When I was a kid, visitors used to say that my parents’ house smelled like apples. Nowadays it still does. But I guess everyone’s house has to smell like SOMETHING — doesn’t it?

Mine usually smells like a combination of basil, garlic and old sneakers. But flowers? Never.

Last week a friend asked if I had sent my mother flowers for Easter, or if I were bringing them personally.

“My mother really doesn’t like flowers,” I said. “Her whole family is like that. Outside is fine. But they think flowers INSIDE the house bring bad luck.”

“You’re kidding!”

“No. I’m serious.”

Of course, to MOST people, sending flowers is an Easter tradition. And on top of that, my Mom’s been ill and in need of some cheering up.

So I went online a few days before Easter, found some really exotic-looking tulips and sent her 20 stems.

The tulips were supposed to arrive on Friday morning — and they did. In fact, I received an e-mail at 10:30 a.m. from the florist: “Your mother received her tulips at 10:23 a.m. at the below address. We’re so glad you looked to us on this gift giving occasion!”

Isn’t technology amazing? I’m not even sure how they do this. Does the delivery guy have a laptop in his truck? Do they make vases now with LoJack?

Perhaps someday they will attach little digital cameras to the flowers. Then we’ll be able to log on to our computers and look at the person we sent them to.

“Oh, thank you! They’re beautiful!”

“Ma, I can barely see you! Stand DIRECTLY in front of the bouquet!”

Two hours later, I called her.

“Oh, Danny sent us such a beautiful centerpiece this morning!” she said.

Danny? My accountant?

“Yes, it’s lovely.”

“Well, that’s nice,” I said. “And my tulips? How about that color?”

“Oh … I don’t know. They haven’t opened yet. They’re still green. But they’re very nice. I’m sure they’ll be open by tomorrow.”

“Great. I’ll see you then.”

On Saturday, I arrived at my parents’ house at about 2:30 p.m. By this point, there were flowers EVERYWHERE. There was Danny’s centerpiece, which consisted of lilies, daffodils and just about every other flower you can think of, plus daisies and hyacinths from friends and neighbors and the green, still-closed tulips from me.

“I’m sure your tulips are going to be lovely!” my mother politely assured me.

“Yeah,” my father added. “When are they supposed to open? Thanksgiving?”

We sat down for a scant 10 minutes before the doorbell rang and another bouquet arrived.

Later, as we sat in the living room — surrounded by buds and foliage — I figured out where the “bad luck” idea came from.

“I can’t take this anymore,” my father groaned. “It smells like a funeral home in here.”

“No,” I said, “it smells like TWO funeral homes.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” my mother asked. “Most of these people are going to stop by before the weekend is over. I can’t just throw all their gifts in the garbage.”

We tried moving all of them to the dining room table. That helped a little — but not much.

On Saturday night my mother’s cousin Sonny came to visit her and immediately recoiled at the aroma.

“What IS that?” he asked. “The whole house smells like a …”

“Yeah, we know what it smells like.”

On Sunday, my brother arrived with his wife, Joyce, and my niece Talia. I showed off my tulips, which had ALMOST opened.

“You sent your mother flowers?” my exasperated sister-in-law whispered to me.

“Yeah, I thought they would cheer her up. I didn’t think everyone in the phone book would do the same thing.”

“Well, we have to do SOMETHING with them,” Joyce insisted. “The smell is sickening.”

Eventually we moved all the flowers into the TV room. And closed the door. And locked it. And moved a bookcase in front of it.

I left on Sunday night. Then, on Monday morning, I received another e-mail from the florist:

“Your tulips opened at 8:10 a.m. Your mother threw them away at 8:45. Now, she and your father are watching Regis. Thanks for your business. Please remember us at Mother’s Day.”

Yeah. Can’t wait.

E-mail: ervolino@northjersey.com By BILL ERVOLINO source : northjersey.com