The Motion to Replace the Memorial Geraniums

"If there's no further discussion on the minutes from last month's meeting," Bethany said, her voice strained with forced cheerfulness, "then I propose we move on to item six: Tina's proposal for the Mill Street mural."

She looked hopefully at Tina, a young woman with paint stains on her jumper who sat hunched over a large portfolio. Tina gave a small, nervous smile.

Before she could speak, Martin cleared his throat. It was a loud, deliberate sound that commanded attention. He was a retired history teacher who believed procedure was the bedrock of civilization. "A point of order, Madam Chair."

Bethany's smile tightened. "Yes, Martin?"

"You have skipped item five," he said, tapping a long, bony finger on his copy of the agenda. "'New Business Arising.' And I have new business."

A collective, almost inaudible groan went through the room. Bethany felt a familiar headache begin to throb behind her eyes. "Of course, Martin. Please, go ahead."

He adjusted his spectacles, peering at a sheet of paper he'd brought. "I move that the council immediately cease the planting of red geraniums at the war memorial and replace them with authentic Flanders poppies, in accordance with historical precedent."

Silence. Tina looked down at her portfolio, her brief moment of hope extinguished. This was how it always went. They would spend the next hour arguing about something like this, and her mural, Oakhaven's first piece of public art in twenty years, would be deferred. Again.

"Martin, we've discussed this," Bethany said, trying to keep her tone level. "The geraniums are hardy. They last all summer. Poppies... they're delicate. And they're not red, they're more... orangey."

"They are the colour of remembrance!" Martin declared, his voice rising with theatrical passion. "The colour of shed blood! The geraniums are a bourgeois affectation, a garish insult to the memory of the fallen. My uncle died at Passchendaele! He did not die for geraniums!"

Doris from the historical society nodded vigorously. "He's right, Bethany. It's a matter of respect."

"My husband looked after those flowerbeds for thirty years before he passed," countered Mrs. Higgins, her voice trembling slightly. "He loved those geraniums. He said they brought a bit of cheerful colour to a sad place. Are you saying my Frank was disrespectful?"

The room was now divided. The poppy faction, led by Martin and the history buffs. The geranium faction, composed of the gardening club and those loyal to the memory of Frank Higgins. Bethany felt control of the meeting slipping through her fingers like dry soil.

A Matter of Petals

"It's not about Frank," Martin said, though his tone suggested it was, a little bit, about Frank, with whom he'd had a lifelong rivalry over everything from vegetable growing to local politics. "It is about authenticity. We are the Arts and Beautification Council. If we do not uphold standards, who will?"

"But the cost!" chimed in John from the pub, who served as their reluctant treasurer. "We have a budget, Martin. Geraniums are three pounds a tray from the garden centre. These fancy poppies you want, we'd have to order them special. And we'd need more of them. The flower budget would be gone before June."

"Can we put a price on honour?" Martin shot back.

"We literally can, it's right here in the ledger," John muttered, tapping his calculator.

Tina saw her chance. "Actually," she interjected, her voice a little too loud. Everyone turned to look at her. "The mural... the paint is sponsored by a local hardware shop, and I'm donating my time. It's a zero-cost item for the budget. We could approve it tonight and still have the entire flower debate."

It was a sensible, logical point. And therefore, doomed to fail.

"We must resolve the current motion before moving to new business, Ms. Bell," Martin said sternly. "That is the proper procedure. We are not a chaotic rabble."

The irony was lost on him. The debate raged on. Old arguments were rehashed. The time Frank Higgins's prize-winning marrow was disqualified on a technicality was brought up. So was the time Martin had written a scathing letter to the local paper about the historical inaccuracies in the church's nativity play.

Bethany rubbed her temples. This wasn't about flowers. It was about legacies, about grievances, about people who felt unheard and unimportant, fighting for control over the one tiny patch of the world they felt they could influence: the flowerbeds around a stone monument.

She thought of her late husband, a quiet man who had always said these meetings were the best free theatre in town. He'd have been chuckling. Bethany just felt tired. She had joined the council with such high hopes. She'd envisioned poetry readings in the park, sculpture trails, a youth theatre group. Instead, she spent her Tuesday evenings mediating a horticultural cold war.

"All right," Bethany said, her voice sharp, cutting through the bickering. "We will put it to a vote. All in favour of Martin's motion to replace the geraniums with poppies."

Martin, Doris, and two others raised their hands. Four.

"All opposed."

Mrs. Higgins, John the treasurer, and two of the gardening club ladies raised theirs. Four.

Bethany sighed. A tie. As chair, she held the deciding vote.

She looked at Martin's expectant, stubborn face. She looked at Mrs. Higgins's watery, pleading eyes. She looked at Tina, who was now quietly packing her portfolio away, her expression resigned. Another wasted evening.

To vote for the poppies was to honour history, but to alienate the people who did the actual work of planting the flowers. To vote for the geraniums was to honour tradition and community, but to endure Martin's righteous indignation for the next six months.

She couldn't do it. She couldn't choose.

"I abstain," she said.

The room erupted. "You can't abstain!" Martin cried, aghast. "You're the chair!"

"The motion has failed to carry," Bethany said, her voice flat. "The geraniums will remain. Now, the hour is late. I move to adjourn the meeting."

"But the mural!" Tina protested, her voice small.

"Deferred until next month," Bethany said, already gathering her papers, not meeting the young artist's eye. "Meeting adjourned."