June 1, 2025

The Bloom Central flower delivery of the month for June in Howard is the Hello Gorgeous Bouquet

The Hello Gorgeous Bouquet from Bloom Central is a simply breathtaking floral arrangement - like a burst of sunshine and happiness all wrapped up in one beautiful bouquet. Through a unique combination of carnation's love, gerbera's happiness, hydrangea's emotion and alstroemeria's devotion, our florists have crafted a bouquet that blossoms with heartfelt sentiment.

The vibrant colors in this bouquet will surely brighten up any room. With cheerful shades of pink, orange, and peach, the arrangement radiates joy and positivity. The flowers are carefully selected to create a harmonious blend that will instantly put a smile on your face.

Imagine walking into your home and being greeted by the sight of these stunning blooms. In addition to the exciting your visual senses, one thing you'll notice about the Hello Gorgeous Bouquet is its lovely scent. Each flower emits a delightful fragrance that fills the air with pure bliss. It's as if nature itself has created a symphony of scents just for you.

This arrangement is perfect for any occasion - whether it be a birthday celebration, an anniversary surprise or simply just because the versatility of the Hello Gorgeous Bouquet knows no bounds.

Bloom Central takes great pride in delivering only the freshest flowers, so you can rest assured that each stem in this bouquet is handpicked at its peak perfection. These blooms are meant to last long after they arrive at your doorstep and bringing joy day after day.

And let's not forget about how easy it is to care for these blossoms! Simply trim the stems every few days and change out the water regularly. Your gorgeous bouquet will continue blooming beautifully before your eyes.

So why wait? Treat yourself or someone special today with Bloom Central's Hello Gorgeous Bouquet because everyone deserves some floral love in their life!

Consider the protea ... that prehistoric showstopper, that botanical fireworks display that seems less like a flower and more like a sculpture forged by some mad genius at the intersection of art and evolution. Its central dome bristles with spiky bracts like a sea urchin dressed for gala, while the outer petals fan out in a defiant sunburst of color—pinks that blush from petal tip to stem, crimsons so deep they flirt with black, creamy whites that glow like moonlit porcelain. You’ve seen them in high-end florist shops, these alien beauties from South Africa, their very presence in an arrangement announcing that this is no ordinary bouquet ... this is an event, a statement, a floral mic drop.

What makes proteas revolutionary isn’t just their looks—though let’s be honest, no other flower comes close to their architectural audacity—but their sheer staying power. While roses sigh and collapse after three days, proteas stand firm for weeks, their leathery petals and woody stems laughing in the face of decay. They’re the marathon runners of the cut-flower world, endurance athletes that refuse to quit even as the hydrangeas around them dissolve into sad, papery puddles. And their texture ... oh, their texture. Run your fingers over a protea’s bloom and you’ll find neither the velvety softness of a rose nor the crisp fragility of a daisy, but something altogether different—a waxy, almost plastic resilience that feels like nature showing off.

The varieties read like a cast of mythical creatures. The ‘King Protea,’ big as a dinner plate, its central fluff of stamens resembling a lion’s mane. The ‘Pink Ice,’ with its frosted-looking bracts that shimmer under light. The ‘Banksia,’ all spiky cones and burnt-orange hues, looking like something that might’ve grown on Mars. Each one brings its own brand of drama, its own reason to abandon timid floral conventions and embrace the bold. Pair them with palm fronds and you’ve created a jungle. Add them to a bouquet of succulents and suddenly you’re not arranging flowers ... you’re curating a desert oasis.

Here’s the thing about proteas: they don’t do subtle. Drop one into a vase of carnations and the carnations instantly look like they’re wearing sweatpants to a black-tie event. But here’s the magic—proteas don’t just dominate ... they elevate. Their unapologetic presence gives everything around them permission to be bolder, brighter, more unafraid. A single stem in a minimalist ceramic vase transforms a room into a gallery. Three of them in a wild, sprawling arrangement? Now you’ve got a conversation piece, a centerpiece that doesn’t just sit there but performs.

Cut their stems at a sharp angle. Sear the ends with boiling water (they’ll reward you by lasting even longer). Strip the lower leaves to avoid slimy disasters. Do these things, and you’re not just arranging flowers—you’re conducting a symphony of texture and longevity. A protea on your mantel isn’t decoration ... it’s a declaration. A reminder that nature doesn’t always do delicate. Sometimes it does magnificent. Sometimes it does unforgettable.

The genius of proteas is how they bridge worlds. They’re exotic but not fussy, dramatic but not needy, rugged enough to thrive in harsh climates yet refined enough to star in haute floristry. They’re the flower equivalent of a perfectly tailored leather jacket—equally at home in a sleek urban loft or a sunbaked coastal cottage. Next time you see them, don’t just admire from afar. Bring one home. Let it sit on your table like a quiet revolution. Days later, when other blooms have surrendered, your protea will still be there, still vibrant, still daring you to think differently about what a flower can be.

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

Howard, Wisconsin, sits quietly in the northeastern crook of the state, a place where the Fox River flexes its muscle before spilling into Green Bay, and where the hum of human activity never quite drowns out the whispers of the land itself. To call Howard a suburb feels both accurate and insufficient. It is a town that exists in the tense, fertile overlap between convenience and wilderness, between the asphalt sprawl of strip malls and the stubborn persistence of forests that refuse to stop being forests. Drive through on a Tuesday morning. Notice the way sunlight slants through white pines along Velp Avenue, how their shadows stripe the parking lots of dental offices and insurance agencies. This is a town that wears its contradictions lightly, like a flannel shirt worn thin at the elbows but still warm enough for November.

Residents here move with the pragmatic grace of people who understand snow will fall and rivers will flood and lawns will still need mowing. They gather at Pamperin Park, where trails thread through 200 acres of hardwood stands, where kids scrape knees on limestone outcroppings older than the Declaration of Independence. Watch a father point out deer tracks to his daughter near Duck Creek. See teenagers lugging kayaks to the water’s edge, their laughter carrying across the marsh where red-winged blackbirds stake their claims. The park is not an escape from Howard but a reminder of what Howard has chosen not to bulldoze.

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

Downtown persists as an act of collective will. Family-owned businesses, a bakery dusted in flour, a hardware store that still sells single nails, hold their ground against the gravitational pull of big-box stores. At the weekly farmers market, retirees in Packers jerseys haggle over honey jars while toddlers orbit their parents’ legs, sticky with samples of maple syrup. The air smells of fried cheese curds and freshly cut basil. Conversations here aren’t small talk; they’re negotiations of shared history. A woman asks after a neighbor’s knee surgery. A man mentions his brother’s barn raising. The community functions like an extended family that occasionally bickers over zoning laws.

What startles outsiders is the way Howard refuses the Midwestern cliché of sleepy resignation. New subdivisions bloom where cornfields once stretched, yes, but the planning commission demands sidewalks wide enough for three abreast. The library hosts robotics workshops for middle schoolers. At Bay View Middle School, science teachers take students wading into the East River to measure nitrate levels, turning data into lessons about stewardship. Progress here isn’t an enemy. It’s a guest asked to wipe its feet before entering.

Seasons dictate rhythm. Autumn turns the town into a mosaic of pumpkin patches and football jerseys. Winter brings ice fishermen drilling holes in the bay, their shanties dotting the white expanse like a temporary village. Spring thaws the trails, and by summer, the parks fill with reunion barbecues where cousins play cornhole under oaks strung with fairy lights. Through it all, the Fox River keeps moving, a liquid spine connecting Howard to something older and larger than itself.

To live here is to understand balance. To know that a town thrives not by choosing between growth and preservation, but by treating both as verbs, things you do, daily, with your hands. Howard’s charm isn’t in its postcard vistas but in its quiet insistence that a community can bend without breaking, that it’s possible to wave at strangers and still lock your doors, to honor yesterday without making a shrine of it. You won’t find this place on inspirational posters. It’s too busy being alive.