week. Always a thing to celebrate. The second reason was purely mercenary. ‘Twas the season to make money.
As a twelve year old in Brussels, the opportunities to lay my little grubby paws on cash were close to non-existent. There were no paper routes, mowing neighbors’ lawns was unheard of (people did that themselves), and shoveling snow wasn’t in the cards (snow is rare in the low countries). Babysitting was an option but I couldn’t face the idea of bawling babies. Even then, I thought people became interesting when they could talk to you in a way that made sense. Some of my friends got a weekly allowance. I didn’t. My parents didn’t believe in money for nothing.
So, November 1, and the few days around it when it happened to fall near a weekend, was the best chance I had all year to scrape some badly needed dough.
To understand how, you need to know the traditions associated with la Toussaint.
This is when families go to the cemeteries to pay their respects to dead relatives. They might not think about them all year long but November 1-2 was the time to remember. I lived near a large cemetery and people came in droves. Parking spots were at a premium. Drivers double-parked, ignored garage entries, used the sidewalks. Mayhem.
These graveyard visitors didn’t just go stand by a granite slab to say a prayer, they put flowers on the tombstones, chrysanthemums to be precise. Colorful and enormous blooms bigger than oversized grapefruits. Come November, the Belgian skies turn slate gray, mist lingers all day, and the weather gets bone-chilling wet. The pots of white, yellow, pink, violet or purple flowers were like a magical burst from an illusionist’s hat.
These flower pots were also freaking heavy. People bought them from the florist shops that lined the avenue leading to the cemetery gates. The sidewalks were packed with flowers of all sizes and colors, with price tags on sticks. Business was brisk. This is where kids came in. They carried the pots for the buyers. For tips.
It was hard work. At the end of a day of going up and down the cemetery hill, legs turned to jelly and arms weren’t much better. Pockets were fuller, though.
There were a few catches. You needed an in with a florist, be accredited, sort of (my parents were friends with one of the merchants). Each shop could support about three “pot carriers” and there were a dozen shops. You better show up early or you could find your spot taken. And be pleasant with the customers, no complaints, or forget getting the job next year. Most of us were veterans, and we had our turf. It was mostly civil. You don’t fight over a pot of mums destined to decorate a tomb. It’s very bad form.
In hindsight, the lessons learned might have been worth more than the tips (not that I realized it at the time, I was thinking of comic books and candy).
Laws of supply and demand in the labor market – how many carriers are needed to ensure smooth operations, without depressing the prices.
Observation – keep an eye on the shop next door. If all their carriers are in the field, you might snag an extra run.
People skills – keep a conversation going with the customer, it improves the tips.
Basic profiling – is this customer a potential good tipper? If they buy an expensive pot, probably. Mind you, that’s also a heavier one.
Know your limits – two big pots might be too much, sharing with another kid is smart. And your buddy may return the favor.
Budget management – the money earned has to last. The next opportunity won’t come until January 1, when a grandparent might slip you a little something on the sly.
In case you worry, I assure you my early teenage years weren’t Dickensian. Nobody forced me to do this. Our little gang had a good time and hot chocolate was served if the weather got nippy. We were bundled up against the cold with mittens, scarves, and woolen caps. Working conditions were decent. Most customers were fair. Old ladies were especially generous. I don’t know if this innocent racket is still going on. Most people opt for cremation now. There are still flowers, but less room for the big chrysanthemum blooms.
I thought about a little piece of dialogue to illustrate the story. It goes like this:
“Can you believe it? I scored a big one. Eight blooms, easy. I carried it all the way to the top. To a big vault. A monument with an angel on top. Man, I was wiped. How much walking was that, a kilometer? And you know what? The guy gave me a rotten ten francs. Ten! No kidding.”
“I bet you said thank you, sir.”
“Yeah. In your dreams.”
These things happened too …