Front Yard by Norman Draper Page A

concern.”
    Nan leaned over the tabletop toward her in a conspiratorial way and began to whisper.
    â€œI’ve heard through the grapevine that hybrid tea roses are stuck-up prima donnas. Real snobs. Um-hmmm. And that they will cause us nothing but grief.”
    Wanting to be cooperative and conspiratorial, too, even though she had no idea what Nan was talking about, Shirelle lurched forward instead of leaning slowly, almost knocking heads with Nan. Nan cupped her hands around her mouth to whisper into Shirelle’s ear, which Shirelle had obligingly tilted toward her.
    â€œOur backyard friends,” she said. “Our flowers. They know these things.” Shirelle nodded, then slowly looked around as if to spot any hidden and unwelcome eavesdroppers. She knew Mrs. Fremont was well-versed in the arcane art of plant whispering, but this was taking it to a whole new level. She tingled with excitement.
    â€œOrdinarily, you might chalk this up to pettiness and jealousy,” Nan said. “But this is coming from reliable sources, too. You know, the petunias. They’re only here for a year. They believe they have to prove themselves during their brief existence by not only making themselves beautiful, but by ratting on the bad influences in the gardens.”
    Shirelle just nodded. What could you say when someone was passing on such a remarkable confidence?
    â€œWell, let’s go ahead with them,” said Nan, pulling away from Shirelle and throwing her hands up. “I’m sure we can handle a few difficult characters in the gardens. Not everyone can have the stoicism of the clematis or the equanimity of the daylily.”
    â€œOr the humor of the variegated dogwoods,” said George, chuckling. “They’re such a hoot!”
    â€œYes, dear, you do have a way with the variegated dogwoods, don’t you? You must have tapped into their male persona. Their female persona is too snooty by far for my taste. Well, and I did have that problem with the Dusty Miller.”
    â€œAh, yes,” said Shirelle. “I heard about that.”
    George wrinkled his nose and frowned.
    â€œThey wouldn’t grow for me, the little albino shits. They were the only ones that never responded to anything I did. All my coaxing, putting them first in line for the Miracle-Gro, singing my favorite songs to them. Lord knows, I tried everything. I’ll try them again sometime, though I must have earned a pretty bad reputation, yanking them out of the soil and throwing them in the compost the way I did.”
    â€œMassacre,” George said. “They might have been mutes. Did you ever stop to consider that?”
    â€œThat’s putting it a little strong, George. Besides, they weren’t wanted. I never heard any of the other plants complaining about it when I did that. It was a ‘good riddance’ kind of thing.”
    Shirelle smiled. Wasn’t it amazing that Mrs. Fremont could actually talk to her flowers! And Mr. Fremont, too, though Shirelle couldn’t help but believe that that was likely on a much more rudimentary level.
    â€œDon’t forget the Baltimore oriole feeder and the bluebird houses, Shirelle.”
    â€œHuh? I mean, excuse me?” Shirelle placed her fingertips decorously on her lips as if she had just said something untoward and instantly regretted it.
    â€œThe oriole feeder.”
    Birds. Shirelle knew nothing about birds.
    â€œAnd, while we’re at it, the bluebird houses. We already have them, so you don’t have to worry about making them.”
    Shirelle bent over her drawing, looking for the best place to put these new additions to the front yard gardens. She stroked her chin, erased something, then drew something in. Nan leaned over to try to get a peek.
    â€œSimple,” said Shirelle. “I’ve got the bluebird houses at either end of the highest part of the slope, then the oriole feeder smack in the middle, among the hybrid