June 1, 2025

The Bloom Central flower delivery of the month for June in Highland is the Be Bold Bouquet by Better Homes and Gardens

Introducing the Be Bold Bouquet by Better Homes and Gardens floral arrangement! Blooming with bright colors to boldly express your every emotion, this exquisite flower bouquet is set to celebrate. Hot pink roses, purple Peruvian Lilies, lavender mini carnations, green hypericum berries, lily grass blades, and lush greens are brought together to create an incredible flower arrangement.

The flowers are artfully arranged in a clear glass cube vase, allowing their natural beauty to shine through. The lucky recipient will feel like you have just picked the flowers yourself from a beautiful garden!

Whether you're celebrating an anniversary, sending get well wishes or simply saying 'I love you', the Be Bold Bouquet is always appropriate. This floral selection has timeless appeal and will be cherished by anyone who is lucky enough to receive it.

Better Homes and Gardens has truly outdone themselves with this incredible creation. Their attention to detail shines through in every petal and leaf - creating an arrangement that not only looks stunning but also feels incredibly luxurious.

If you're looking for a captivating floral arrangement that brings joy wherever it goes, the Be Bold Bouquet by Better Homes and Gardens is the perfect choice. The stunning colors, long-lasting blooms, delightful fragrance and affordable price make it a true winner in every way. Get ready to add a touch of boldness and beauty to someone's life - you won't regret it!

Ginger Flowers don’t just bloom ... they detonate. Stems thick as bamboo culms erupt from the soil like botanical RPGs, capped with cones of bracts so lurid they seem Photoshopped. These aren’t flowers. They’re optical provocations. Chromatic grenades. A single stem in a vase doesn’t complement the arrangement ... it interrogates it, demanding every other bloom justify its existence.

Consider the physics of their form. Those waxy, overlapping bracts—red as stoplights, pink as neon, orange as molten lava—aren’t petals but architectural feints. The real flowers? Tiny, secretive things peeking from between the scales, like shy tenants in a flamboyant high-rise. Pair Ginger Flowers with anthuriums, and the vase becomes a debate between two schools of tropical audacity. Pair them with orchids, and the orchids suddenly seem fussy, overbred, like aristocrats at a punk show.

Color here isn’t pigment. It’s velocity. The reds don’t just catch the eye ... they tackle it. The pinks vibrate at a frequency that makes peonies look anemic. The oranges? They’re not colors. They’re warnings. Cluster several stems together, and the effect is less bouquet than traffic accident—impossible to look away from, dangerous in their magnetism.

Longevity is their stealth weapon. While tulips slump after days and lilies shed pollen like confetti, Ginger Flowers dig in. Those armored bracts repel time, stems drinking water with the focus of marathoners. Forget them in a hotel lobby vase, and they’ll outlast the check-in desk’s potted palms, the concierge’s tenure, possibly the building’s mortgage.

They’re shape-shifters with a mercenary edge. In a sleek black urn, they’re modernist sculpture. Jammed into a coconut shell on a tiki bar, they’re kitsch incarnate. Float one in a shallow bowl, and it becomes a Zen riddle—nature asking if a flower can be both garish and profound.

Texture is their silent collaborator. Run a finger along a bract, and it resists like car wax. The leaves—broad, paddle-shaped—aren’t foliage but exclamation points, their matte green amplifying the bloom’s gloss. Strip them away, and the stem becomes a brash intruder. Leave them on, and the arrangement gains context, a reminder that even divas need backup dancers.

Scent is an afterthought. A faint spice, a whisper of green. This isn’t oversight. It’s strategy. Ginger Flowers reject olfactory competition. They’re here for your eyes, your Instagram feed, your lizard brain’s primal response to saturated color. Let jasmine handle subtlety. This is visual warfare.

They’re temporal anarchists. Fresh-cut, they’re taut, defiant. Over weeks, they relax incrementally, bracts curling like the fingers of a slowly opening fist. The transformation isn’t decay. It’s evolution. An arrangement with them isn’t static ... it’s a time-lapse of botanical swagger.

Symbolism clings to them like humidity. Emblems of tropical excess ... mascots for resorts hawking "paradise" ... florist shorthand for "look at me." None of that matters when you’re face-to-face with a bloom that seems to be actively redesigning itself.

When they finally fade (months later, probably), they do it without apology. Bracts crisp at the edges, colors muting to dusty pastels, stems hardening into botanical relics. Keep them anyway. A desiccated Ginger Flower in a January windowsill isn’t a corpse ... it’s a postcard from someplace warmer. A rumor that somewhere, the air still thrums with the promise of riotous color.

You could default to roses, to lilies, to flowers that play by the rules. But why? Ginger Flowers refuse to be tamed. They’re the uninvited guest who arrives in sequins, commandeers the stereo, and leaves everyone else wondering why they bothered dressing up. An arrangement with them isn’t décor. It’s a revolution. Proof that sometimes, the most extraordinary beauty doesn’t whisper ... it burns.

Are looking for a Highland florist because you are not local to the area? If so, here is a brief travelogue of what Highland has to offer. Who knows, perhaps you'll be intrigued enough to come visit soon, partake in some of the fun activities Highland has to offer and deliver flowers to your loved one in person!

Highland, Illinois, sits under a sky so wide and close you could swear it’s breathing. Drive south from St. Louis, past the exurban sprawl thinning into soybean fields, and you’ll find it: a grid of red-brick streets where stoplights blink yellow after 8 p.m. and the air smells faintly of cut grass and diesel from tractors idling outside the hardware store. The town’s founders were Swiss, which explains the chalet-style bank and the occasional decorative edelweiss, but what you notice first is the quiet. Not silence, quiet. The hum of lawnmowers. The creak of a swing set in Lindendale Park. The low chatter of retirees at the Coffee Shop on Main, dissecting yesterday’s rainfall with the intensity of philosophers.

Lindendale Park is the kind of place where time moves like syrup. A massive oak, older than the town itself, presides over picnic tables where families eat chicken salad on Sundays. Kids pedal bikes along paths that wind past a duck pond and a pavilion where high school bands play Sousa marches in July. The park feels both meticulously planned and utterly accidental, as if the trees grew here precisely to shade these benches, these Frisbee throws, these first kisses. You get the sense that everyone in Highland has a story about this park, a wedding photo, a softball trophy, a scraped knee, and that these stories are the town’s skeleton, the thing keeping it upright.

Same day service available. Order your Highland floral delivery and surprise someone today!

Downtown’s storefronts wear their history without nostalgia. At Meyer’s Bakery, the display case glows with glazed twists and long johns, the yeast-and-sugar scent so thick it sticks to your clothes. The owner knows most customers by name and order, a feat that seems less quaint than heroic when you consider the line out the door on Saturday mornings. Next door, the Star Theater marquee advertises $5 tickets for matinees, the kind of price that makes you wonder, briefly, what year it is. The answer: all of them. Highland’s present is layered over its past like varnish, the 19th-century brickwork beside a sleek dental office, the war memorial updated with new names but the same granite.

Farms still ring the town. Corn and soy close in like a green tide each summer, and the evening horizon turns pink over Silver Lake, where retirees fish for bass and teens dare each other to swim past the buoys. Agriculture here isn’t a relic; it’s circadian, metabolic. Farmers in seed caps chat with pharmacists and teachers at the Hy-Vee, comparing prices and the odds of an early frost. The Korte Recreation Center, with its indoor pool and walking track, draws crowds at dawn, grandparents in windbreakers, teenagers half-asleep, all moving in orbits that never quite collide but somehow add up to a single motion.

What holds Highland together isn’t charm or inertia. It’s the unshowy labor of keeping a place alive. The librarian who stays late to help a student print a resume. The mechanic who loans a spare tire to a stranded driver. The way the entire high school seems to materialize at Friday football games, not because the team is state-bound (though sometimes it is), but because the bleachers are where you go to be a body among bodies, to feel the collective gasp when the kick soars.

There’s a thing that happens at dusk here. Fireflies rise out of the lawns. Porch lights click on. The sky turns the color of a peach bruise, and for a moment, the town seems to hover between the day’s last errand and the night’s first cricket song. It’s easy to miss if you’re just passing through. But stop awhile. Breathe in. Watch the way the light clings to the bricks, the way the sidewalks still hold the sun’s warmth, and you’ll feel it: a stubborn, radiant alive-ness. Highland doesn’t dazzle. It persists. And in 2023, that feels like its own kind of miracle.