Herr Drosselmeier
September 24th, 2007, 04:27 AM
East of Eden
You can call me Heidi. All my friends do. My real name is Hydrangea. As the story goes, my Mom was pretty far along in her pregnancy when she and my Dad strolled over to our neighbor’s garden. Mr. K. was planting hydrangea. He was a devout gardener with a consummate wit. After exchanging salutations with my parents, he greeted my Mom’s big round belly with a cheery, “Good morning, Hydrangea,” and the name just sort of stuck. But, Mr. K. gave me more than my name; he was my first best friend. Let me tell you the whole story.
Originally, our property, next to his, in the country, was our vacation home. Around that time, my parents lived primarily in the city. That’s where I was born. Very soon after I came into this world, my Dad left it. He was killed in an accident. The accident and loss haunted my Mom. She could no longer endure city life, so we relocated to our country home, next door to Mr. K.
In those days, my Mom was very quiet and introverted. She rarely left the boundaries of our property. Since there were no other children nearby, I felt lonely. When I was old enough to walk about our yard unsupervised, I would spy between the slats of the white picket fence at the bronzed old man, who was outside all day long, digging and planting and pruning. He used all kinds of interesting equipment, like a rusty red wheelbarrow to carry heavy stones, tall arching ladders that reached high into the trees, and hoses with spray nozzles that created beautiful misty rainbows. In his mid-eighties then, he still moved quickly and gracefully, as though he were dancing just as much as he was working the earth.
For a few days, with rapt attention, I watched the gardener. Then I noticed that someone began to leave the picket fence gate open. Cautiously, I entered the garden to get a better look. The man didn’t seem to notice me, so I kept getting closer and closer. Eventually, I was at his side as he went about his work. When he first spoke to me, his tone was very matter-of-fact, as if I was supposed to be there with him, as if I had always been there.
“Please hand me my gloves. Thank you. Now, we’re going to adze these new beds. You know, the word adze has the same letters as the word daze.”
I suppose that Mr. K. must have secured permission from my Mom to look after me. In any case, she never objected as I spent day after day on the other side of the picket fence. Sheltered under the attentive warmth and companionship of Mr. K.’s joyful presence, flitting about the flowers and fruit trees, my own confidence and optimism blossomed. Images of those idyllic days are impressed upon my memory as sunny pastel watercolors.
One night there was a terrible storm. Racing through the picket fence gateway early the next morning, I found Mr. K. already laboring to repair the damage. Among the casualties, a tree limb had fallen and crushed the beautiful hydrangea.
Assessing the devastation, I began crying.
“Heidi, come help me. This branch we must wrest; we can not rest.” He smiled at the quizzical look I gave him. “It’s a joke,” he explained.
I was upset and I snapped, “How can you make jokes now?”
I’ll never forget the look of compassion that Mr. K. bestowed upon me then. He put his arm around my shoulder and quietly explained. “My dear, dear girl, it breaks my heart just as much as yours to see this destruction. But if I were gloomy about it, would it make things any better? The only way that I know to fix sadness is with happiness. Like my shears and axe, I find that jokes can be sharp tools. They can sever blinds of sorrow to reveal the promise of faith and hope. When we are sad, any effort that we make to be happy, no matter how small, is a victory.”
With hard work and dedication, Mr. K. repaired the garden. Daily, I marveled at his strength and determination. Once I asked him how he had become so strong. He told me that as a young man he had trained his body and willpower by running marathon races. He said that he came from a family of athletes, and that his sister had been a great Olympian.
But, Mr. K. did not work incessantly. A good deal of our time together was spent exploring and talking and playing games. Once, when he was reminiscing about his childhood, he suddenly jumped up and exclaimed, “Try to catch me little sister!” Screaming with laughter, I lunged at him, but he quickly turned and avoided my grasp. I chased him, twisting and spinning, through the meadow, sure that I could outpace him in his big black Wellingtons. “Come on little sister, you can do it, catch me!” I tried harder. I was catching up to him. “Come on Michelle, you can do it!”
I stopped suddenly. “Why did you call me that?” I asked.
“Call you what?”
“Why did you call me Michelle? Is it a joke?”
Mr. K.’s gaze became interiorized. Finally, he turned his attention to me and with a sheepish smile said, “Well, little sister, it looks like you caught me without having to catch me.” I didn’t have a chance to sort that out because he immediately scooped me up in his arms and began carrying me, wriggling and giggling back up to the garden.
“So why did you call me Michelle?”
But all he would say is, “It’s time for lunch.”
Back in the garden, Mr. K located a ladder under the fruit trees and we filled a basket with figs. We carried the basket down a grassy hill and reclined under a large shade tree at the end of a soft field. A nearby brook gurgled pleasantly. Mr. K. took a fig from the basket. He took a bite and intoning a cowboy’s twang, exclaimed, “That’s good eatin’!”
I grabbed a fig and took a bite. The fruit was sweet and still warm from the sun. Mimicking Mr. K., I hollered “That’s good eatin’!”
Mr. K. and I took turns for several more rounds, eating figs and crooning our chant. Then I realized that he had subtly been altering his pronunciation each time, so that now he was saying, “That’s good Eden.”
A few months later, my Mom met my new Dad. A kind and gentle Doctor from Boston, he was able to reintroduce her into the world. Then changes came rapidly. It was decided that we would be moving to his home in Massachusetts. I did not want to leave Mr. K. and the beautiful garden.
Finally, the day of departure arrived. Even though I had been assured that we would come back to visit Mr. K., I had a premonition that I would not see him again. Sitting in the back seat of the car, my eyes red and my cheeks streaked with tears, I thrust my head through the open window as we pulled away from our home. Through trembling lips, I forced a smile, as best as I could, and called out to Mr. K., “So long, Michelle.”
You can call me Heidi. All my friends do. My real name is Hydrangea. As the story goes, my Mom was pretty far along in her pregnancy when she and my Dad strolled over to our neighbor’s garden. Mr. K. was planting hydrangea. He was a devout gardener with a consummate wit. After exchanging salutations with my parents, he greeted my Mom’s big round belly with a cheery, “Good morning, Hydrangea,” and the name just sort of stuck. But, Mr. K. gave me more than my name; he was my first best friend. Let me tell you the whole story.
Originally, our property, next to his, in the country, was our vacation home. Around that time, my parents lived primarily in the city. That’s where I was born. Very soon after I came into this world, my Dad left it. He was killed in an accident. The accident and loss haunted my Mom. She could no longer endure city life, so we relocated to our country home, next door to Mr. K.
In those days, my Mom was very quiet and introverted. She rarely left the boundaries of our property. Since there were no other children nearby, I felt lonely. When I was old enough to walk about our yard unsupervised, I would spy between the slats of the white picket fence at the bronzed old man, who was outside all day long, digging and planting and pruning. He used all kinds of interesting equipment, like a rusty red wheelbarrow to carry heavy stones, tall arching ladders that reached high into the trees, and hoses with spray nozzles that created beautiful misty rainbows. In his mid-eighties then, he still moved quickly and gracefully, as though he were dancing just as much as he was working the earth.
For a few days, with rapt attention, I watched the gardener. Then I noticed that someone began to leave the picket fence gate open. Cautiously, I entered the garden to get a better look. The man didn’t seem to notice me, so I kept getting closer and closer. Eventually, I was at his side as he went about his work. When he first spoke to me, his tone was very matter-of-fact, as if I was supposed to be there with him, as if I had always been there.
“Please hand me my gloves. Thank you. Now, we’re going to adze these new beds. You know, the word adze has the same letters as the word daze.”
I suppose that Mr. K. must have secured permission from my Mom to look after me. In any case, she never objected as I spent day after day on the other side of the picket fence. Sheltered under the attentive warmth and companionship of Mr. K.’s joyful presence, flitting about the flowers and fruit trees, my own confidence and optimism blossomed. Images of those idyllic days are impressed upon my memory as sunny pastel watercolors.
One night there was a terrible storm. Racing through the picket fence gateway early the next morning, I found Mr. K. already laboring to repair the damage. Among the casualties, a tree limb had fallen and crushed the beautiful hydrangea.
Assessing the devastation, I began crying.
“Heidi, come help me. This branch we must wrest; we can not rest.” He smiled at the quizzical look I gave him. “It’s a joke,” he explained.
I was upset and I snapped, “How can you make jokes now?”
I’ll never forget the look of compassion that Mr. K. bestowed upon me then. He put his arm around my shoulder and quietly explained. “My dear, dear girl, it breaks my heart just as much as yours to see this destruction. But if I were gloomy about it, would it make things any better? The only way that I know to fix sadness is with happiness. Like my shears and axe, I find that jokes can be sharp tools. They can sever blinds of sorrow to reveal the promise of faith and hope. When we are sad, any effort that we make to be happy, no matter how small, is a victory.”
With hard work and dedication, Mr. K. repaired the garden. Daily, I marveled at his strength and determination. Once I asked him how he had become so strong. He told me that as a young man he had trained his body and willpower by running marathon races. He said that he came from a family of athletes, and that his sister had been a great Olympian.
But, Mr. K. did not work incessantly. A good deal of our time together was spent exploring and talking and playing games. Once, when he was reminiscing about his childhood, he suddenly jumped up and exclaimed, “Try to catch me little sister!” Screaming with laughter, I lunged at him, but he quickly turned and avoided my grasp. I chased him, twisting and spinning, through the meadow, sure that I could outpace him in his big black Wellingtons. “Come on little sister, you can do it, catch me!” I tried harder. I was catching up to him. “Come on Michelle, you can do it!”
I stopped suddenly. “Why did you call me that?” I asked.
“Call you what?”
“Why did you call me Michelle? Is it a joke?”
Mr. K.’s gaze became interiorized. Finally, he turned his attention to me and with a sheepish smile said, “Well, little sister, it looks like you caught me without having to catch me.” I didn’t have a chance to sort that out because he immediately scooped me up in his arms and began carrying me, wriggling and giggling back up to the garden.
“So why did you call me Michelle?”
But all he would say is, “It’s time for lunch.”
Back in the garden, Mr. K located a ladder under the fruit trees and we filled a basket with figs. We carried the basket down a grassy hill and reclined under a large shade tree at the end of a soft field. A nearby brook gurgled pleasantly. Mr. K. took a fig from the basket. He took a bite and intoning a cowboy’s twang, exclaimed, “That’s good eatin’!”
I grabbed a fig and took a bite. The fruit was sweet and still warm from the sun. Mimicking Mr. K., I hollered “That’s good eatin’!”
Mr. K. and I took turns for several more rounds, eating figs and crooning our chant. Then I realized that he had subtly been altering his pronunciation each time, so that now he was saying, “That’s good Eden.”
A few months later, my Mom met my new Dad. A kind and gentle Doctor from Boston, he was able to reintroduce her into the world. Then changes came rapidly. It was decided that we would be moving to his home in Massachusetts. I did not want to leave Mr. K. and the beautiful garden.
Finally, the day of departure arrived. Even though I had been assured that we would come back to visit Mr. K., I had a premonition that I would not see him again. Sitting in the back seat of the car, my eyes red and my cheeks streaked with tears, I thrust my head through the open window as we pulled away from our home. Through trembling lips, I forced a smile, as best as I could, and called out to Mr. K., “So long, Michelle.”