Something Yonder Twixt Us Steals
..... by D. Grant DeMan
Something there is that seems not to like hedgerows, nor roses, nor seedlings, nor bamboo. A mysterious creature who would change our landscape by stealth. Perchance a goblin? A clandestine Royston Roiler? A spoiler slips furtively within our world perpetrating anxiety,
loss and aggravation within the very depths of man's inner soulmate - his garden - that piece of mental peace, humble or proud, that forms the essence of his eternal being. A lasting spot; his solace.
Something strange goes there, a sinister force. An entity. For five years I ritually rise at four on trashday, bundle a week's news tightly with twine, and no matter the weather, convey it to the southwest boundary of my tree-lined property to place with others, the base for an ivy-covered hedgerow; as I have to the rear, interspersed among bamboo, shrubs, seedlings and vines.
"But why," I wondered. "In all this time is not my task nearing an end? Where is the four-foot wall I projected by last years' final bell?" Pensively I watched a spider at her work across a path, the web broken time and again by intrusive unseen creature. She tenaciously kept working.
But like me, did she puzzle if sabotage was afoot, suspecting some subversive thing had indeed entered our lives?
"What goes there, when I am not?" I asked the wind. "What sneaks between neighbors and trammels harmonious tranquility?" And I was at once reminded of Robert Frost's Something there is that doesn't love a wall, though in our case the structure was not merely dismantled, but
carried away. Then came the mystery of missing plants. Two spaces were left in place of seedlings planted by guests. And when I came upon the bed of my prized thirty-year-old rose, I found but one guillotined branch. The root and body had exited the plot, as had a younger species against the house, with much bamboo and vine.
OOOhhhh.
My solaced world was splitting. Furtive bushy brow raises, eyes shifting, the horns of mistrust crept up a grizzled back to rest securely atop this aged head. Like the old barn owl my mental chambers called a plaintive, "Who? Who? Who?"
There came no echo. No spirited response. Who indeed? What more may be afoot with this nebulous interloper? What further unseen scandal has the rascal performed? What yet unnoticed deprivation has the depraved one inflicted, this redoubtable Royston Roiler of mystery? I must wait and see. I must see and act. I must lure, bait and pounce. I must catch the culprit, as he caught me. Unawares by stealth, I shall turn him out.
Tomorrow's Thursday.
Tomorrow I shall advantageously position this week's block of pulp. At the morning's crack I'll begin my logistical watch, my hedge-row patrol, armed with eyes unflinching in their determination. I shall spy, spy, spy out the intruder and stop him dead, be he human or apparition. His cuts will cease, his digging halt, and his larceny fade in the summer winds; acrimoniously perhaps. Some resistance, no doubt. Nevertheless, they shall shatter like an infirm defense in the onslaught of a chrome-steel juggernaught gridiron line.
The resolute Royston Roiler has not yet met with this striking force, a persistent planter of damnable determination, who has buried many a sturdy stalk and root moving throughm life's garden.
Ah, I envision him with a hedge-block under his wooly mantle, in mid-stride of ripping out plants galore, feet seizing up in frigid fright, bleached face, spittle oozing and mouth aghast. Surely his vocal chords will freeze in the spotlight of discovery, but should he chance to speak, he shall gag on his own specious explanation for his presence in our private quietude.
In my mind's window I see his trembling. I watch him dissolve into the darkness of his soul. I'll see pride peel away in scorched layers by feigned righteousness, as suffer all expunged devils. I'll see him bare: a garden footpad. Robber of our serenity. I'll write a grand finis to this skullduggery, and never again endure his onerous intrusion. The spider bites back. Something yonder twixt us came. It shall soon come no more.
Frankly, if I had my druthers, I druther be in Bowser
by D. Grant DeMan
"So just where did you do your post-graduate work?" Inquired my colleague, noted historian and art collector, Lord Lloyd Bailey-PHD. (I do so envy his British hyphenated name.)
Fondly recalling my gridiron days at Royston University, I responded, "Why, R.U. of course. R.U."
"Am I what?" He frowned, as one suffering impatience with inferior minds. Poor old Lord Bailey-PHD.
Tactfully, I changed the subject: "Ah, Royston. For us it remains the center of the Universe, but
s
ometimes I do believe I'd rather live in Bowser."
"I know what you feel, Old Pal. The Lighthouse Country, so-called for the ordinance forbidding
homes both dark and heavy. The name was derived either from Premier Bill Bowser or a beer-fetching canine named Mike; built on the banks of the Nile, because rancher Phil Nile
thought he'd reached Egypt." In reverie, I found myself in that magnificent place. First to find a home:
At the real estate office I chatted with Penny Meckling, the Bowser Houser. "And what's the main
industry in this town?" I queried.
"That would be old Benny Bulkhead's works, builds barges for trash. Good old Benny, the Bowser Scowser. The forest industry is rather poor. But who knows, it might pick up
with the new Bowser Weyerhouser."
That settled, it was then for old folk's pharmaceutical supplies, Viagra and Wakeup prescriptions from the Bowser Arouser, and to rid my new abode of varmints, I called the Bowser Mouser and Delouser.
On the internet using the Bowser Browser I found someone to drill a well - the Bowser Dowser. Feeling weary I took a Bowser Drowser and fell asleep.
Next day, on the way to a pant-fitting at Bowser Trousers, I bumped into the inebriated Mike Sudds, the Bowser carouser, emerging from a bar owned by Phil Erup, the Bowser souser:
"Howser goin'? Come to a party? I hear it's a Zowzer! We'll pickup a couple of Wowzers!"
"Thanks, but no thanks, I gotta buy trousers. Then dairy and beef."
"You'll be wanting then to see Warmhands Willy, the Bowser Cowser."
"I gotta go," I stated firmly.
"Okay. Okay, don't be such a Bowser grouser!"
While at the clothiers I ordered a gift for my sweetheart from the Bowser Blowzier. "Size ten?"
"Nowser, nowser. They come in one size fits all."
"We'll be getting hitched soon. Is there a J.P. nearby?"
"That'd be Judge Joinem, the Bowser Spouser."
And I'll need a weapon for protection?"
"Down the road to the Bowser Mauser store." She pointed. "And a landscape artist."
"That'll be Muleskinner Jim, the Bowser Plowser."
Zowser! It was too much for the mind to bear. I came to in a cold sweat, mumbling: "Howser, cowser, scowser, flowser..."
Lord Lloyd was good enough to slap my face. "My God, man. You've finally gone over the edge."
Nevertheless, the very next day, impulsively I drove to the town of my dreams, and this time contacted a real real estate broker.
"And may I inquire what profession you follow?" She was so very polite.
"Why," I said. "I'm a Court Attorney."
"Well, I was just thinking. Perhaps you'd be happier in....say.... Port Alberni?"
Once more, I woke up screaming.
And haven't stopped since.
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