By Clyde

It all started out as a simple wish for a small garden by a local artist on an acre of turned earth along the N.C. Railroad tracks in a small town with a celebrated climate, cultivated by generations of old hands not always in the same spot.

The years had been good, according to old rainfall records and high temperatures almost never over the century mark.

Until, by some unforeseen dark cloud, the hope for fruits of labour and armloads of cut flowers to put to work in every brass altar urn and centerpiece for select altruistic cause célèbre was dashed.

The cornucopia bounty was doomed not to be.

The day started out humid, not cloudy but not yet sunrise, as noted.

The resident rooster had forewarned the fateful fracas by sounding the alarm at approximately 3:33 ante meridian time – triple digits are always an omen – not long after the neighborhood bars had given up and just before these downtown dumpster drivers descended at 4 a.m. to avoid the noise ordinance.

Ever notice how small daily chores keep us in line with the larger impending tasks that beg to take us down?

Something about chopping with a hoe is inversely proportional with sanity.

Is that inherited or learned?

Back to the reality of dragging out of the shed an invention that Atilla the Hun would have surely commanded had he instead inherited a feudal plot — a tiller that hums above the front end that digs deep, seemingly effortlessly, with no sweat.

But who left the tines entwined? Time to cut free each dried tangled honeysuckle vine, wisteria sprout and even a dead snake.

Not so fast — no start.

Maybe a good clean out of the air filter, sand paper the spark plug, check the gas cut-off.

Emiline Grangerford would be right at home with all the pessimism, alas. That done, maybe a good hair cut on the weeds would temp the fates.

Lawnmowers are made to test your blood pressure.

Don’t ever check the oil in an engine, it won’t know it. If it doesn’t start the first time, keep yanking.

Broken cord – take it to the shop.

Broken belt – fix it yourself.

If you put the belt on backwards, will it mow in reverse?

If the belt slips, squirt with belt dressing, if the nozzle on the can works.

Like it says, do not use a nail to puncture the can. Mr. Phillips can just go get another screwdriver and hurry back.

Like a stubborn mule, it won’t go without gas.

Can empty? Use gasoline to go get gas to protect the environment.

A repurposed funnel made from a plastic liter drink bottle was the only consolation prize.

Does the blade need sharpening after running over the granite steps?

Do you have the right size wrench – is it stuck?

Is it “lefty-loosey”?

Is the blade on upside-down? Just turn it over and get out the hand grinder in-situ.

That done — not so fast — would Mr. Eddleman approve of the profanity you unleashed on his machine?

You don’t get into heaven by the number of weed eaters, edgers, trimmers and leaf blowers you own.

The beauty of this place in time surpasses even the most talented plein air artist who would set up his easel to capture a glimpse of the fleeting scene.

Suddenly there is an audience. A stare from the undergrowth.

A lone scruffy ground hog sits on his haunches looking over his garden, ready to sink his curved buck teeth in on any little sliver of flora that makes it through the Biden drought.

Just waiting for a delicious dinner, a juicy cantaloupe or a crunchy cucumber, served up by his garden slave for his enjoyment and propagation — a sacrificial harvest to the hatred hedgehog — all that troublesome work; for this!

Help yourself Mr. Ground Hog.

It’s my pleasure.