Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Now we are merely negotiating price

I originally put Bubba's real name in this post. He googled his name and found this post. He had emailed me the photos he took, so had my email. After finding his name with the implication that he might be a murdered, he emailed me again, very insulted. I learned my lesson about using real names. I was more than ashamed.

posted Sat, 28 May 2005

I am a total garden slut. All a man has to do is talk nice about my flowerbeds and I will bend to his will. This morning, I was weeding and winnowing and doing other gardening stuff – I won’t use all those technical gardening terms because I don’t want to make you non-gardeners feel bad – when this late-middle-aged Asian man drove up. Came to a screeching halt, actually, right at my driveway, and got out of his car.

I removed my walkman earpieces – reluctantly, because they were on number 467 of the Memorial Day Weekend countdown (Alice Cooper, “School’s Out”) – so I could hear him.

Good thing I did, because he began to lavish praise upon my flowers. At last, a man of intelligence and perception.

“Your garden is beautiful!” he gushed.

I didn’t bother to try to deny it, because the man, he spoke the truth.

“Are those poppies?” he gasped.

Yep. In Flanders field the poppies blow…

“How did you get them to grow? I’ve tried and tried but I have never been able to get any to come up. I even took photos of your garden last summer.”

Well. This was the gardening equivalent of, “You are the most beautiful woman in the world and if I can’t have you, I will throw myself off the bridge.”

He hesitated, then plunged in. “Do you think – do you think I might have some seeds from those poppies?”

Sure! I told him. And here! I’ll even give you a baby poppy plant!

Then he admired my verbena. Verbena is like black-eyed Susan and kittens: you never pay for it. Someone is always trying to get rid of it. So I dug some of that up for him, too. I even gave him the plastic sandwich bag to put it all in.

He left, but 15 minutes later, he returned with his camera. I thought he wanted more photos of my garden, but no, he wanted them of moi. Either he has exceptionally good taste, or he is a serial garden killer planning his next strike. Mom, if they find me dead in the garden with a trowel through my heart, tell them to look for Bubba Jones.

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