They planted a tree. Those kids even watered it
using the tin can one of em had found in their parents tool shed.
Thereafter, they got busy taking turns pretending to ride rodeo or motorcycle
on the garden mower parked therein.
Ralph screamed at em
told em to step away from
the rake, the spade and the wound garden hose. His program, the one for men and
women of other sorts of mental well being, had let out early on
account of St. Patricks Day. He meant to safeguard the family compound.
So, they scattered, climbing, finally, into their backyard
treehouse, cept for Johnny, Ralphs favorite brother, who told Ralph
the tree planted in the strip tween the sidewalk and street was a gift
for him. Ralph would have to fight bugs and tinkling dogs, would have to water
it and pull weeds.
Many years later, when Johnny, ever a neer-do-well
bachelor, was carted off to veteran-sponsored retirement home, the locals came
for Ralph. Sure, they found roaches, mice droppings and ceiling-high piles of
dirty laundry. What those folks never counted on, though, was Ralph hugging his