It was a beautiful, sunny Sunday afternoon in mid-June. The sky was a deep blue
punctuated by some pillowy white clouds. I was out in the garden working happily away.
Boo, our cat, was dozing on the front porch. Our dog, Scout, was sitting beneath a tree in
our front yard looking at me lazily through one eye, trying to decide if it was safe to nap.
The kids were nowhere to be seen. They were awfully good at absconding whenever I
pulled out the garden tools.
I had worked hard to perfect my pruning skills and I was working away on some
rhododendrons. It was important to prune a shrub or small tree from the bottom and
work your way up. Branches that crossed should come out as well. When branches were
thinned out, you could see the trunk more clearly and it resulted in a spare, artistic look.
Just then, my wife Cindy pulled into the driveway. It was too late; she saw me
with pruning shears in hand. She didn’t bother putting the car in the garage.
“John, just what are you doing?” she called out.
“Just doing some really minor pruning honey.”
“You do not know how to do minor pruning! Do you remember our last
discussion on this subject?”
I pondered for a few seconds and looked up at some beautiful clouds passing
“Yeah, I guess so,” I said. “But the rhododendrons really needed some attention
sweetie.”
Cindy had gotten out of her car and was walking across the lawn towards me.
There were a couple of small piles of branches lying beneath where I had been working.
She wasn’t walking over to give me a peck on the cheek. She surveyed the
rhododendrons and the cut branches lying on the ground.
“John, we agreed to that we were going to call a gardener for pruning,” she
stammered. “Someone with your personality should not be allowed to handle a pruning
shears,”
“But sweetie, these plants really needed it, “I replied. “They look so much better
“They do not. It was a good thing I got here when I did; otherwise, you would
have really butchered them. Now give those shears to me.”
I reluctantly handed over the shears and she took them inside.
I mowed the lawn and then threw the branches and clippings in the compost pile
out back. I couldn’t find the shears when I looked for them later.
Fortunately, Cindy was pretty forgiving. Usually. She knew what she was getting
into when she married me and, over the years, she was usually able to overlook my
alleged shortcomings.
A Foot in the Door ©2004 by E.R. Jones 2
