My Little Corner of the World - Redux

Original Post 7/13/11
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I had a suburban moment, yesterday. Right here, in my little corner of the world.

I was out front about 7:30 AM-ish attending to my mandatory watering chores. Z is the Master Gardner so I graciously do some watering. We alternate the chore every other day…but sometimes I forget.

But not yesterday; yesterday I was up early, so I thought I’d get a jump on it.

So there I am, out front, hose at the ready, watering our beautiful array of Impatiens, Day Lilies, Dusty Millers, Russian Sage and a whole lot of other stuff that I’m sure I’ll get some flack about for not knowing what it is.

The fine spray of water glistens as the golden sun of early morning, peaks across the rooftops and sets the whole thing ablaze with light. The scene, reminiscent of the Weeki Wachee Mermaid show, dazzles.

Not really, but I wanted to use this cool picture….

Anyway, a neighbor passes by, walking her dog, waves and says, “Good morning!”

I return the wave and say “Good morning!” in kind, because to say good afternoon would make me seem odd, if not an idiot.

After apologizing for spraying my neighbor with the hose that was in my waving hand, I return my attention to my idyllic Weeki Wachee surroundings. And it was then that I realized…hey, I’m having a real frickin suburban moment.

But of course my version of the suburban moment also includes my having a Twilight Zone moment, where I’m transported back in time, to the imaginary town of Willoughby.

There I stand, much like today, garden hose in hand, but dressed in an ill fitting grey flannel suit, complete with skinny tie, and haircut resembling Dick York’s…the original Darren on “Bewitched”.

Yes…I know.

“Willoughby… Willoughby, next stop Willoughby”, I hear the conductor call as the train pulls into the quaint little depot, down the street.

But I’m quickly transported back to the present by my neighbor’s beefy husband who has dropped by to also wish me a good morning and politely ask me not to hose his wife down in the mornings, anymore; to which I happily agree to comply.

They’re rare, these idyllic moments. They’re even harder to spell. So we need to capture them in whatever way we can. Whether or not that includes the use of weapons is strictly a personal choice. I prefer Peanut Butter, which I find to be an excellent attractant.

The Hydrangeas are in full bloom as you can see. They say their color is determined by the amount of acidity in the soil. They also say that Jimmy Hoffa was buried in the west end zone of the former Giant Stadium, under about 6 feet of cement. Now he’s under parking spot D1245. Somehow, not as cool….

But I digress…again.

Our Hydrangeas are this cool pink color. My neighbor’s are blue…also cool.

Same soil…different colors…except I like mine better, mostly because they're mine and my neighbor doesn’t like me walking on his lawn, let alone picking his flowers.

Also, according to Wikipedia, that mostly dependable font of information, pink hydrangeas have many different meanings, but generally mean, "You are the beat of my heart", as described by the celebrated Asian florist Tan Jun Yong, where he was quoted saying, "The light delicate blush of the petals reminds me of a beating heart, while the size could only match the heart of the sender!"

Now there’s a guy who knows how to get lucky….

Way to go, Tan!

Moving on, here’s our own little island of tranquility in a sea of troubles, which is mostly the kid up the street, with the noisy motorcycle

This used to be where the previous owner of our house kept his boat…which I thought was odd since I always thought boats did better in water.

After we imported the holly bush from a charitable source, Z brought in the bird bath—which the ungrateful birds bitched about since they were hoping for a hot tub— added a couple of hanging baskets and some Adirondack chairs and viola…instant serenity.

Kind of like floral Zoloft.

This is our Red Panda Bamboo bush.

Believe it or not in less than 3 short years it’s grown from these few skinny little sticks. I’m concerned that in another few years it’s going to want to borrow the car instead of ordering take out.

The tomatoes are shaping up. No wise cracks there. I take my tomatoes very seriously. Now the cucumber, that’s a whole other story….

And here’s where I would be writing this little piece of Americana, if I were not taking the photo.

Yes…I know…I have to do everything!

So that’s my little suburban moment. A little piece of Twain, right here in my little corner of the world.

“Willoughby… Willoughby, next stop Willoughby…

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