... ..withering ....August 8, 2004   My oldest sister has a horticultural bent.  To help me beautify Greenmullet, she visited and planted approximately fifty different species of plant life.  Then she left to return home without having given me any plant care instructions unless, of course, you count:  Don't worry.  The plants will tell you what they need.  But many of the plants weren't talking, and the ones that were did so in a vague, petulant manner, as though irritated and spoiled.  I mention this only in passing which is exactly what Dr. Withering was doing when first we met. "Howdy, neighbor!"  The greeting came from the direction of the street.  At the moment, my back was turned as I tried to reason with a caladium that had nailed to my front door a list of grievances.  I turned and saw a young man, thirtyish, wearing baggy green surgical scrubs and white sneakers.  His face was sweaty and red, victim of the August heat and Yankee genes.  His strawberry blond hair was thinning, and now, it was combed straight back and plastered to his pink scalp.  I lowered my garden shears and spoke. "Yes.  Hello.  Greetings.  I was just discussing the difference between desires and necessities with this plant here."  I motioned weakly to the caladium.  "Did you say neighbor?" "I did, indeed.  I live just down the street there.  I saw you move in a couple of months ago and I thought I'd introduce myself.  I'm Richard Withering.  You'll never guess what my enemies call me." I walked to the street's edge and shook a wet hand. "I'll call you Richard." previous..|..current..|..archives..|..3d quarter index..|..next

©  2004 by the beastmaster