as I do an embarrassment on myself with this”—she waved a hand—“sad music recital.”
She must have seen our confused expressions.
“I mean, with this sad story I sing.”
“You’re not embarrassing yourself,” Rowena said. “Embarrassing yourself is when you get caught in a car having sex with your boyfriend in the backseat by a constable with a nightstick when you’re seventeen and wearing a witch hat and he tells your mother at church the next day.”
“Embarrassing is when your children find your sex toys,” Kenna said. “Twenty years ago Devon took it to preschool for show and share. It was bring an orange object day.”
“Embarrassing is when you can’t remember what Es on the periodic table means,” I said, chuckling.
They looked blank. Shoot. I cleared my throat, forced a laugh. “It’s a joke.”
“Ah!”
“I think a garden is about freedom, not submission,” Olive said. “Freedom for us to plant, to grow and nourish, and to be in nature’s beauty. It’s something for my animals to look at before they become my meal.”
Rowena said, “I think a garden is where I’ll bury my ex-husband and The Slut who had an affair with him and led him home by the dick with her pinkie.”
“I think a garden is a place where a woman can put herself back together again,” Kenna said. “She can think, argue with herself, philosophize, speech make, tell her herself she can do it, then go back into the world and stand tall.”
“A garden gave me back to me,” Gitanjali said. “No one hurt or bang banged in garden.”
“I think a garden should be restrained!” Lorna said. “A sign of respectable people, living respectable lives.”
“I think a garden is a wonderful excuse to learn Latin,” I said. “To use the Latin words for each plant in your garden.” They all stared blankly at me again. I am such an idiot. “That was a joke.” It wasn’t. I love Latin words for plants. I forced a smile. “Ha-ha! A tulip’s a tulip.”
They laughed. “You are so funny, Charlotte,” Rowena said. “I remember your fine sense of humor from years ago!”
Lorna rolled her eyes and humphed!
Malvina never said a word.
It was a diverse group. But it would be better without Lorna. There was always one wart.
Always.
Lorna and Malvina, the silent, sad one, scuttled out with their oatmeal bottoms, and the rest of us Scottish women—Gitanjali, who sold spices that could make a man’s penis flat; Olive, who loved her animals and eating them; Rowena, who wanted revenge on The Slut; Kenna, the doctor; and I—drank too much. We ended up at Molly Cockles Scottish Dancing Pub in the village and then in the town square, dancing and singing old Scottish songs. Many people from the bar and village joined us in harmonic wonder.
I don’t know why I ended up leading them like a choir director, swaying back and forth, arms waving, and I don’t know how I got a pink flowered hat on my head or whose it was.
I don’t do things like that. I am quiet and reserved. I mind my own business. I like to be alone with my cats and physics books.
It must be something in the Scottish air, that dash of salt, a hint of mint tea.
Olive took off her inebriated frog scarf and hop-hopped in front of the choir, swinging it above her head. She said later it was her “froggy dance.” She was in her cups.
Rowena introduced a new song, which I led the choir in three rounds, with a high soprano closing. The words were, “The Arse has no dick/Why did I marry/such a limp prick?”
We Garden Ladies stumbled by a long, wide vacant lot, after the constables politely asked us to disperse as forty people singing Scottish drinking songs in three-part harmony in the center of town was too noisy. I saw Chief Constable Ben Harris, tall and sharp in his uniform, speaking with Gitanjali, smiling.
“The old Zimmerman Factory,” Kenna said. “Burned to the ground. Gas leak led to an explosion. Boom and boom boom. City doesn’t
She must have seen our confused expressions.
“I mean, with this sad story I sing.”
“You’re not embarrassing yourself,” Rowena said. “Embarrassing yourself is when you get caught in a car having sex with your boyfriend in the backseat by a constable with a nightstick when you’re seventeen and wearing a witch hat and he tells your mother at church the next day.”
“Embarrassing is when your children find your sex toys,” Kenna said. “Twenty years ago Devon took it to preschool for show and share. It was bring an orange object day.”
“Embarrassing is when you can’t remember what Es on the periodic table means,” I said, chuckling.
They looked blank. Shoot. I cleared my throat, forced a laugh. “It’s a joke.”
“Ah!”
“I think a garden is about freedom, not submission,” Olive said. “Freedom for us to plant, to grow and nourish, and to be in nature’s beauty. It’s something for my animals to look at before they become my meal.”
Rowena said, “I think a garden is where I’ll bury my ex-husband and The Slut who had an affair with him and led him home by the dick with her pinkie.”
“I think a garden is a place where a woman can put herself back together again,” Kenna said. “She can think, argue with herself, philosophize, speech make, tell her herself she can do it, then go back into the world and stand tall.”
“A garden gave me back to me,” Gitanjali said. “No one hurt or bang banged in garden.”
“I think a garden should be restrained!” Lorna said. “A sign of respectable people, living respectable lives.”
“I think a garden is a wonderful excuse to learn Latin,” I said. “To use the Latin words for each plant in your garden.” They all stared blankly at me again. I am such an idiot. “That was a joke.” It wasn’t. I love Latin words for plants. I forced a smile. “Ha-ha! A tulip’s a tulip.”
They laughed. “You are so funny, Charlotte,” Rowena said. “I remember your fine sense of humor from years ago!”
Lorna rolled her eyes and humphed!
Malvina never said a word.
It was a diverse group. But it would be better without Lorna. There was always one wart.
Always.
Lorna and Malvina, the silent, sad one, scuttled out with their oatmeal bottoms, and the rest of us Scottish women—Gitanjali, who sold spices that could make a man’s penis flat; Olive, who loved her animals and eating them; Rowena, who wanted revenge on The Slut; Kenna, the doctor; and I—drank too much. We ended up at Molly Cockles Scottish Dancing Pub in the village and then in the town square, dancing and singing old Scottish songs. Many people from the bar and village joined us in harmonic wonder.
I don’t know why I ended up leading them like a choir director, swaying back and forth, arms waving, and I don’t know how I got a pink flowered hat on my head or whose it was.
I don’t do things like that. I am quiet and reserved. I mind my own business. I like to be alone with my cats and physics books.
It must be something in the Scottish air, that dash of salt, a hint of mint tea.
Olive took off her inebriated frog scarf and hop-hopped in front of the choir, swinging it above her head. She said later it was her “froggy dance.” She was in her cups.
Rowena introduced a new song, which I led the choir in three rounds, with a high soprano closing. The words were, “The Arse has no dick/Why did I marry/such a limp prick?”
We Garden Ladies stumbled by a long, wide vacant lot, after the constables politely asked us to disperse as forty people singing Scottish drinking songs in three-part harmony in the center of town was too noisy. I saw Chief Constable Ben Harris, tall and sharp in his uniform, speaking with Gitanjali, smiling.
“The old Zimmerman Factory,” Kenna said. “Burned to the ground. Gas leak led to an explosion. Boom and boom boom. City doesn’t
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