Summer's Journal: Forty-Fifth Entry
My father has been known to tell stories of people other then himself. He prefers to never have spoken words about him, mainly because he doesn’t think he’s as great as all who love him sees him.
I have seen my father enter a rave, blend in, and convince everyone he is one of them. As have I seen my father enter a political party, and convince someone he was the Duke of some imaginary country, or leader of a huge company.
Over the time he has been alive, he has mastered many languages, thousands of idiosyncrasies, every social standing, and every chaste.
You should see the man garden.
He doesn’t.
He woke up this morning, put on overalls and a plaid shirt. He went outside and began to dig. Black Roses, Black Lotuses, Black Dahlias, and Black Morning-Glories all need to be planted in ground that is blighted, dead, sandy or hard. They do not grow in anything else. The only part of the grounds that are green are by the waterfall, and that’s just Mom and Dad’s favorite place to be.
But what woke me was his slamming the shovel into the hot, dead ground.
I got up, got dressed, and went outside, and I sat in the shade. He looked at me, and laughed, “So Summer Dawn, come to help your dad garden?” I shook my head no. “Come now, why not?”
“Remember the last time I touched one of your plants?” “Oh! That’s right… You killed it because you were frustrated… Well, at least sit out here and keep my company.” “I had planed on it.”
He was doing it the hard way. He wasn’t using his full strength. I leaned back, and I was joined by Giorgio. Giorgio is our housekeeper/groundskeeper. He knows everything. He doesn’t care. We pay him well, he doesn’t tell anyone.
“He trying to garden this place again?” Giorgio asked in his thick accent. “Yes.” He laughed, and sat down.
“I can’t let Giorgio do all the work around here can I?” Watching my father try to do the upkeep on the plants was amusing. He would get frustrated, like I had, then he would grab them, get a handful of thorn, and roar and then rip one out.
He then would tenderly re-root and replant the bush. Overall, it was a long day, but Giorgio, my father, and myself all got to talk about nonsensical stuff, its not normal for my father and I to discuss what type of bird makes a better sound. Or for Giorgio to join in on one of father and I’s religious debates. Usually Giorgio just kind of does his work, and never talks with us.
Oh well, I’m going to call Chris.
-Dawn
(Sorry about not posting in so long, AND sorry that this is it, I need to get back into the groove.)
I have seen my father enter a rave, blend in, and convince everyone he is one of them. As have I seen my father enter a political party, and convince someone he was the Duke of some imaginary country, or leader of a huge company.
Over the time he has been alive, he has mastered many languages, thousands of idiosyncrasies, every social standing, and every chaste.
You should see the man garden.
He doesn’t.
He woke up this morning, put on overalls and a plaid shirt. He went outside and began to dig. Black Roses, Black Lotuses, Black Dahlias, and Black Morning-Glories all need to be planted in ground that is blighted, dead, sandy or hard. They do not grow in anything else. The only part of the grounds that are green are by the waterfall, and that’s just Mom and Dad’s favorite place to be.
But what woke me was his slamming the shovel into the hot, dead ground.
I got up, got dressed, and went outside, and I sat in the shade. He looked at me, and laughed, “So Summer Dawn, come to help your dad garden?” I shook my head no. “Come now, why not?”
“Remember the last time I touched one of your plants?” “Oh! That’s right… You killed it because you were frustrated… Well, at least sit out here and keep my company.” “I had planed on it.”
He was doing it the hard way. He wasn’t using his full strength. I leaned back, and I was joined by Giorgio. Giorgio is our housekeeper/groundskeeper. He knows everything. He doesn’t care. We pay him well, he doesn’t tell anyone.
“He trying to garden this place again?” Giorgio asked in his thick accent. “Yes.” He laughed, and sat down.
“I can’t let Giorgio do all the work around here can I?” Watching my father try to do the upkeep on the plants was amusing. He would get frustrated, like I had, then he would grab them, get a handful of thorn, and roar and then rip one out.
He then would tenderly re-root and replant the bush. Overall, it was a long day, but Giorgio, my father, and myself all got to talk about nonsensical stuff, its not normal for my father and I to discuss what type of bird makes a better sound. Or for Giorgio to join in on one of father and I’s religious debates. Usually Giorgio just kind of does his work, and never talks with us.
Oh well, I’m going to call Chris.
-Dawn
(Sorry about not posting in so long, AND sorry that this is it, I need to get back into the groove.)
posted by Summer Dawn O'Ciardha at 10:27 PM
2 Comments:
I like a long story... do share. *grins*
Your father has quite a history!
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