Mooning Garden Gnomes and Other Signs of Summer
Memorial Day has passed, and the signs of burgeoning summer are all around you.
The temperature has warmed. Flowers are blooming. The trees are again full of leaves and birds. Birds that seem to have crap that is magnetically attracted to your car. And your neighbor has once again placed a mooning garden gnome facing your kitchen window.
Your neighbor has named the garden gnome Willard #5.
The first Willard met an untimely demise at the hands of some maniac with a shovel.
Willard #2 was also smashed with a shovel.
Willard #3 was backed over with a car and smashed with a shovel.
Willard #4 was hit with a brick, peed on, and smashed with a shovel.
You swear to your neighbor and the local authorities, that you had nothing to do with the Willards’ deaths, and under no circumstance would you contemplate attacking Willard #5 with a shovel.
You purchase a sledge hammer.
Your other neighbor has planted his annual garden. In the coming months, he will regale you with baskets of fresh vegetables and tales of his horticultural prowess. He will explain to you that his garden has produced so overwhelmingly, that his own family couldn’t possibly consume all the bounty themselves. He will bring jars of homemade pickles and relish. “Everyone in the world loves homemade pickles and relish, especially the way my wife makes them,” he will tell you.
You decide to plant a little garden in the corner of your yard. You want fresh tomatoes, zucchini, squash, maybe a few cukes. You have no idea what cukes are, but it’s fun to say so want them. You can imagine the bounty that will cover your dinner table, and the praise you are certain to receive from guests, satiated by the efforts of your labor and toiling. You have high hopes.
Unfortunately you run face first into one tiny problem: you don’t have a green thumb. In fact, the color more closely associated with your digits and your gardening skill, is black festering death.
You’ve purchase all of the books:
- The Beginner’s Guide To Growing A Garden.
- The Idiot’s Guide To Growing A Garden
- The Beginner-Idiot’s Guide To Growing a Garden.
- Grow A Garden Even If You’re A Chimp, (and Not Even One of Those Clever Chimps That Can Do Sign Language).
- The Guide To Growing A Garden if You’re Basically Dumb Box of Rocks.
- Does Your Presence Destroy Life? This is the Gardening Book For You.
- The Giant Catalog Of Plastic Plants.
Those books are now deposited in a bin labeled: things to be shred, burned and buried in a deep hole.
Note: you purchased a few plastic plants, they inexplicably turned brown and fell apart. You choose to ignore the metaphysical ramifications that you were able to kill plastic.
You are now known as the “Grim Reaper” at every nursery and ag center in the area.
Undaunted, you redouble your efforts.
You read that Native Americans placed a dead fish with the kernel when they planted corn. You consider raiding the family fish tank, but don’t want to go through that drama again. Seriously, who gets that attached to fish?
Modifying slightly, you put a fish stick in the ground with every seed you plant. It doesn’t seem to help. You write a nasty letter to Mrs. Paul’s frozen seafood company, making wild accusations about artificial ingredients.
Mrs. Paul, who lives down the street from you accidentally receives the letter. Icy stares ensue.
Stupid Post Office.
Your neighbor comments on how sickly your cukes look, but the weeds are growing robustly.
You try come up with a clever retort, but you’re not clever.
“You’re a cuke,” you finally yell…five minutes after he’s left.
At last you have some success, only to discover that fresh vegetables are enjoyed by several of nature’s pests: bugs, worms, mice, gophers, and Gerald the neighbor kid.
You also discover that Gerald likes to pee on things. You purchase a taser. But you won’t use it on Gerald–the local authorities have confiscated it.
Stupid local authorities.
Finally, you discover the answer to all your problems; it’s called the farmers market.
Your dinner table now abounds with natures bounty, the fruits of hard labor and toiling, just not yours.
Sorry, that’s not right. Mostly.