The Rose Garden

This magpie is building on last week's poem "Through the Door" and is a work of fiction.

As my cousin Gerald and I were reminiscing about the past, Aunt Abigail came to mind.  Gerald spoke lovingly of his mother, but with much sadness as he related his recent visit to his childhood home.  I had known her well when I was younger, but like most of us, I grew up and drifted away.  She was tall and thin with wispy white hair, and always wore an apron.  For all her apparent frailty, she had the vim and vigor of someone nearly half her age.  She worked in her garden every morning before the heat of the day, weeding her precious roses.  Some of them were descendants of roses from the Royal Garden of Queen Elizabeth, which had been sent to her over 30 years ago. She had tenderly cared for them all those years.  Her most prized bush was the yellow rose, called the Spirit of Freedom, that was presented to her by her husband (known to everyone as "the Duke"), the year before he died. 

Photo courtesy of Magpie Tales

Gerald had moved up north after graduation some years ago.  Now with both his parents gone, he was the sole heir to the house and grounds, and had returned to dispose of the property.  Her garden is hidden behind a high wall, and the gate has been locked since her death last year.

He took the rusty key and slowly opened the lock, stiff from exposure to the elements. 

He opened the gate and stared into the garden. It was overgrown with vines, and small trees sprouting from nuts buried by squirrels.  There upon the stone wall leading to the gardener's shed sat his mother's old watering can.  It was half full of water just as if she were tending her precious roses, her solitary companions these last years.  Gerald glanced around the garden and spotted his mother's yellow rose bush among the weeds.  It had one beautiful yellow blossom that shone with beads of water, creating a miniature rainbow in each drop.  As he turned, he saw a fleeting figure with wispy white hair and an apron freshly smudged with dirt.  

"Mother?"

A Stinging Situation

How about those yellow jackets?  Those nasty, mean,  ground-dwelling attack bees? (which aren't really bees at all but rather members of the wasp family). Well, I tangled with some a few weeks ago.  After a long dry spell, we got rain, and the grass began to grow again.  You know how it is in the summer, either feast or famine in the weather department.  In spite of the sweltering heat and humidity, I gassed up the mower and started pushing.  I made one pass down along the fence, turned and started back up the yard.  Ouch...a sharp pain in my leg.  Mower must have picked up a rock or something.  Ow, smack on the other leg - what the heck?  Uh oh...now my ear, I'm in trouble.  I had just mowed over a yellow jacket nest.  

Image Source:  Wikimedia

At that point, I left the mower in its tracks and made a mad dash to the house where I was dancing around, swatting, and hollering like a crazy person.  I'm sure it was a hilarious sight, but there was no one there to witness it.  There was some momentary concern since I'd just been stung three times, and  I'm somewhat allergic to honeybees.  What would yellow jackets do to me?  Hubby was working so the only person to look after me was me.  Isn't that when most stuff happens?  A bee flew past my head, I shrieked and flailed some more.  Afraid there might be more on me, I yanked off my T-shirt and threw it on the floor, charged through the house and back, picked up the shirt - no bees, put shirt back on.  

I tried to e-mail hubby, but I didn't have my glasses and my fingers weren't working too well, all that shaking going on I guess.  I grabbed the cell phone instead, and pushed the quick dial number...it's ringing.  I looked down and saw that there still bees on my pants.  Freaking!  Phone off, pants off inside out, left lying on the kitchen floor with one dead bee still attached.  I charged back through the house for more pants.

Sometime in the midst of all that commotion, I had the good sense to swallow a Benadryl.  With all this racing around, I was out of breath, huffing and puffing like a freight train, so when I got hubby on the phone, it took a couple of minutes for him to get the whole story.  Hubby: "I'm leaving now."  Me: "I didn't call you for you to come home, I just wanted you to know what happened."  Hubby:  "I know, but I want to be there".   

Now for the first aid - I made a paste of meat tenderizer and water to neutralize the pain and swelling (which, when compared to honeybee stings, was relatively minor).  Hubby asked me to call him every 10 minutes as he drove home to make sure I was all right.  Needless to say, I didn't finish the mowing.

Have you tangled with these little nasties, and how did you fare?

Quote of the Week

A smile is the light in the window of your face that tells people you're at home.

- Author Unknown


Just as you aren't likely approach a dark house, you are less likely to approach a frown than a smile.  So what are you saying to people?  Is your light on?

Through the Door

Photo courtesy of Magpie Tales

An old door with
Weathered wood and
Peeling paint
Aged and pitted
The lock
Cranky and stiff
Accepts the key and
Slowly opens
Beyond the walls
Lay hidden a garden
Long neglected and
Overgrown
But for a single
Yellow rose

Written for Magpie Tales #25

Monster in the Morning

Doesn't look like a monster, does he?

I have created a monster!  Not the slimy green, two-headed kind out of some sci-fi flick.  No, mine has four legs and long gray hair.  He is my little buddy, Rosie.  
Why is he suddenly a monster?  A little thing called canned cat food (and this is how it all began).  He started out asking for breakfast at 7 a.m.  Every morning, I  make not one, but three trips to the kitchen to feed him.  He must have his food in small portions, otherwise he just licks at it and pushes it around the dish until it's all mooshed up and gross.  

It gets worse.  His "breakfast time" keeps getting earlier and earlier, and his growing addiction to the stuff is driving us both crazy.  He will sit on my pillow, beg and whine into my ear, and then paw at me until I get up.  What began as a 7 a.m. breakfast, has moved to 6:00, then 5:30 and then 5:00.  This morning the clock said 4:50 when the call came.  When he is serious about eating, there is no putting him off and still sleep.  So mama drags her weary butt out of the bed and trudges to the kitchen, pulls out the food and starts the feeding process.  After the third serving, I close the bedroom door and hope he is sated for a couple hours while I catch a few more zzzz's.

How about now?

Rosie has a look that will turn you into Swiss cheese!  In other words, he'll stare holes in you until his needs are met.

So what's feeding time like at your house?