The beginning of this little essay came late Friday from the comfort of a Lane recliner tilted to the near-prone position in front of a 46-inch Samsung television set that will bring you World War II In Color, but not in “Hi-Def.”
I like to watch World War II (even in color) because I know the good guys “over there” are going to win and the bad guys are going to get waxed by Patton’s Third Army. I can also go to the South Pacific where the Marines are chopping up some other bad guys by the thousands.
Best I can count, this is my 56th trip crossing the Rhine River into Germany. In a moment of candor, it is scary that I will admit to any addiction, let alone getting seasick every time I cross the Rhine.
Anyway, shells are bursting all around and machine gun bullets are zipping ’round my head like a bunch of angry bees.
That’s when sheer terror strikes. And not from roar of cannon. It strikes from my right, out of nowhere:
“Have you watered the flowers today?”
Master-Gardenerness-Who-Has-Never-Had-Dirt-Under-Her-Fingernails is speaking from her recliner (we really do DO some things together) and Master Gardenerness’ (one-man) gardening crew is petrified.
I haven’t watered the flowers today. And, come to think on it, I can’t recall watering them yesterday, either. That I have spent a considerable amount of time at the bedroom window looking at the flowers doesn’t get it.
Also, in the interest of full disclosure, mostly I have been looking at …
Knockout Roses …
I love roses, especially the Knockouts, about as much as I like watching Hitler get creamed by the good guys. That, of course, is something of a contradiction, a bit of my own version of “war and peace,” which I cannot explain.
The thing about Knockout Roses is you stick those suckers in the ground, throw some of those little fertilizer pellets around them, sprinkle some water, and get out of the way. Patton’s Third Army would have trouble with Knockouts.
You don’t have to be English to grow Knockouts, which is an absolutely wonderful thing. If I could somehow induce Master Gardenerness to see if her hands would fit a plastic watering can handle, life would be oh so grand.
The reason I mention the English is way back yonder when they were the bad guys and we decked them, too, we allowed them to keep their rose gardens in the peace treaty. They have done so with great passion.
To understand that, you have only to check out Downton Abbey this past season. One of the sub-plots centered on who grew the best roses, the Dowager Countess of Grantham or a lowly gardener.
Lady Dowager won every year due to her high position in society. However, in one episode she arranged for the lowly gardener to win. It was a noble gesture, for which WE English are noted.
Anyway, before I get ready for church this morning, I’ve got to shut this off and go water MY Knockouts.
And, if you’re wondering what this is and why it is a bit convoluted, the blame belongs to Son-and-Heir. He dropped by last evening along about twilight and we sat out front, watched MY new grass grow (another story), and talked about what a wonderful father I have been …
That means I missed my Saturday night deadline for a Sunday morning message … which my preacher will understand. Hey, he may even pray for forgiveness on my behalf from HIM …
Anyway, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
George Smith may be reached at 256-239-5286 or e-mail: email@example.com