THE MASSACRE OF '94
When we bought our home, the selling point was the back garden. It had everything that I felt a curious and happy child would want.
Grassy areas to run in, a veggie patch to dig in, secret nooks to hide in, stairs (just a few) to skip up and down, trees to climb and rocks to perch upon. The original owner (a landscaper) had used some lovely techniques to divide the odd shaped area into five distinct sections on three levels. Our son had turned two just before we moved in. I was jealous of him and the fun I knew he would have growing up with such a magical place just outside his back door.
One of the things the previous owner pointed out to us was that he had planted "hundreds" of daffodil bulbs in various gardens around the house. Nine months later we discovered that he had not exaggerated! One featured daffodil bed was even wreathed in heavenly-scented grape hyacinths. Beautiful.
The following year as Spring arrived, my mother came visiting from America to meet her eighth grandson who was born four months earlier. To be sure that she and her husband got a decent taste of Down Under while they were here, we hired a van and went on a road trip down along the Shipwreck Coast, up through the Adelaide Hills and inland to the outback of Broken Hill (and the gallery of Pro Hart).
The four month old was a fairly good traveler, and our almost-four year old was blissfully happy at the back of the van with his supply of audio tapes, a monstrous pile of classic children's books such as Pinocchio and Alice and Wonderland, and his newest imaginary friend Simba (yes, the lion cub) to keep him company.
When we arrived home after two weeks on the road, we sighed that sigh one finds inside a home-in-waiting. The sun was setting and as I opened windows to air the house I noticed that our garden had sprung into life in our absence. The cheerful daffodils were grinning huge smiles of welcome, and the tiny purple grape hyacinths seemed to be dancing in circles around them. Yes, there is no place like home.
The next morning I was anxious to enjoy this lovely domestic view over breakfast with my mom. I drew back the curtains in the kitchen and to my horror saw that all the hyacinths had been executed! Their bright purple heads strewn helter-skelter on the lawn!
Aghast, I cried, "What HAPPENED?" My almost-four year old followed my eyes. He had been playing in the back yard since dawn. "Oh," he chirped, "I picked them all."
"WHY???" I implored. This child was not known to be destructive and my mind boggled that he was responsible for such a murderous act. Half expecting him to make up a long and delightfully imaginative story (that would implicate Simba) I was not ready for his blunt answer.
"I didn't like them."
"Oh."
Well ... Hmmm. I guess this is what you get when you fill a child's head with stories of fancy and precocious behaviour! His nose had not grown like Pinnochio's. It wasn't Simba's fault at all. It was mine ... and Lewis Carroll's. The Queen of Hearts had planted her catchcry in his little mind. "Off with their heads!" she had cried with each reading of the story, and now he finally had found an opportunity to swiftly execute her royal decree.
My poor little hyacinths didn't get a chance to embrace their full potential that Spring. But a certain little boy learned very quickly that picking flowers without permission is NOT a good idea.
The lovely display garden has since been paved over, but as the hardy descendents of the survivors of the Massacre of '94 begin popping up around our yard this Spring, I can't help but remember ... and smile.
The featured layout uses digital product from Little Feet Digital Designs, Creative Memories and Irene Alexeeva. The Queen of Hearts illustration is from a card posted on Lambsworld.
