|
| | LambBasting: Lily's Biological Clock
(A version of this piece
appeared in The Denver Post, May 5, 1998)
My neighbor, Sally Kloppfenstein, is the mistress of flowering intimidation. O.K., maybe I shouldn't care, but somehow I do. Sally's atrium of rare and flourishing specimens is a persistent, tireless, around-the-calendar display from her front two-story windows. And, if that isn't enough, she has a virtual proliferation of blooming wizards staking out her front yard.
I, on the other hand, and directly across a slender thread of street, must threaten every blade of crab grass with blight. And still our lawn comes up in ever-more-thinning patches of patterned baldness.
Of course I could reason loudly that Sally's front yard is treeless and faces south, while ours is shaded and faces north. But who would listen? Certainly not the throngs of onlookers chanting "ooohs" and "aaahs" at the Kloppfensteins.
And just how far could I carry that northerly logic when the random vegetation in our yard persists in acting so completely against nature?
Take last Easter, for example. A friend brought a beautiful lily, potted and wrapped in a festival of pastel foils. She said, "You can set it out after it's finished blooming." She smiled.
I nodded. Of course I could. How difficult could it be?
After Lily's little trumpets had tooted their last, I took her out into the front yard. Carefully, I dug a hole to the precise instructed depth, tenderly arranged Lily on a slight rise above the lane, with a perfect view. It was a prime location -- for a plant. I carefully fluffed and adjusted the surrounding soil.
Before I left, I said all the right things: "You get some rest now. I'll see you next Easter."
Everything was quiet for several months until another neighbor -- on her way to join the gallery of admirers at the Kloppfensteins -- did a double-take, then asked in that certain incredulous tone, "Is that a lily? ...An Easter lily?" Sure enough, there were four perfectly formed little white trumpets sprouted atop tall pale stems. They looked sweet enough to play taps.
"Yes," I confessed with a certain wistful pride.
"...In October?" she asked in much the same tone, I imagine, as was used by the cynic who first observed, "The emperor isn't wearing any clothes."
"Yes," I repeated confidently. "...And just you wait till you see what I have planned for April!"
Copyright 1998. These articles are not to be reproduced or distributed in any form, manner, or medium without the express, written permission of the author.
Sandra E. Lamb is an award-winning, Denver-based author of humor, literary fiction, and nonfiction. You can purchase a copy of her latest book, How to Write It: A Complete Guide to Everything You'll Ever Write at your favorite bookstore, or online at Amazon.com or BarnesandNoble.com.
|
