Spouse and I took time out from our busy schedule of tractor buying, house cleaning and raccoon fighting to tour the gardens at Canning Perennials on Saturday. Canning has a yard-front retail operation that seems quite extensive as these things go, but the real draw on site is the elaborate show gardens out back of the sales area. Spouse has a bit of a thing for such places, so soon after our arrival there, we began our little tour.
When there are dark and ominous thunder clouds gathering overhead, and when one looks about one’s person and sees exactly zero in the way of foul weather gear, and when one further does not have even so much as an umbrella to hand and the low rumble of thunder can be heard in the distance, one tends to traverse the wide open spaces characteristic of display gardens at a brisker than average pace. Spouse and I began our tour languidly, strolling hither and yon and smelling the various beautiful flowers, but as a storm worthy of Dorothy and Toto began to march ever closer, our aimless waltz among the peonies steadily transformed into a foxtrot as we reached the point in the gardens that was farthest from our vehicle and cast a suspicious eye towards the ever-darkening skies. The foxtrot turned into a jitterbug as cold dollops of rain began to sporadically plop down upon us while we urgently covered the ground on the heavily wooded trail heading back in the direction of the parking lot. We managed to avoid getting soaked, but near the end of our trip through the gardens, we were essentially at a dead run crashing through the trees and underbrush across the trails leading to sheltered safety.
In such circumstances, horticultural tours are thirsty and hungry work. Before heading to Wal-Mart to complete our errands for the day, we resolved to look after our rapidly increasing comestible deficit by stopping in at a nearby Subway restaurant for a nosh. Stomachs growling, we studied the menu board behind the counter. Spouse made her choice and approached the sandwich artist on duty, a young woman with the silhouette of a broomstick, braces that would outweigh the grille/bumper assembly on a ’57 Dodge, and a distinctly Valley-girlesque manner of speech.
Spouse placed her order. Moon Unit looked at Spouse and advised her, “You actually have a caterpillar in your hair.”
I checked; she did.