The Angry Estate Gardener
This afternoon, at my deceased friend Brian’s memorial, he was sent on (set off, he would say) by a few of his poet friends, but not remembered for his artful poetic leaps, as he had openly wished for. Remembered, instead, for his real work, which, according to the first presenting poet, was digging deep, emotionally harvesting, which yielded writing that ultimately moved other souls along. Nice, but that didn’t capture Brian. Wouldn’t move him — on. More than anything, that poet’s speech was about himself, about his work. That moved me to Brian’s tale about a brief job he needed to take during a tough stretch, which he titled The Angry Estate Gardener. First day, he and the gardener were on their way to the estate when some fast-driving privileged guy passed then cut them off. The gardener raged, rattled high-speed after the Porsche — in a pickup truck hitched to a trailer full of fertilizer. He pursued, but didn’t come close, and the gardener showed up on the job with half a load, which required him to go back for more shit. Speaking of, another poet rose and echoed the real work sentiments of the first. That took me to that angry gardener’s heavy investment in koi fish. He raised them till payday, when their skin maps, as he liked to say, expanded enough to stock all the pools in the estate’s private strolling garden. But payday came on the hottest day of the year. Regardless of heat and stress, the koi would be transported to the estate anyway, from far away, and in junk ice-chests — leaky, poor seals. Brian questioned the wisdom of the timing and leaks. Shut up, the gardener said, I know what I’m doing. The garden fountains sprung nothing but bloated fish. But there, finally, the gardener jumped back, realized, for the first time in his life, that he should have known better all along, Brian thought. That the forced situation was never going to work. Great, in terms of those poets purportedly delivering memorials for a friend, but what about Brian’s delivery? His Twin Banana Trees story! After the koi venture failure, the humbled gardener took better stock of himself, safely invested in a climate-controlled greenhouse, then wintered banana trees in it. Come Memorial Day, the banana trees were transported — with better care and timing — to the estate for pay-off, there planted outside the swimming pool’s iron gate, so to give off the leafy racket of global share — right! — during the estate owner’s July 4th corporate bash. Party underway, the owner approached the gardener and Brian to let them know how impressed he was with the trees, but couldn’t get over how shallow their roots were. “Hard to believe they can stand on their own,” the owner told the gardener, who now chose to remain reflectively silent. “No one can,” was all Brian said, covering, all at once, a lot of territory — from gardener to the great idea of global share so far from carried out, and right there was fired on the spot.
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Exercise After a Long Flight
If humans receive God-given or genetic gifts at birth, why not just reveal what those are? Full disclosure right from the start rather than the lifetime wander and tire, maybe stumble over a few small self-discoveries but never fully manifest, never know, at least, how far you got or how close you came to your full potential or design? Wouldn’t it be easier on individuals to know? And collectively maybe better for a planet burning from unexpected strivers hoarding land, wealth, resources, and now, minds? The counterargument, of course — Then what unknown would drive humans forward? — silly, it seems, and easy to rebut: less time wasted in search; more time spent perfecting, better planet. I’m staying at a Hilton Hampton a day ahead of a Monday business meeting. Why questions like these, now, here? Do I question where I am in my life? Do I have doubts about my choices thus far; about the person I’ve become or failed to become, my part? Always. Exhausting. To the motel exercise room, then, if for nothing else but to clear my head for Monday’s business meeting. If not that, just to get the kinks out. Another long flight. Today, though, I never got to the gym. After my nap, on my way there, I peeked in on an afternoon birthday party held in a rentable side room. Balloons covered the floor. Handmade signs were taped to the far wall: Happy Birthday, Ames. Ames: the gray-haired gentleman sitting at a small table centered between and at the ends of two longer tables of guests. Open boxes and presents crowded his table, but the glimpse of adoration on every family member’s or friend’s face grabbed my attention. Every face, I felt absolutely sure, said It took this long, but finally, I nailed it, the perfect gift for you. It occurred to me, then, that one can’t directly know or personally realize their God-given or genetic gifts, but others offering gifts to the honored person may, over time, come closest to defining who the receiving person has become. I hope you’re paying attention, Ames, I thought. You may never know how far you got, but this is about as close as you’ll ever get to knowing who you’ve become. I didn’t feel like exercising after that, and so returned to the lobby and flopped on a couch. Sunday: hotel dead. I fixed on the unattended main desk, and fell into a kind of stupor, till the desk clerk appeared from behind that one-way window in back. Ames’ birthday party over, guests trickled out. The clerk made his appearance to smile and say Come again or to return the checked coats. Ames was now accompanied by his wife, who had her coat on. One of those types, I thought, who values their coat so highly they don’t trust checking it. Anyway, Ames and his wife thanked departing birthday guests till everyone was gone, and then, Ames retrieved his coat. His wife helped him slip it on and adjust, then, looking him over, said, “This is the happiest you’ve looked all day, maybe ever.” Because he knows who he’s become, I thought, and watched Ames and his wife each drag a plastic green garbage bag bulging with Ames’ gifts out the all-glass entrance and across the parking lot to their car. Soon after, ready to return to my room and locate a spot for dinner, I stood and stretched. Another hotel guest got off the elevator, headed straight for the desk. There’s been a mistake, he said, tossing a coat across the counter. This isn’t my coat. It’s the same size and make as mine, but look, the name on the nametag. I’m not Ames Wykoff. Maybe not, the clerk said, and covered with, But it’s the coat you checked. So, it’s on you. Happiest; maybe ever, I recalled Ames’ wife saying, and thought, Happiest self when known by filling someone else’s coat. Wouldn’t that be easiest? Anyway, I won’t be back, but I slept very well.