June 1, 2025

The Bloom Central flower delivery of the month for June in Tower City is the Happy Day Bouquet

The Happy Day Bouquet from Bloom Central is simply adorable. This charming floral arrangement is perfect for brightening up any room in your home. It features a delightful mix of vibrant flowers that will instantly bring joy to anyone who sees them.

With cheery colors and a playful design the Happy Day Bouquet is sure to put a smile on anyone's face. The bouquet includes a collection of yellow roses and luminous bupleurum plus white daisy pompon and green button pompon. These blooms are expertly arranged in a clear cylindrical glass vase with green foliage accents.

The size of this bouquet is just right - not too big and not too small. It is the perfect centerpiece for your dining table or coffee table, adding a pop of color without overwhelming the space. Plus, it's so easy to care for! Simply add water every few days and enjoy the beauty it brings to your home.

What makes this arrangement truly special is its versatility. Whether you're celebrating a birthday, anniversary, or simply want to brighten someone's day, the Happy Day Bouquet fits the bill perfectly. With timeless appeal makes this arrangement is suitable for recipients of all ages.

If you're looking for an affordable yet stunning gift option look no further than the Happy Day Bouquet from Bloom Central. As one of our lowest priced arrangements, the budget-friendly price allows you to spread happiness without breaking the bank.

Ordering this beautiful bouquet couldn't be easier either. With Bloom Central's convenient online ordering system you can have it delivered straight to your doorstep or directly to someone special in just a few clicks.

So why wait? Treat yourself or surprise someone dear with this delightful floral arrangement today! The Happy Day Bouquet will undoubtedly uplift spirits and create lasting memories filled with joy and love.

Tulips don’t just stand there. They move. They twist their stems like ballet dancers mid-pirouette, bending toward light or away from it, refusing to stay static. Other flowers obey the vase. Tulips ... they have opinions. Their petals close at night, a slow, deliberate folding, then open again at dawn like they’re revealing something private. You don’t arrange tulips so much as collaborate with them.

The colors aren’t colors so much as moods. A red tulip isn’t merely red—it’s a shout, a lipstick smear against the green of its stem. The purple ones have depth, a velvet richness that makes you want to touch them just to see if they feel as luxurious as they look. And the white tulips? They’re not sterile. They’re luminous, like someone turned the brightness up on them. Mix them in a bouquet, and suddenly the whole thing vibrates, as if the flowers are quietly arguing about which one is most alive.

Then there’s the shape. Tulips don’t do ruffles. They’re sleek, architectural, petals cupped just enough to suggest a bowl but never spilling over. Put them next to something frilly—peonies, say, or ranunculus—and the contrast is electric, like a modernist sculpture placed in a Baroque hall. Or go minimalist: a cluster of tulips in a clear glass vase, stems tangled just so, and the arrangement feels effortless, like it assembled itself.

They keep growing after you cut them. This is the thing most people don’t know. A tulip in a vase isn’t done. It stretches, reaches, sometimes gaining an inch or two overnight, as if refusing to accept that it’s been plucked from the earth. This means your arrangement changes shape daily, evolving without permission. One day it’s compact, tidy. The next, it’s wild, stems arcing in unpredictable directions. You don’t control tulips. You witness them.

Their leaves are part of the show. Long, slender, a blue-green that somehow makes the flower’s color pop even harder. Some arrangers strip them away, thinking they clutter the stem. Big mistake. The leaves are punctuation, the way they curve and flare, giving the eye a path to follow from tabletop to bloom. Without them, a tulip looks naked, unfinished.

And the way they die. Tulips don’t wither so much as dissolve. Petals loosen, drop one by one, but even then, they’re elegant, landing like confetti after a quiet celebration. There’s no messy collapse, just a gradual letting go. You could almost miss it if you’re not paying attention. But if you are ... it’s a lesson in grace.

So sure, you could stick to roses, to lilies, to flowers that stay where you put them. But where’s the fun in that? Tulips refuse to be predictable. They bend, they grow, they shift the light around them. An arrangement with tulips isn’t a thing you make. It’s a thing that happens.

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

Tower City sits in a valley where the Appalachians decide to soften. The town’s name comes from an old fire watchtower, long gone, but the idea of elevation lingers. People here live in the shadow of something taller than themselves, though not in a way that feels oppressive. The hills hold the place like cupped hands. Mornings arrive as mist. Sunlight comes late, spilling over ridges to touch the clapboard houses, their paint chipped but colors still earnest, robin’s-egg blue, butter yellow, the red of a child’s wagon. Front porches sag but do not collapse. There are geraniums in coffee cans.

The railroad tracks bisect the town, not as a scar but a spine. Freight cars still lumber through, slow enough to count the bolts. Kids wave at engineers who wave back. The tracks are both boundary and tether. On one side, the clatter of commerce: a diner with pie rotations by season, a hardware store that sells single nails, a barbershop where the talk is high school football and the flyers on the wall date to Reagan. On the other side, the quiet. A creek stitches through backyards. Gardens grow tomatoes with the heft of softballs. People here understand dirt. They know what it can do when tended.

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

What’s striking is the absence of absence. So many small towns now are hollowed, their windows boarded, their young gone. Tower City’s streets are alive with the friction of presence. Retirees bend over flower beds. Teenagers cluster outside the ice cream stand, their laughter syncopated, urgent. The school bus still stops at the same corners. The church still hosts potlucks where casseroles outnumber parishioners. There’s a bakery run by a woman who learned recipes from her grandmother, flourless things that defy physics. She remembers every customer’s favorite.

The library is a Carnegie relic, its stone walls holding stories inside stories. The librarian stamps due dates with a wrist-flick that’s pure ceremony. Kids sprawl on bean bags, flipping pages. Adults linger in the history section, tracing genealogies. The air smells of binding glue and ambition. Down the block, the volunteer fire department hosts bingo nights. The caller’s voice crackles over speakers. Numbers become liturgy. Winners donate half their pot to the food bank.

Seasons here are not metaphors. Winter is wool socks and driveways shoveled before dawn. Spring is mud and lilacs. Summer is the pool’s chlorine tang, the lifeguard’s whistle, old men playing chess under oaks. Fall is smoke from leaf piles, the high school marching band practicing after dark, their brass notes drifting like migratory birds. People mark time by what grows, what blooms, what is harvested. The rhythm is metabolic.

There’s a park with a wooden bridge. Couples carve initials into railings. The engravings outlast the relationships. A plaque honors veterans, names going back to the Spanish-American War. The soccer field doubles as a concert venue. Local bands play covers. Toddlers dance with abandon. Grandparents sway. The music is less about sound than shared vibration.

You notice the hands here. A mechanic’s knuckles etched with grease. A teacher’s chalk-dusted fingers. A farmer’s palms, cracked as drought earth. These hands build, fix, hold. They’re not soft, but they are gentle. The town has a way of sanding down edges without eroding character.

Someone once called Tower City “nowhere,” a slur that stuck as a badge. Nowhere implies a lack of center. But stand on Main Street at dusk. Watch the streetlights blink on. Hear screen doors slap. Smell cut grass and simmering onions. Nowhere is a myth. This is a place. The kind that doesn’t need to shout. The kind that persists.

Leave. That’s what people expect you to do. They assume you’ll outgrow it, this town without a mall or a multiplex. But some stay. Some return. They choose the weight of belonging over the vertigo of elsewhere. They marry. Raise kids. Grow old. Die. Their names join the headstones in the cemetery on the hill. The view from there is panoramic. You can see the whole valley. You can see why they stayed.