Try,try again

YARDS AND YARDS

 

Theresa' s yard next to our row house has been paved with red bricks. She and I hate it but her mom, Mrs. Thompson, suggests the entire block do what she and her husband did. 'Heck, Mrs. Morgan, no more lawn to cut, no mud to stand in when we hang clothes on the turnstile. This brick work cost an arm and ½ leg but is worth it. Come see, I still have a few feet of soil along the fence so I can plant a bulb or two before spring gets here.' I wait and wait, finally see a few jonquils and flags grow tall enough to be cut. I look at them longingly but Mrs. Thompson never, ever offers me even one flower to take to my teacher. I do hate her and my father too.

 

He doesn't have our yard paved with bricks, he has a concrete garage built over the whole place. It's the only yard that becomes a garage. Some people say he brags about it but nobody really likes it. It's kept locked so I can't even go into the alley to take a short cut to school. I could tell my father is proud to be the only owner of a 1939 black Buick and doesn't have to park on the street any more. My Mom doesn't  like the garage either because she has to hang her clothes on the black tar roof and ruins her shoes whenever the hot sun has its way with the blackness..

 

One windy day I see some of Mom's clothes pins get loose. A tea towel whips off and flies into the alley. I find it, sopping wet in a pile of our fish man's horse manure. For all I know, it's still there.

 

At the far end of our alley lives my very best friend, Mildred. She has a real yard, just filled with rows and rows of four o'clocks. They're all colors,  pink, white, yellow. Her mom lets me take as many as I want. The first time she gives me the okay, I break little branches off and fill my arms, even my pockets and run thru the alley to the front of our house, so happy. 'Ma, look, look what I have!' She hurries to me and yells, 'What is that brown mushy stuff? I look and see that all the four o'clocks have turned tan, all of their color has vanished. There is no sweet smell like roses. I dump them in the big galvanized trash can on our garage roof and pick no more four o'clocks.

 

My very favorite yard has a white fence around it. True, it needs a painting and some of the boards nailed tighter, but it doesn't matter to me. Mrs. Taylor lets her climbing white roses climb as much as they want to. When they reach the top, the just hang loose and head down to the concrete. That's when I get up extra early each morning, take my mom's best scissors and some newspaper to cut and wrap roses for her and for my teacher. I don't care if Mrs. Taylor thinks I'm a thief. She doesn't cut her flowers, doesn't take good care of them and they are not in her garden when I get them.

 

Spring is almost gone and the tall iris still stand like soldiers in the small plot near the chicken wire fence, bordered by bricks. I must, I just must have a few. Carefully I make my way from our porch to Mrs. Thompson's, go down her wooden steps. They creak. Like a wild woman she comes out the door. 'What in the world do you want, Child? You almost scared me to death.?

 

I tell her. 'Please, Ma am, I only want to take a few beautiful iris to my teacher before they fade and die. May I?' She actually smiles to me and goes down the steps and cuts the last few for me.My teacher thanks me, puts them in a vase on her desk and they last the entire week. When Monday comes and our class is all seated, red roses with a big white bow replace my gift. I don't mind too much as I can breathe in their wonderful smell.

 

And when report cards come out, I see right away that I have all good checks in the politeness column, the cooperative column and my 'C' in arithmetic has become a C+. I believe my few flowers worked magic