Post by ejshowers on Nov 27, 2007 7:00:17 GMT -5
Author's Note: My first post; feedback much appreciated!
DEAR PATCH
“Dear Patch,
Thank you for agreeing to take care of my plants while I am in Indiana for the week. I can’t tell you how relieved I am to know that they will be well cared for. Please don’t go to any trouble. I would feel terrible knowing that you had gone out of your way, for any reason, for little old me. There are a few things, however, just tiny, little things, really, that you should keep in mind.
“The pink geranium is in a seven-inch pot and therefore needs more water than the red geranium which is in the five-inch pot. I would estimate about a half cup a day for the red geranium and three-fourth’s cup for the pink. Unless, of course, the weather is unusually humid, in which case a little less would be needed. If you water them too much, they might get root-rot.”
Root-rot. Right. Patrick Finney impatiently rubbed his large, weathered hand across the back of his stubbled neck, regarded the note with a grimace, and snorted. “Who cares,” he thought ungraciously. He reluctantly continued reading.
“The daisies in the front garden are relatively new. I put them in last week and therefore, they will need some extra watering. Twice a day should do it. Hold the hose on them for a full count of 15 seconds once in the morning and once at night.”
He shook his head as if to clear out the unbelievable dribble he was reading. The chances of him carefully counting while he held a hose on a plant were about the same as the chances of him reading a book about horticulture.
“There are two potted houseplants in the screened-in porch I forgot to mention. You’ll have to let yourself inside and go through to the back. The key to the house is under the red geranium. (That’s red, not pink). Just let yourself in and get the measuring cup off the sink before you go out to the porch. The houseplants need about a cup of water every other day. Unless, of course, it is unusually sunny, in which case you will want to move them out of the sun and water them an extra--” Patrick Finney moaned.
Measure the water? Watering twice a day? And what was “unusually sunny”? Either it was sunny or it wasn’t. Patrick Finney blew out a tense breath which he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and unconsciously scrubbed at his neck again. He tossed the note carelessly on his kitchen table where it blended in with yesterday’s paper, a half-eaten bagel, three dirty coffee cups and a few very happy ants. With a grace that belied his large and lanky form, he yanked open the refrigerator and right-hooked a beer. There was only one way to deal with the impending pain of the next seven days. He would sit on the rock in the meadow behind his house and get buzzed.
Before he could escape to the sanctuary of his backyard, the phone rang.
“What?” He bellowed into the receiver.
A pert, piping warble, unfazed by his gruff hello, greeted him.
“Patrick, dear, it’s Martha. I just wanted to call and let you know I got here safely. I’m having a lovely time. Is everything going okay there?”
“Everything’s swell, Aunt Martha. Marvelous, even. I got it covered, don’t you worry about a thing. I wish I could chat, but, ah, something’s, um, come up and I’ll have to call you back.”
Patrick Finney, in his characteristic state of eternal immaturity, was looking around frantically for a piece of paper with which to make static-like crackling noises. Failing to find anything suitable, he sighed and returned to Plan A: try and get off the phone as quickly as possible by claiming to be in the middle of something. Something Important. Something Unavoidable. Something-- too late, she was talking again.
“Patch, dear, did you find my note? Did you read it? Do you have any questions? Oh, I do hope this isn’t too much trouble, you running all the way up the street to my house twice a day. Oh my, my. Remember now, the key is under the red geranium, not the pink one. Or is it the pink one? Dear, you’d better check under both. And remember not to over-water the--”
With a yelp of exultation, Patrick Finney triumphantly located the note he had dropped on the table earlier and proceeded to crumple and mash it with gusto against the receiver.
“Patch? Are you there? The connection is breaking up! Patrick, dear, I’m afraid the line is going out--”
The sound of opportunity knocking rang sweetly in his ears. With a devious grin, Patrick Finney hung up and grabbed his beer from the counter behind him.
He had a date with his backyard.
* * The End * *
DEAR PATCH
“Dear Patch,
Thank you for agreeing to take care of my plants while I am in Indiana for the week. I can’t tell you how relieved I am to know that they will be well cared for. Please don’t go to any trouble. I would feel terrible knowing that you had gone out of your way, for any reason, for little old me. There are a few things, however, just tiny, little things, really, that you should keep in mind.
“The pink geranium is in a seven-inch pot and therefore needs more water than the red geranium which is in the five-inch pot. I would estimate about a half cup a day for the red geranium and three-fourth’s cup for the pink. Unless, of course, the weather is unusually humid, in which case a little less would be needed. If you water them too much, they might get root-rot.”
Root-rot. Right. Patrick Finney impatiently rubbed his large, weathered hand across the back of his stubbled neck, regarded the note with a grimace, and snorted. “Who cares,” he thought ungraciously. He reluctantly continued reading.
“The daisies in the front garden are relatively new. I put them in last week and therefore, they will need some extra watering. Twice a day should do it. Hold the hose on them for a full count of 15 seconds once in the morning and once at night.”
He shook his head as if to clear out the unbelievable dribble he was reading. The chances of him carefully counting while he held a hose on a plant were about the same as the chances of him reading a book about horticulture.
“There are two potted houseplants in the screened-in porch I forgot to mention. You’ll have to let yourself inside and go through to the back. The key to the house is under the red geranium. (That’s red, not pink). Just let yourself in and get the measuring cup off the sink before you go out to the porch. The houseplants need about a cup of water every other day. Unless, of course, it is unusually sunny, in which case you will want to move them out of the sun and water them an extra--” Patrick Finney moaned.
Measure the water? Watering twice a day? And what was “unusually sunny”? Either it was sunny or it wasn’t. Patrick Finney blew out a tense breath which he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and unconsciously scrubbed at his neck again. He tossed the note carelessly on his kitchen table where it blended in with yesterday’s paper, a half-eaten bagel, three dirty coffee cups and a few very happy ants. With a grace that belied his large and lanky form, he yanked open the refrigerator and right-hooked a beer. There was only one way to deal with the impending pain of the next seven days. He would sit on the rock in the meadow behind his house and get buzzed.
Before he could escape to the sanctuary of his backyard, the phone rang.
“What?” He bellowed into the receiver.
A pert, piping warble, unfazed by his gruff hello, greeted him.
“Patrick, dear, it’s Martha. I just wanted to call and let you know I got here safely. I’m having a lovely time. Is everything going okay there?”
“Everything’s swell, Aunt Martha. Marvelous, even. I got it covered, don’t you worry about a thing. I wish I could chat, but, ah, something’s, um, come up and I’ll have to call you back.”
Patrick Finney, in his characteristic state of eternal immaturity, was looking around frantically for a piece of paper with which to make static-like crackling noises. Failing to find anything suitable, he sighed and returned to Plan A: try and get off the phone as quickly as possible by claiming to be in the middle of something. Something Important. Something Unavoidable. Something-- too late, she was talking again.
“Patch, dear, did you find my note? Did you read it? Do you have any questions? Oh, I do hope this isn’t too much trouble, you running all the way up the street to my house twice a day. Oh my, my. Remember now, the key is under the red geranium, not the pink one. Or is it the pink one? Dear, you’d better check under both. And remember not to over-water the--”
With a yelp of exultation, Patrick Finney triumphantly located the note he had dropped on the table earlier and proceeded to crumple and mash it with gusto against the receiver.
“Patch? Are you there? The connection is breaking up! Patrick, dear, I’m afraid the line is going out--”
The sound of opportunity knocking rang sweetly in his ears. With a devious grin, Patrick Finney hung up and grabbed his beer from the counter behind him.
He had a date with his backyard.
* * The End * *
