"FLOWER POWER"

c. 2007 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(5-07)


It was a sunny day in Las Vegas. My Corona Cerveza tasted cool and refreshing, with a proper hint of lime. The air carried pungent scents of fruit nectar and desert flowers. Conversations buzzed across the patio. Yet no one was in a hurry to go anywhere else. My poolside chair was oversized, and comfy. Reflections bounced from the water with restless squiggles of color. Quietly, I began to doze ...

My wife announced the break of sunrise like a bugler at dawn. "Good morning, Rodney! Good morning to youuuuuuuu!"

I was startled by her voice. "What? Morning already??" My oasis on the Nevada sand had gone away. IT WAS ONLY A DREAM!

Liz showed little mercy. She poured coffee, then pressed a set of keys into my hand. "Rise and shine, sweet pea! I need another load of
dirt for the yard!"

"You're kidding, right?" I protested. "We just bought one yesterday."

She grew impatient. "Your truck is empty. I need more soil for my flower beds!"

"Beds?" I whimpered. "Umm ... isn't one bed enough?"

Proudly, she opened her gardening notebook. "I stayed up late, brainstorming and designing a plan. Look at this! Our house will be beautiful!"

I nodded. "Of course."

Her irritation couldn't be hidden. "You didn't even read it!"

"Not true," I fibbed. "Your sketch looks fantastic ... "

She giggled at my mock-sincerity. "Liar! Drink your coffee! After I run to Chardon, I'll be ready for that dirt!"

I stumbled to the kitchen, in search of breakfast. Java tasted good, but it didn't match the tang of a Mexican brew. I needed something more substantial to scatter dream remnants from my head. Leigh and Soccer Fairy were leaving for school. Only Paddy, our playful Pomeranian, shared my unease with the abrupt intrusion of daylight.

"Yip?" he said, panting. His tail wagged like a curled shaving brush.

My-eyes burned. "Did you just get up, Padderson?"

"Yip, yip!" he exclaimed.

I felt vindicated. "Well, at least we're moving now ... "

"Yowf" he cheered.

I started a pan of bologna and eggs. "Want to share? This is gonna be tasty!" Carefully, I seasoned the dish with Tabasco sauce.

Paddy covered his eyes. "Yowwwwwl!"

"Okay, maybe not," I said.

He disappeared without another comment.

I had breakfast while at the household computer. Various e-mail messages flickered on our screen. Then, one appeared from the Davie Allan Internet fan group. We had been discussing 'Flower Power' and the merits of folk icon Bob Dylan. It was a diversion from typical
messages about King Fuzz, himself. Some had negative vibes about the former Robert Zimmerman. After pausing to read contrasting opinions that resulted, I offered a final word of my own:

"Great posts about Dylan (Sorry, a bit off topic?) I've been waiting to form a coherent reply of my own. I realize that Bobby Z. doesn't connect with everyone. But the man is a supremely talented songwriter. He is prolific in the tradition of artists from yonder days. Think of it,
50 years as a body of work? From a writing standpoint, it is nearly impossible to sustain that kind of effort. Few can be 'relevant' for that long. I used to call Dylan 'The Bridge' because he spanned the generation between my father’s music (Pete Seeger, The Weavers, Leadbelly, Robert Johnson) and my own 'modern' stuff (The Yardbirds, The Rolling Stones, The Byrds, etc) with great skill. His ability to sometimes mystify his own audience (going electric in the 60's, or the Christian themes in the 80's) is part of his unique personality. In a sense, he is still soul-searching, even after half a century. Unlike almost every other figure from the 60's, he has made no effort to mine gold from repeating himself. Dylan's success came strictly on the value of his writing, which is even more laudable. His voice? Cartoonish at best. His musicianship? Not exceptional. His stage presence? Not overwhelming in the sense of providing visual entertainment to compliment his music. It was and is about ... his ability to be a provocative wordsmith. Perhaps that is why he has endured for so long? I tend to think that
is why DAVIE has survived as well – because he has a consistent, passionate artistic vision. Those who seek favor with the industry (or fans) will typically be disappointed. Because favor can be given and withdrawn without reasonable cause. Those who 'make art for art's sake' are
destined to fare better, I reckon. Okay, just one more opinion. Thanks for listening!"

I had just finished sending my message when Liz pulled into our driveway. She cheered loudly, sending pets scampering in all directions. I could see great bunches of leafy foliage hanging from her windows. "Oh, did I find a deal on plants this year!"

My mouth dropped open. "Nothing but ... pink flowers?"

"Yes!" she chirped. "Pink petunias! A dozen flats in all!"

I was stunned. "I thought we were putting out the 'gazing ball' this year. And my flamingoes!"

"Plastic birds and a shiny ball!" she answered. "When you can have floral kisses from nature?"

"And how about a tire garden?" I said. "We've still have the spare from Uncle Zeb's '69 Ford F-150 ... fill it up with all the kisses you want!"

Liz frowned. "No! Stop talking like ... like a Hillbilly!"

"Show a little respect for rural culture" I protested. ''After all, you're the fan of country music in our household!"

She stiffened. "Rodney! Why do you have to make things difficult?"

I couldn't keep from laughing. ''I'm the man. It's my job, right?"

"Ohhh!" she squealed. "You're the biggest poo I've ever seen!"

After finding my baseball cap, I left to purchase another load of dirt from Hemly Trucking in Montville. If nothing else, the project seemed sure to put my wife’s enthusiasm to good use. Landscaping made her truly happy. It represented her own interpretation of 'Flower Power.'

By nightfall, Liz was exhausted. She collapsed on the couch after one cup of coffee. I waited until her restless whispers subsided. Then, my opportunity for stealth gardening arrived at last…

It was time to dig out my uncle's spare tire!

FROM THE GEAUGA COUNTY MAPLE LEAF, CHARDON, OHIO