I didn’t do a damn thing but wait.
Most people thought of Marguerite Lindenberry as a sweet, old fashioned woman who gardened and hummed her way through the day. She wore long cotton skirts decorated with small stitched forget-me-nots and sported anklets and black Mary-Janes. Think Mennonite school teacher or a Little House on the Prairie ‘barren’ aunt in her Sunday best. At least I think that’s what you should think. Clothing like that comes from a time and a place I know nothing about.
But I grew up next to her, and learned gardening from books as she criticized my efforts and found them wanting. Her narratives were unending and fueled by a hidden anger.
She:
Grew wild blue phlox and collected porcelain cows. (Sweet, so sweet.)
Vacuumed her chemical waste site of a lawn with an Electrolux.
Placed the twigs and leaves she decided originated from our trees in piles on our property.
Sent registered letters threatening legal action unless we removed our ‘dirty’ tulip poplars.
Complained ceaselessly about my shrubs, my perennials, my earth shaking decision to plant deep purple impatiens instead of pale pinks ones.
Marguerite Lindenberry was a bitch with a sister-wife aura, who directed a whole lot of hostility towards my begonias.
So I got her.
On the side of our property was an old ramp, built with railroad ties and filled in with chipped gravel. The ties were rotting; yellow jackets love to build nests in old rotten wood and they did.
I did nothing but avoid the ramp. It was only a matter of time.
One day, while she was dropping off a pile of twigs...
In the end it was fewer than five stings, and a registered letter. I was very apologetic and got rid of the nest immediately, but after that I was more tolerant of her constant dissatisfactions.
Apparently river birches are “undesirable trees, with erratic growth patterns and invasive, downright disturbing roots. And I had planted one. What do I have to say for myself?”
“I’m sorry ma’am. I didn’t know.” And with that I handed her a smile and walked away.