Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Il faut cultiver son jardin.

Got home late tonight to spend some quality time with the hostas I divided and transplanted over the weekend. Boy, how the soil is dustbowl-like.

While I was watering, one of the kids who live next door stopped by to thank me for the stuff I planted on their property years ago.

"Such a pretty rose," he called it. "Did you plant that?"

"Heavens, it's a parrot tulip, and I must have planted it like five years ago. It's gone now. Would you like a hosta? I've got plenty of them."

He grinned. "I don't know what it is, didn't see it last year. What happened?"

I explained that sometimes the bulbs and the perennials skip years or disappear completely; that his tulips probably were taking a breather the previous year.

I got another sunshiney-like smile. "Crazy. I don't know anything about all that. I just like what you did here. Thanks...Bebere, right? It looks really good."

(How on Earth did he remember my name?)

"Sorry...what's your name again?...Bri...thanks. I'll put a hosta down later in the week so you can have something blooming the whole season."


Ordinarily I'd say that I was reading too much into this all, but, well, I just get a feeling, you know? Usually that sort of thing just bounces off my shell of cluelessness, but, for some reason (just like the first time we talked), this hasn't.

Don't even care for younger guys, either. Heck, if anything, I tend to go for the older types (the young ones being too much like the kids I never had). Still, it's a strangely not so unpleasant feeling to get that *zing,* even from roe.

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