Episodes in Ye Life of Ye Florist.

(An introduction to C.C. and Jane Hallinan — and their business — can be found in The Little Shop on Erie St., located here.)

C.C. and Jennie Hallinan closed the greenhouse and nursery in 1943, when their younger son (and business partner), Art, was drafted into military service during World War II: the work was too much for them alone, and the war's tight labor market made it difficult to find able-bodied hired hands. They kept the flower shop open. By the time Art was discharged from the Army in 1946, however, he had decided to pursue a career in accounting. With some regret, C.C. and Jennie, now in their seventies, chose to close the shop and retire, to "take it easy and do a little traveling," as they told the Painesville Telegraph.

The Hallinans in 1946.

Part of taking it easy for C.C. was putting pen to paper (actually fingers to typewriter) in a brief work that he titled Episodes in Ye Life of Ye Florist. "I am writing down," he said, "a few amusing incidents that occurred during our 30 years in the business. At least they seemed funny to us who knew the people and the background." He began his recounting of these stories with the following preface:

In his daily life, the florist has many unusual experiences which bring out the best and the worst in a man. He is constantly meeting persons who are emotionally at their worst. But to the credit of the vast majority of the profession, most florists remain courteous and helpful under the most trying conditions.

Best of all, they have retained a good sense of humor; this helps them over many rough spots. Again, while they don't amass any great material wealth, the knowledge that they are purveyors of Beauty, and messengers of good wishes, congratulations, and sympathy is no small award. Understanding of other people's problems is another gain. We do not censure an erring brother who bent the elbow too often at the brass rail. From a knowledge of the problems encountered in the florist business, we assume there were extenuating circumstances for him getting alcoholically oversubscribed.

Here, then, are some Episodes in Ye Life of Ye Florist (transcription by Art Hallinan Jr.):

🌲 Our Freshman Year

Shortly after we launched out into the deep of the business world, a lady came into the store from one of the ladies' societies of a local church, the "Willing Workers". The group was giving a birthday party for its members. There would be twelve tables, each representing one of the months; each guest would be seated at the table corresponding to her natal day.

Hers was in April, and would I suggest a centerpiece that would be appropriate for that month? The ladies' group is made up of descendants of the Western Reserve pioneers, of New England stock. While they have many qualities I greatly admire, imagination is not one of them. Neither is a knowledge of symbolism which is almost zero. This gives the descendants of the Celts the idea that they must live a very drab life.

I put a large bunch of very natural-looking artificial violets in a low vase and showed it to her. She exclaimed how appropriate for April; how spring-like! Just bring the vase back after the dinner. She was very appreciative, and said she would tell the others how generous I was.

She surely did!

The other eleven all came in to have their tables decorated with 11 symbols of the months. Of course after not charging the April lady, I had to donate the other eleven centerpieces. Not a very lucrative day, but it cured me of playing the role of Big-Hearted Bob for the church ladies!

🌲 The Village Casanova

One of our citizens, a gay blade, was taken sick and went to the Hospital. Five different women came into the store and ordered flowers sent to him. On being asked if she wanted a card enclosed, each one simpered:

"Oh no, he'll know who it's from!"

Romantically, he was very broad-minded.  We could really class him as a trifler.

🌲 The Eternal Feminine

I had an order to be delivered to a Mrs Tucker who lived next door to her son and his wife. I told the driver to be sure he delivered it to the senior Mrs. Tucker. On delivery she asked him if he was sure it was for her, and not her daughter-in-law.

He told her that I said "Be sure to give it to the old woman."

She was brutally offended and called up to tell me in a very hostile voice that she knew she was no longer young, but I needn't be so brutally frank about it. It took a lot of oratory to allay her hurt feelings, which I think I did at least partially.

🌲 The Style Show

It was usually our custom in attending the Cleveland Flower Show, to arrive early to avoid the crowd. But this particular year we got there late, and the Hall was crowded. We worked our way up to one of the exhibits which was a fine display of Cinerarias. Then we succeeded in getting near another exhibit, — also Cinerarias. After two more tries, it was our good luck to find two more displays — of Cinerarias. By that time, we were just about fed up on the daisy-like flower.

Red Cineraria
(from wikipedia).

Blue Cineraria
(also from wikipedia).

About all we got out of the show that year was a fairly good knowledge of the vogue in top-coats, fedoras, fur-coats, and hairdo's.

🌲 The Harbor Prima Donna

A young lady from Fairport [a village on Lake Erie north of Painesville] came into the store one day, and ordered two dozen long-stemmed roses. She told me she was going to sing at a concert in her home town that evening. Would I as a special favor send a messenger to present the roses to her, on stage, after she had finished her song? As she was waiting for the applause to subside?

We carried out her wishes (for a modest sum). She wasn't taking any chance that her talent would go without recognition.

🌲 The Strange Case of the Resilient Magyar

Sitting at my desk in the store, day-dreaming, I was aroused from my reverie by the door being violently opened. A young Hungarian entered, exclaiming "Yet got shotgun? I want to kill myself!"

I explained to him that this was a florist shop, not a suicide parlor, and that we made no effort to speed anyone to their final destiny. Between heartbreaking sobs, he told me his wife had died, and he wanted to order some floral pieces. I booked the order, and got the grief-stricken man on his way.

The lady who helped out in the store said "Did you ever see anyone so utterly crushed by grief as that man?"  I said that he did seem to take it rather hard. She gave me a disgusted look, wondering how I could remain so calloused in the presence of such sorrow. From experience I knew these emotional sprees were very shallow, and that the present-day Magyars had not entirely lost the flair for the dramatic that had characterized their ancestors when they came galloping out of the Gobi Desert.

You can imagine the store-lady's surprise, when fifteen days later, the same man came in, his face wreathed in smiles. "You make nice flower for my wife's funeral" he said. "Now you make some for my wedding day. I get married tomorrow."

To relieve the tension, I remarked "I suppose you are marrying a charming girl?" 

He answered "She not good-looking, but nice lady!"

After he had gone, the clerk spoke volumes in just two words:  "The villain!"

🌲 The Poet-Laureate

During the period of the Great Drought (the prohibition era), some venomous concoctions were served as liquor. One of our local characters, a house mover, imbibed not wisely but too well of this devil's brew in one of his periodic outings. On Mother's Day, he came into the store, and in a stentorian voice broadcast this rhyme for the benefit of a whole storeful of customers:

We come into the world, all naked and bare,
We go from here, we know not where.
But if you're a thoroughbred here,
You'll be a thoroughbred there!

He then announced that he had a dollar, and wanted a bouquet of flowers for the little woman. I passed up the other customers, and got him on his way before someone carelessly lighted a cigarette, and the alcoholic fumes let go.

In about two hours he came back, and had completely forgotten about his earlier visit. Again he purchased another bouquet "for the little woman ". Late in the afternoon, he returned for a like purchase.  But I doubt if the little woman got any of the three bouquets.

The Hallinans celebrated their 45th wedding anniversary on September 3, 1952. Their son Paul, by then ordained as a priest of the Cleveland diocese, received a special dispensation to celebrate Mass in the family home because his mother was confined to bed due to her poor health (a heart condition that had been worsening for years). A little more than three months later, on December 22, Jane died at home.

Jane with her son Paul (left) and her grandchildren
 John (second from left) and Chuck (right), probably about 1950.

C.C. Hallinan in 1953, with garden hose in hand.
The bandages are the result of repeated surgeries
for skin cancer, the wages of a lifetime
spent working in the sun.

Soon thereafter, in early 1953, C.C. moved to Cleveland, taking up residence in the Newman Hall on Abingdon Rd. with his son Paul, who had become the diocesan director of Newman Clubs. At his new home, C.C. (in his late seventies) did all the gardening and landscaping, including building a shrine to Our Lady, Seat of Wisdom. He continued this work up until about a month before his death on September 30, 1955.

C.C. and Jane are buried in St. Mary's Cemetery in Painesville, Ohio, along with their son Art and their daughter-in-law Dorothy (Mooney) Hallinan. Buried nearby are their great-grandson Danny Tomasik, Jane's parents and grandparents, and some of her sisters and their families.

Some concluding notes about names ...

• Mr. Stoopnagle:
In an email, Paul Tomasik raises the possibility that Mr. Stoopnagle, the loquacious lawn gnome, may have been named in honor of one half of the comedy team of Stoopnagle and Budd. The pair are described by wikipedia as "a popular radio comedy team of the 1930s, who are sometimes cited as forerunners of the Bob and Ray style of radio comedy." According to wikipedia, Stoopnagle & Budd's performances were characterized by "spontaneous, impromptu patter" along with "crazy characters, addlepated antics, and wacky interviews." Among Stoopnagle's catchphrases was the undeniable proposition that "If it weren't for half the people in the United States, the other half would be all of them." The brand of humor is definitely consistent with C.C.'s tastes, and the timing seems right. In the absence of evidence to the contrary, we're giving Paul's suggestion zero pinocchios.


• Rose Jane (Laracy) Hallinan:
She was named "Rose Jane" at birth, but the "Rose" disappeared almost immediately. The abandonment was so complete that at the time of her death both of her sons were surprised to discover that their mother's "real" first name was "Rose." In the end, they identified her as "Jane R." on the funeral prayer card, and as "Rose Jane" on her headstone. (It's kind of fun to imaginatively reconstruct the discussion that must have preceded this split decision.) Rose Jane appears to have been called "Janie" or "Jennie" by family members from an early age. She's listed under one or the other of those names in the 1900 census (the census-taker's penmanship was not of the highest caliber), and she's referred to interchangeably as "Jennie" or "Jane" in letters.


• Clarence Cornelius Hallinan & Cornelius Clarence Hallinan:
C.C. Hallinan's given name was "Clarence Cornelius." He had an uncle (James Augustus Hallinan's older brother) who was named Cornelius Clarence Hallinan. Like James Augustus, Cornelius Clarence was born in Ireland and immigrated to the United States. Years ago, a story circulated among C.C.'s family that his Uncle Cornelius's parents had planned to give their son the name "Clarence" at baptism but were prevented from doing so by their Irish parish priest. The priest, the story went, refused to baptize with that name, first, because there is no St. Clarence (or so the priest said), and second, because the priest really liked the name Cornelius. In the end, a compromise was reached and the child was baptized "Cornelius Clarence." The story may well be a kind of familial urban legend. Still, it's nice to think that C.C.'s parents picked his name in homage to his uncle, and that they did so in a way that thumbed the family's collective nose at an overbearing Irish clergyman.