8:30 am is not a time of day I see frequently. However, my mother wanted to go to
the Rhode Island Flower and Garden Show. So, armed with a camera, I headed out into Providence.
It didn't take us long to get to the convention center (which was familiar territory, as it's the home of
Digital Overload and attached to the
Providence Place Mall via skybridge), but the line at the door was long, and full of old ladies who smelled like funeral homes, so we both had migraines before we even made it in the door.
Once we were in, the layout was confusing and poorly labeled. For example, all of the lectures were in one room, but finding it took nearly twenty minutes because the maps they handed out at the door didn't have the lecture room clearly marked. Everywhere we turned, the elderly stopped short in the middle of narrow hallways and made getting to where we needed to be all but impossible. And to make matters more frustrating, when we finally made it to the fifth floor for the lecture, it turned out to not be what was described at all. What was billed as a lesson in landscaping on a low budget turned out to be an hour long slideshow in which a professional landscaper gloated about his own personal backyard. The transformation was stunning, but after about ten minutes, we guesstimated that between the amount of plants he'd purchased, the ten foot waterfall he'd built, the well he'd dug and the amount of heavy machinery he'd rented, he was already pushing a quarter of a million dollars. We decided to leave and go check out the floor show.
Now, my mother and I usually go to the
Boston Flower and Garden show, which is considerably larger and on a higher budget, so I tried not to get my hopes up. She had been to the Providence Show with a friend last year, and insisted that, though smaller, Providence was just as high quality.
Neither of us have a clue what the hell happened between last year and this year.
The main exhibition hall of the convention seemed extremely promising. We entered into a massive, darkened chamber full of strategically lit concept gardens that blew our minds for about twenty seconds, until the old couple in front of us tripped on their own feet because the lights were far too dim for a con catering primarily to housewives and the elderly. We were surrounded by old people who couldn't seem to operate their own feet, screaming children who didn't want to be there, pouting teens who were being dragged along by their excited mothers, and husbands who could not more obviously have better places to be.
There was no order to the movement through the exhibition floor, which would be fine if it wasn't so cluttered that two people couldn't easily pass through any of the walkways simultaneously. Claustrophobia winning out, we wriggled our way past the first fifteen feet or so of the massive room.
It was then that we realized we had already seen every concept garden they had.
This may have been the most depressing moment of the convention thus far. Concept gardens are easily my favorite part of garden shows, and this one was sorely lacking. I'm not sure what the overall theme was supposed to be, either. There were cactus topiary arranged to look like elephants, park benches covered in old records, buckets full of musical instruments dumped in piles of wildflowers, a beautifully rendered gothic cemetery covered in gerber daises (Poe is surely crying in his grave over that nightmare) and some of the most run-of-the-mill garden accessories I've ever seen outside of Home Depot. There was even a concrete lawn deer. I'm not kidding. My grandmother's neighbors have sported one of those eyesores for years. In fact, in high school, Tyler and I decided to wage war on their horrible lawn ornaments by loudly attacking them with makeshift spears. I have a hard time believing that that horrible thing has been there long enough to have come back in style (were they ever even in style to begin with?). We were one Mary-On-A-Half-Shell away from the average Tiverton, RI front lawn.
From this, we were unceremoniously dumped into a small playground for the surely bored children that had been dragged to this godforsaken place. It was small, it was shabby, but at least it wasn't boring anyone to tears simply by existing. Thus far, it was probably the best part of the convention.
Once we passed the playground, we had somehow been transported to a flea market. Now, don't get me wrong, no convention is complete without vendors. But for every booth selling something relevant to the theme of the convention, there were three trying to sell you car insurance, homemade tchotchkes, and some As-Seen-On-TV kitchen device. Of the easily 30+ booths there, we found one selling seeds, three selling plants, and two selling cement lawn ornaments. The only other pseudo-appropriate booths were home improvement vendors loitering near their demo hot tubs, vinyl siding, and windows.
As we turned to leave, however, I heard one of the depressed husbands who had been shuffling along beside us chime up in pure joy.
"Oh my God, it's Mr. Spock!" he beamed.
And there it was.
Part of what was easily an eight foot tall and twelve foot long sand sculpture we somehow had missed on the way in, wedged between the playground and the concept gardens, a sculptor was putting the finishing touches on a massive and startlingly detailed portrait of Leonard Nimoy giving the vulcan salute.
I must have spent twenty minutes watching the sculptors work with the biggest grin on my face. On one side of the sculpture, Mr. Spock accompanied Fred Flintstone, the Woodstock logo, and a surfboard in a Mt. Rushmore-eqsue tribute. The ends of the work were bookended by Rosie the Robot holding up the Apollo 11 and Big Bird leaning against a tower with 'Groovy' etched into its side. The reverse side proudly displayed the Beatles, James Bond, and more of the Sesame Street crew.
Freestanding from the main sculpture were several peace signs and hands, including a pair that were playing an etch-a-sketch, and an incredibly detailed rendition of Neil Armstrong. The rock behind him (also made of sand, of course), had the 'one small step' quote etched into it. The only element of the entire scene that wasn't carved in sand was the american flag beside the astronaut. The sign just outside the massive sandbox declared that the work was done by Steve Topazio of
Sandtasia.
After a considerable amount of gawking, my mother finally dragged me off to another panel. This one, though boring as sin for me, was at least informative, and she got out her notebook and listened intently while I putted around online on my cell phone. Once that was over, we did the best thing we'd done all day: we left the convention center to go to
Charley's Subs in the mall for lunch, and we didn't go back.
