Arising from her plot of red, white, and blue pompoms, Greta could not shake the feeling of having been buried prematurely. Willing to make the most of the situation and never one to ignore a good landscaping idea, she made a mental note that hydrangeas would be a wonderful thing to plant around a tombstone. And so she would be able to write down such inspirations in the future, she made another mental note to invest in one of those Blackberry contraptions.
These notes and countless others were never heard from again.
Oh my, it was sunny that day. Greta was so jealous of how much sun the Mission District got. She figured it would be impossible to locate a single life form here without a tan. Looking around at the jarring bursts of color, she was forced to admit that Miss Roxenbury’s garden was superior to hers in every way.
Suddenly, a bumble bee the size of a walnut happily rumbled by. It sounded as if, for a brief moment, someone had turned on an air-conditioning unit.
“Why didn’t the fog travel here?” Greta huffed. Sitting in her bed of flowers, she schemed of ways she could upset the ecosystem. Perhaps there was a scientific method for triggering a self-contained, bio-spherical instance of global warming, or burning a small hole in the ozone layer directly above her property, just big enough to give her clematis hope to bloom again.
Alas, the environmentalists would never allow it. They would be upon her faster than it took haricots verts to overcook. Frustrated, Greta took hold of a bunch of fuchsia innocently flourishing nearby, tore them from their growing place, and stuffed them into her pocket. They would know her pain, struggling to grow on her cold, windswept property in the middle of summer.
At that moment, out came Miss Roxenbury holding a hoe in her moisturized hands.
“Greta!” she hissed. “I saw that!”
To be continued…
