Shot in the Foot, Again

Have you ever seen a happier face?It was a perfect storm.  I’d made up my mind not to take Mother to the garden center any more this summer, not that I have anything against garden centers.  Mother is addicted to flowers, just like I am.  She just isn’t strong enough to dig holes.  In contrast, I’d never be able to convince anyone I couldn’t dig a hole.  If I tried, they’d hand me a shovel and point me toward China.  Anyway, I’m tired of digging holes.  If all the holes I’ve dug this summer, in my yard and hers, were lined up end to end, they’d reach…..well, you know.

Anyway, one of my meddling sisters called one day last week and invited Mother and me to lunch.  It sounded innocent enough.  At the worst, I would only get stuck with her lunch ticket.  Mother doesn’t believe in paying her own ticket when she dines with her children.  I can’t say I blame her, after all the biscuits and gravy she’s cooked over the years.  Connie’s husband generously treated us all to lunch. I had a wonderful time till somebody shot me in the foot.

“__________ has their plants marked down.  Anybody want to stop by?”

Mother was the first in line.  I was loading my buggy up when I heard Connie ask Mother.

“Is that all you’re getting?  Get whatever you want and I’ll pay for it!”

“Nooooooo!  ………..only if they sell the holes to go with them!”

Mother was deaf to my protests and loaded her cart.  Connie went home proud of herself for being good to her mama.  The checkout lady even gave her a lantana someone had left at the counter because she looked so cute standing behind that cart full of plants.

I took my posthole digger over a couple of days later and spent some time digging holes.  If anyone else buys her any plants this summer, I will have to commit mayhem.

,Garden hint:  Posthole diggers are great for digging holes for your plants!

Oh To Be a Child in Spring

Reblogged from Aunt Beulah

Aunt Beulah

It pleased me when winter finally gave way to spring and children came out to play. As daytime temperatures responded to an insistent sun, young bicyclists, wearing smiles, swarmed outdoors and turned my neighborhood into a colony of happy bees.

Two sisters pedaled along the sidewalk: both in dresses with bows in their hair, both on bicycles with the shine of Christmas presents, and both singing in clear young voices. Joel and I, discussing the green shoots battling winter’s silt in our flowerbeds, stopped talking and listened. Riding together, singing together, the young cyclists echoed happiness back to us.

Then three pre-adolescent boys hooted derisively when a fourth, the last to try, attempted to jump his bicycle onto our curb and nearly toppled. Shrugging his shoulders, the youngster laughed, accepted their judgment, then pedaled after them ready to try again.

A helmeted child, relying on the security of training…

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