OUCH !

BLOSSOM TIME

 

The pale green points grow ever so slowly, spread themselves around yellow, golden petals. One bud after the other curls back, its face smiles at the warmth of the sun. Salt-free dew drops sparkle like glowing diamonds. Our days together begin.

 

My hand spade, rake are by my side as I kneel into the black, healthy soil. Its nutrients give off a slight medicinal odor which I appreciate but would like to do without. From my apron pocket, I pull out my newest, cutest gardener glove. It is bright red, each finger tip is another color. The thumb looks like a purple plum, ready to be eaten.
Oh, my, oh my, I  cannot restrain myself as a wee, wee yellow worm wiggles up the stem of my prize Melody rose. For a moment I want to gently put it in a safe place but where? If there is one, there has to be two. With the edge of my hand spade, I knock the worm onto the concrete, close my eyes and squash it.

 

All of winter's wonders will wait far in the back of my mind. Right now the bed of jonquils just bursting thru the earth gives me little chills, thrills as I see them leave their burial homes and rise to live for a while with true beauty. Along the entire side of my home a wild thing has nested. Small blue flowers bunch together, send me a gift of  a new, sweet smell that I can just about taste. Its vanilla odor hints I should be inside baking a birthday cake for my grand-niece, Carey.

 

Heck, no, I tell myself. I'll buy her one at Dobreinners. They'll put her name on real fancy-like and not charge extra.  Something squishy finds its way under my shoe. I sit down on the porch steps, take my shoe off and look to see what is still there. Oh, no, a slug. I hate slugs, can barely look at them much less touch them and to step on one–oh lord. My little garden shovel is sticking out of the jonquil square but I don't hop to it. Carefully I get my shoe on again, walk on only the heel of the shoe, my toes pointing to the sky, my nose breathing in the wondrous odors all around me. And that is when I hear a buzz, a buzz that comes closer to me, closer and closer until the buzzing bumble bee lands on my pointing up nose. I freeze into a statue, wait for that drone to go home. He decides he wants to see more of me and flies right down my blouse. Its small but strong wings move between my breasts, move under my right armpit and let go a sting that makes me shout, 'Shit', loud and clear enough for the world to hear me. My mother right told me years a go that when a bee stings the bee dies. I hope so. 

 

My arm begins to burn, to swell like a balloon. I am so shocked I can barely think what to do. There is little choice. The slug squashed under my shoe is forgotten. My garden tools can stay where they are. I hurry into the house, to my bathroom and get out the alcohol bottle, form a pad of toilet tissue, drench it with the alcohol and leave it folded under my arm. It is cool but does not ease my pain. An aspirin, no two aspirins, calm me. Without stopping to take down my bed spread, I fall flat on it and lay there as if a cannon had ripped thru my body.

 

The digital clock on my bureau let's me know, it is already 7 o'clock and I have to bring my garden tools in. A funny thought makes me smile. Stay out there and rust, I decide. My toilet paper bandage is dried out but useful. I take it in the bathroom and over the sink pour more alcohol on it, sterilize the bottom of my shoe so I can forget the slug and go down stairs to call my grand niece Carey, ask her if she is interested in doing some garden work for me this week-end. 'Sorry, Aunt Miriam. It's my birthday Saturday. Aren't you coming to my party?' My senses return. 'Of course, Carey. I'll bring lovely spring flowers from my garden.'

 

Instead I buy her the birthday cake and beautiful pink roses.