So... I thought I was having another flashback episode...but...as it turns out... it was only a tiny spider crawling across the lens of my specs. She was beautiful...and...she did not bite me...so I took her outside. I consider us to be friends now (so long as she keeps not biting me). Anyway... Ive been distracted today. In fact, Ive been distracted overall. I will not burden You with the details. Its just that I wanted to post a story about what happened to me a week and a half ago. Now, I find that I just dont have the time to tell You about it. I find this unfortunate because I think that some of You might have enjoyed it. Now, well never know...but, hey...the loss is mine as much as Yours. I mean... I like to tell stories... and now...I wont get to. It was going to be the story of what happened to me one Wodens day morning. The thing is this... sometimes I just cannot sleep...and...there comes a point when Night decides to hide her starry nipples in a twilight shroud...and I know that it is pointless to try and sleep. All that can be done is to wait for Night to come again... and, so... I put on my lucky waistcoat and went for a walk. Two blocks over and one block down from where I am staying there is a little, white house which is occupied by a very ancient woman (every bit of ninety). I know her only as Ms.Flora ( she has suggested that I call her Flo...but...it just doesnt seem right to do so). She is like a rare bird and can only be seen in the twilight hours. I happen to know that this is because the Summer Sun does not agree with her constitution. In fact, I know more about her than ever I attempted to learn. I know that her, long dead, husbands name was Edward and, also that she is very fond of lawn ornaments and statuary. This would be obvious to anyone. Her front garden is overpopulated with statues. There are ducks and geese and impish children of varying sizes and one deer. To the corner, there is a painted plywood cut out (life size) of a little boy, with back turned and trousers down, peeing while the little girl next to him stands aghast with hands over eyes (I happen to know that this was Edwards work... Ms.Flora told me so). To the other side stands the Immaculate Virgin. I bowed before her often as a child... and...I have have done so as a man as well... though, I now know her by other names. On this morning Ms.Flora was working on a new project. She had affixed various small animal statues to the lattice work that adorns the small slab which servers as her front porch. The work begins at the height to which a ninety year old woman can reach and extends down to the height to which she can bend. I stopped to admire it. At first, it made sense. There were squirrels and butterflies and taxidermed birds ( the kind that one might see on a Ladys hat or on a holiday wreath). Also, there was one dragon fly. I took note of this because it is one of my spirit animals. The work became odd, however, as it descended. Having run out of obvious candidates, she had affixed a bunny rabbit and, also, a turtle. To make matters worse, she had used baling wire. This gave the impression of many small creatures who had been cruelly bound to lattice work. It was like to a strange mass crucifixion. Oh well, once the morning glories fill in the gaps, Im sure it will be fine. I complimented her on her handy work and she greeted me as if wed never met before...in her mind, this may well be the case. She asked if I wanted to see her roses. I said that I did and we began the familiar and very slow tour of the special square of earth that is hers. We began by walking along the shady side of her house and were greeted by a painted lawn-jockey whose hands and face were black as pitch and who held a metal ring (no lantern...no horse...just a circle...I took that as a good sign). Along this narrow lane of flagstones which have been buried so as to be flush with the ground there are, to the right, the remnants of Lily of the Valley. To the left, there is a short forest of hostas being haunted by a legion of angels and faeries... the difference being that faeries have insect wings while angels have the wings of a bird...I dont think that Ms.Flora draws a distinction. In her mind, they are all angels. She re-informs me that Edward made this path for her. I smile. At last, we round the corner that leads into her back garden. This space is shaded slightly at its center by a decrepit Dogwood that has become inseparably wound about by a Red Mulberry. In the shade of this unlikely union stands a small bench, a birdbath, and a knee-high St. Frances. She points out the tiger lilies, the camas, and the elephant ear. I compliment the arrangement knowing that, but for the lilies, she must replant the root stock every year (after having kept it safe in some cool dark place). We reach the far corner where a rectangular space has been reclaimed by the Green Goddess. Here grow blackeyed susans, queen anns lace, and cornflower (chicory)...also, there is partridge pea wrapped in bindweed and one lone blessed thistle. There is the ghost of a scarecrow leaning to its left. This was Edwards victory garden., she tells me, He was a wonderful gardener... oh...and I remember when we first met... he was so handsome... especially in his uniform... we traveled everywhere ...oh... and how we loved to dance... I used to be a very good dancer...and...believe it or not... I was a beautiful young woman then.. I have heard this story before but I dont mind hearing it again. I tell her that she is still beautiful. She cackles and slaps me playfully on the arm... and...we continue on the very slow tour. We are off to see her roses. In the very back center of her sacred little square there are a jumble of simple, red, Victorian roses star-sprayed here and there with multiflora (the roses wild cousin)...and amid this family reunion stands the crowning glory of Ms.Floras lawn decorations. It is the statue of a cherubesc young boy. It is of the sort that one would normally see in the form of a fountain peeing into a reflecting pond as, undoubtedly, it once was. The problem is that Ms.Flora does not have a fountain or a reflecting pond...and, so... what you see is a Rubinesc boy with a greening copper catheter protruding a half inch from the end of his small phallus. Its the kind of image that causes small children to have bad dreams. Still...she is very proud of it. On we go... ever so slowly. In the far corner we come to a strangely empty space. Here, amid the skeletal remains of daffodils, there are a thousand brown/green dying tongues. These are her surprise lilies and she makes certain to tell me so. They are called this because, after the leaves have long perished and when you least expect it, tall pale green stems rise from the earth as if by magic...each topped with pale purple flowers (for this reason, they are sometimes called resurrection lilies). I hope that I get to see them bloom again this year., she said to me...but...mainly to herself. I told her that I was certain that she would in the most reassuring way...but.. to be truthful... and though I am a practitioner of sorts...when it comes to fortune telling, I am a complete sham. She smiles weakly. On we go...ever so slowly. At last we reach the sunny side of her green space. Cardinal climbers and climbing milkweeds weave themselves throughout the chain-link fence that divides Ms.Flora from her neighbors. Here grow a long row of sunflowers guarded ceaselessly by painted gnomes. She tells me that Edward loved sunflowers and that Sunflower was his pet name for her. I am struck suddenly with the vision of young Flo and Eddy twirling on the dance floor in some exotic place... at some forgotten time... and the very slow tour is over. I thank Ms.Flora and bid her goodbye and promise to stop by again some morning... or evening... and...as I walk away... I think of sunflowers and of surprise lilies. She so hopes to see them bloom... if only once more... and I marvel at the way in which this ancient woman... having known wartime and peace...feast and famine...love and loss ...carries, in her crumbling frame, a heart that can still look forward to something...even something as magically common as the blooming of a pale flower...and ...in my mind I thank her again. Emily Dickinson wrote Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all... Flora still carries hope inside of her...and...in doing so...gives hope to me. Peace be with You...one and all...and...love...sincerely...
Posted on: Mon, 04 Aug 2014 04:15:47 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015