Thanks for joining me! From time to time, I’ll be posting thoughts gleaned from musing over a good cup of coffee. Stay tuned.
Two road diverged in a wood, and I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference. – Robert Frost
Here’s an excerpt from Me and MaryAnn. It’s a collection of tales of two naughty little girls in the 1940s. Oh, that children could be this free again.
If you’d like a copy of the whole book, email me at firstname.lastname@example.org and I’ll sign and send you one after you pay through PayPal, or you can get it from Amazon.com. It’s only $10.00 plus shipping.
Rose Petal Showers
When MaryAnn and I were about seven or eight years old, both her back yard and mine were filled with huge rambling roses which covered our fences. Pink, red, and magenta roses bloomed in bright profusion filling the air with sweetness. One hot summer day we decided to bottle that sweet smell. After all, it seemed such a shame to let the lovely petals just fall to the ground and rot. We were sure if we ground them up we could make wonderful rose petal perfume.
We went to each yard with a bushel basket and gathered only the finest flowers — the ones that were just about to fall off the bushes — and carried them to MaryAnn’s basement. First, we sorted them by color into three batches thinking that each would produce a distinctive aroma: light pinks — a delicate scent, rich magentas — a stronger, full-bodied perfume and the blood-red tea roses — a deep rich pungent smell. Next we mashed them up and mixed them with water to make the perfume, then left them to ferment while we ate lunch. When we returned, the concoction had turned into a foul smelling mixture that smelled exactly like rotten flowers floating in water. Our experiment was a failure, but we still had a lot of petals left and couldn’t bear to just throw them away; after all, we had just rescued them from that fate.
Because I had just read Sleeping Beauty, who had flower petals tossed in her pathway as she walked down the aisle with her bridegroom prince, we decided to bestow this honor on passing cars. We went to the corner where our streets met. Mrs. Stone’s house was on a triangular lot and she did not like us using her yard as a short cut from one street to another. At the end of her lot was a ditch in which we could duck below the street level, but even the ditch had been declared off limits by Mrs. Stone. In our minds this added to the danger, so we were very careful to hide in the ditch.
We hid down in the ditch and as a car drove by on one side or the other, we threw a few petals at it, laughing at the sight of a shower of rose petals landing on the cars. No one in any of the cars we showered seemed to notice, so we got bored quickly. However, one last grand effort to make someone notice our gesture seemed important. MaryAnn and I decided if a few petals weren’t enough, maybe they would notice an entire basket of petals, all at once.
We rose up out of the ditch lugging the basket and waited until the next car approached. Here it came! We grabbed the basket by the handles and slung its contents toward the passing car. It was beautiful! Bright magenta, red and pink petals went everywhere — on the windshield, on the road and unfortunately into the car. The car windows were down. The driver slammed on his brakes and came to a screeching halt. We nearly wet our pants. He stopped the car, threw open the door and yelled at us, “What in the world are you two doing?”
MaryAnn told him how nice we thought it would be for the passersby to have rose petals showering over their cars, but he wasn’t impressed. He didn’t think it was very nice at all. No sense of romance was hidden in his heart. He told us in no uncertain terms how he felt about it and said, “if you think it is so charming, why don’t you just get in here and clean them all out.
We had to clean the car out, petal-by-petal. While we worked in the warm car, some of our enthusiasm for the grandeur and pageantry of rose-strewn paths for brides and grooms was lost along with our pride. We decided that a plain old aisle in a church would suit us better when we grew up.