Every year, my husband and I repeat: “We’re too busy. We’re too old.”
Still, we give our annual garden party.
Unlike the scenario in Ricky Nelson’s song, “Garden Party,” neither Mary Lou, Yoko Ono, nor her walrus show up. Just lots of uninvited guests.
Given our sophisticated attire, you’d think nobody would dare approach our garden without an engraved invitation. I wear an orange T-shirt accidentally bleached with the underwear wash load. Hubby sports his free T-shirt from our 1971 prom, plus trendy ripped jeans. Roomy 20-year-old shorts show off my black-knee look, enhanced by matching black nails. Emitting an elegant fragrance called “Compost,” Hubby and I have dressed in our casual best.
Unfortunately, thistles, with their prickly personalities, crash the party. I’ve nicknamed them “Klingon sticker weeds.” Like the legendary “Star Trek” foes, they aspire to conquer the universe, beginning with our garden.
Grass, which avoids our yard’s bald spots, flourishes alongside its evil ally. Morning glories that rebel against trellises swarm the cucumber patch.
For other boorish invaders, we’re not only their hosts. We’re their refreshments.
Millions of mosquitoes and chiggers view us as a free Golden Corral.
Still, Hubby and I stick to the program, playing garden games cherished for generations:
- Lose the Trowel – Did I leave it among the tomato plants? On the freezer? Or (on bad-memory days) in the freezer?
- Find the Rake – Gratifying for the spouse who lost it. Not for the unconscious spouse who stepped on it.
- Twister – Hubby and I possess twin gallon bottles of Ibuprofen to document our prowess.
Only God, the perfect Host, has given the flawless garden party that might have lasted forever.
Hmm … wasn’t it another pair of humans who spoiled it?
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What makes a great garden party?
