Feudin', a-Fussin', and a-Fightin'
Prior to Memorial Day I had purchased a few potted plants to place on my parents' graves, along with a large hanging arrangement of pink double impatiens that were very beautiful - the blossoms looked like miniature roses. It was a rather expensive undertaking, but I felt it was worth it.
When my uncle died in mid-June - coincidentally buried right next to my Mom - we were shocked and surprised to learn the large collection of impatiens had been removed from its spot. My sister noticed an arrangement that looked suspiciously similar to our flowers hanging on old Mr. Fleets' grave fifty yards away, but since these types of plants are ubiquitous at this time of year and have, admittedly, a generic appearance to them, we had no solid proof that old Mrs. Fleets (yep, just like the enema) was involved in any way. She had been the village battleaxe for as long as I could remember, terrorizing our otherwise sleepy hamlet with her absurd rants and ridiculous causes (wealthy as a Rockefeller, she was stingy as hell, once petitioning the town for a reduction in her taxes since, no longer having children in the school system, she should not be forced into supporting the education of strangers). My sister and my aunts and I all agreed that this incident had all the earmarks of a typical "Old Lady Fleets" escapade.
A couple of weeks later I purchased another large hanging pot of bright purple fuchsias to replace the lost flowers, this time in a rather more distinctive planter than the one the impatiens had been in, only to have it promptly disappear less than five days later. I looked over at the Fleets' plot but the fuchsias were not there. Still, I was more convinced than ever that Mrs. Fleets - perhaps with the assistance of her son Harold - was the responsible party, but I hadn't a shred of evidence.
Last weekend I purchased yet another huge hanging basket of bright red double impatiens, only this time I surreptitiously scratched our last name in tiny letters on the bottom of the pot, and then I planted the bait.
This morning I drove to the cemetery to water the flowers, to find once again the basket was gone, predictably found sunning merrily on the Fleets' site, confirmed by my etched identifier on the bottom of our property.
Similar to my Mom in disposition, I am normally a pretty laid back and easy going individual until my dander is up, and then I turn into a Munchkin on a Mission. I put my pre-formulated plan into motion. I telephoned my friend Jake and instructed him to put on his tightest wifebeater (to display his massive pecs and delts), a pair of his military olive drab camouflage fatigues and ass-kickin' army boots, and meet me at the cemetery. I assured him he would have to say nothing, that I would do all the talking. Jake's presence was merely to ensure that I would be taken seriously. Upon his arrival, we drove over to the Fleets residence, with the evidence of the crime in tow.
As we mounted the graciously wide stairs onto the large, wrap-around porch, I noticed what was undoubtedly my fuchsia plant swaying gently in the summer breeze, hanging in the center of the entry. My blood pressure went through the ceiling, but with all the steely calm I could muster, I rang the doorbell. Harold Fleets answered, a pot-bellied sixty year old with a case of osteoporosis nearly as pronounced as his mother's. He looked sourly at me first, then with nervous astonishment at Jake towering behind me, like a surly mastodon with Pit Bull instincts. My voice was level but icy.
"Mr. Fleets, I wonder if you could explain why flowers that I purchase for the graves of my parents keep ending up on your father's plot?" When he began to make noises of denial, I interrupted him, shoving the offending plant into his face and showing him the inscription on the bottom of the pot. "We have just come from the cemetery. This plant - with our family name on the planter, can you see that? - was taken from my parents' grave and found on your father's grave site instead. I thought perhaps you…" - and here I raised my voice a bit, knowing the shriveled old cunt was within earshot - "or your mother could offer me some reasonable explanation as to how and why this keeps happening."
Harold's face was shining with sweat and he glanced again at Jake, who glowered down over my shoulder at him. "I… I don't know… we're not taking them…" Harold faltered.
I launched at him again. "It's a pretty despicable thing, to steal flowers from someone else's grave. Especially when one has the means to buy flowers of their own. It would certainly be more meaningful to the memory of the late loved one." Harold was about to speak, but another peek at Jake silenced him. "You and your mother have been officially put on notice, Mr. Fleets," I explained stonily. "My friend Jake here is my witness."
Without waiting for a response, I turned and began to march off the porch, only to stop and carefully, purposefully eye the purple fuchsia. I stared at it long and hard, and then, my eyes narrowed to slits, I silently looked back at Harold, who was by now clearly frightened. Jake mimicked my expression with even deadlier resolve, followed by a noise that sounded half like he was clearing his throat and half like a growl. With that we both strode back to the car.
When we got in, Jake murmured with quiet, rumbling amusement, "I think ol' Harold just pissed himself."
When my uncle died in mid-June - coincidentally buried right next to my Mom - we were shocked and surprised to learn the large collection of impatiens had been removed from its spot. My sister noticed an arrangement that looked suspiciously similar to our flowers hanging on old Mr. Fleets' grave fifty yards away, but since these types of plants are ubiquitous at this time of year and have, admittedly, a generic appearance to them, we had no solid proof that old Mrs. Fleets (yep, just like the enema) was involved in any way. She had been the village battleaxe for as long as I could remember, terrorizing our otherwise sleepy hamlet with her absurd rants and ridiculous causes (wealthy as a Rockefeller, she was stingy as hell, once petitioning the town for a reduction in her taxes since, no longer having children in the school system, she should not be forced into supporting the education of strangers). My sister and my aunts and I all agreed that this incident had all the earmarks of a typical "Old Lady Fleets" escapade.
A couple of weeks later I purchased another large hanging pot of bright purple fuchsias to replace the lost flowers, this time in a rather more distinctive planter than the one the impatiens had been in, only to have it promptly disappear less than five days later. I looked over at the Fleets' plot but the fuchsias were not there. Still, I was more convinced than ever that Mrs. Fleets - perhaps with the assistance of her son Harold - was the responsible party, but I hadn't a shred of evidence.
Last weekend I purchased yet another huge hanging basket of bright red double impatiens, only this time I surreptitiously scratched our last name in tiny letters on the bottom of the pot, and then I planted the bait.
This morning I drove to the cemetery to water the flowers, to find once again the basket was gone, predictably found sunning merrily on the Fleets' site, confirmed by my etched identifier on the bottom of our property.
Similar to my Mom in disposition, I am normally a pretty laid back and easy going individual until my dander is up, and then I turn into a Munchkin on a Mission. I put my pre-formulated plan into motion. I telephoned my friend Jake and instructed him to put on his tightest wifebeater (to display his massive pecs and delts), a pair of his military olive drab camouflage fatigues and ass-kickin' army boots, and meet me at the cemetery. I assured him he would have to say nothing, that I would do all the talking. Jake's presence was merely to ensure that I would be taken seriously. Upon his arrival, we drove over to the Fleets residence, with the evidence of the crime in tow.
As we mounted the graciously wide stairs onto the large, wrap-around porch, I noticed what was undoubtedly my fuchsia plant swaying gently in the summer breeze, hanging in the center of the entry. My blood pressure went through the ceiling, but with all the steely calm I could muster, I rang the doorbell. Harold Fleets answered, a pot-bellied sixty year old with a case of osteoporosis nearly as pronounced as his mother's. He looked sourly at me first, then with nervous astonishment at Jake towering behind me, like a surly mastodon with Pit Bull instincts. My voice was level but icy.
"Mr. Fleets, I wonder if you could explain why flowers that I purchase for the graves of my parents keep ending up on your father's plot?" When he began to make noises of denial, I interrupted him, shoving the offending plant into his face and showing him the inscription on the bottom of the pot. "We have just come from the cemetery. This plant - with our family name on the planter, can you see that? - was taken from my parents' grave and found on your father's grave site instead. I thought perhaps you…" - and here I raised my voice a bit, knowing the shriveled old cunt was within earshot - "or your mother could offer me some reasonable explanation as to how and why this keeps happening."
Harold's face was shining with sweat and he glanced again at Jake, who glowered down over my shoulder at him. "I… I don't know… we're not taking them…" Harold faltered.
I launched at him again. "It's a pretty despicable thing, to steal flowers from someone else's grave. Especially when one has the means to buy flowers of their own. It would certainly be more meaningful to the memory of the late loved one." Harold was about to speak, but another peek at Jake silenced him. "You and your mother have been officially put on notice, Mr. Fleets," I explained stonily. "My friend Jake here is my witness."
Without waiting for a response, I turned and began to march off the porch, only to stop and carefully, purposefully eye the purple fuchsia. I stared at it long and hard, and then, my eyes narrowed to slits, I silently looked back at Harold, who was by now clearly frightened. Jake mimicked my expression with even deadlier resolve, followed by a noise that sounded half like he was clearing his throat and half like a growl. With that we both strode back to the car.
When we got in, Jake murmured with quiet, rumbling amusement, "I think ol' Harold just pissed himself."