Many jobs involved Brooke in a supervisory role—me high on a ladder, or with a power-tool of some sort, her looking on with arched brow. “You know what to do if this goes haywire, right?” I’d ask for the umpteenth time.
“Call 911 if you’re unconscious or missing any limbs.” Smart kid.
As the seasons turned, the Garden Club grew in membership (we added her Mom—my choice—and some boy named Riley with an encyclopedic knowledge of bugs—eating them—not naming them) and frequency. Once we even had an emergency meeting to deal with a mole wreaking havoc. Brooke (no surprise) had a solution. The mystical concoction was part Harry Potter, part Mad Max, and as effective as napalm. We mixed sugar, our own hair, leaves, salt, bubble gum (tied in a knot) and one last secret ingredient I promised not to divulge (whiskey) into a large bowl, stirred until disgusting, then dripped the mess into several mole holes. Lo and behold (and I swear this is the truth), a few days later the rodent was found lying on his back in the middle of my lawn. (A crude dissection from Riley proved the gum had done the trick.) Brooke, dismayed we killed Mr. Mole, suggested we lessen the dosage next go-round so he only “gets the message” and moves on to some other neighborhood. We brought pictures of landscapes from magazines and books (she liked topiaries, I liked lawn chairs), and began trading groundcovers, life philosophies, and making real progress (except in killing the damn lawn…). Often meetings were quick—in between her family outings and my frequent naps. The best meetings had sort of a time- less quality—some digging, some strolling to neighborhood pea patches, some lemonade, some more back-breaking labor.
Today Brooke is almost 18 and not nearly as interested in horticulture as boys, bikes, and books. More often than not I wait, shovel in hand, hoping she’ll prance over to impart some much-needed wisdom, energy, and unique per- spective on bug-catching, digging in the dirt, and stopping to smell the roses. I hollered over the hedge the other day about unexplained absences and dwindling Club meetings. “Oh, sorry, Justin and I went to the park on our bikes…” I suggested we have a pow-wow the following week.
Not one to shirk her elected responsibilities, Brooke arrived promptly at noon. We elected a new President (apparently the ongoing President can break a tie) and, at Brook’s insistence, moved a few ferns to shadier loca- tions. At the end of the meeting, I grabbed two dandelions, and we blew like old times. In the midst of the flying fuzz, I realized that our wishes had now changed places; here’s to them both coming true…
16
Winter/Spring 2012
greenwomanmagazine.com
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