My two grandfathers were not exactly what you would call traditional men, even though both were born in the early 1900s.

My father’s father loved cooking, baking, and cleaning. Domestic work came naturally to him. He washed floors, cleaned the house, cooked dinners, and baked with such natural ease that it all seemed simply part of who he was. Even at Christmas time, when so much festive baking might once have been thought of as women’s work, he was the one who baked the gingerbread biscuits. It speaks of a different kind of man than the world might have expected back then, and yet to him it was simply joy, simply love, simply what he did.

My mother’s father was unusual in a different way. The kitchen was not really his place, but flowers were. He loved flowers. He visited the florist regularly and bought them not only for others, not only for my grandmother, but for himself as well. Even after my grandmother died, he still kept buying himself flowers. That has stayed with me over the years. There is something so tender in that memory, an older man still bringing flowers into his home, quietly defying the old belief that flowers were only for women. In his own gentle way, he showed otherwise.

And perhaps that is why today, of all days, made me think of them.

Today is the International Day of Books and Roses. There is something beautiful in the very sound of it. Books and roses. Words and beauty. Thought and affection. The association with roses reaches back centuries, but the tradition of pairing books with roses on April 23rd was established exactly one hundred years ago today. It began in Catalonia, where it became a celebration of love, friendship, and literature, often thought of as their version of Valentine’s Day, though to me it feels softer somehow, and more thoughtful too.

When the tradition first began, it followed the old customs of the time. Men were to buy women red roses, and women were to buy men books. Much has been said over the years about traditional and non-traditional roles between women and men, but memory has a way of reminding us that real people have always been more interesting than old expectations. My grandfathers certainly were.

One loved the work of home, the baking, the cooking, the cleaning, the practical everyday care that keeps life warm and running. The other loved flowers, beauty, gentleness, and the quiet happiness they brought. Neither of them fitted neatly into some narrow idea of what men of their generation were expected to be. And perhaps that is one of the loveliest things about remembering them now. They were simply and fully themselves in the things they loved.

As I grow older, I find I treasure these details more than ever. Not the grand achievements, but the ordinary things. A man baking gingerbread biscuits at Christmas. Another returning from the florist with flowers for the table. These are the quiet family stories that linger. They tell us something about tenderness, about beauty, about love lived out in everyday ways.

So today, on this day of books and roses, I find myself smiling at the thought of both of them.

And since I happen to love receiving books, perhaps this year I should turn the old tradition gently on its head and buy Peter the roses instead. After all, I am married to a man who, in his own quiet way, is not exactly traditional — a clean freak with a faithful attachment to the vacuum cleaner, and often found in the kitchen tidying up.

It would be more than a gift.

It would be a quiet nod to my grandfathers — and perhaps, in some small way, a carrying forward of the softness they each brought into the world.