Stolen: One Garden Trowel

It was Autumn. 

1972.

Mama Rabbit was preparing dinner, when I blustered through the door bringing in a swirl of fallen leaves and discarded candy wrappers.

We found Papa John at the cemetery, Mum,” I announced proudly. “And lotsa people deader than him!”

My mother looked over her shoulder, as Gramma Rabbit entered.

“Deader?” she repeated to her mother-in-law, as I was still sharing my day’s adventures. “That’s very exciting, Hon, but you need to wash up. Dinner is almost ready!”

Happily, I took off to do just that, but would not learn about their additional conversation until much later:

“I thought you were taking him out on a picnic, Emily,” Mum scolded rolling her eyes. “So, you took him to a cemetery?”

“We had a family reunion picnic, Ethel, and he loved it! Besides his grandfather, he met *all* of his great grandparents. We went to all three cemeteries around The Lake.”

“I just want a normal child, Mother Rabbit,” Mum confessed, as she ladled out generous portions of beef stew. “Is that really too much to ask?”

“I’m sorry, Dearie, but the best answers to his questions are found in the cemeteries.”

“Take him to the Library!” the home cook countered. “They have newspapers on film, he can read the obituaries!”

Three years later, Gramma Rabbit left to join Papa John.

It was another two years before I tried exploring on my own, with an old notebook, a couple pencils and Mama Rabbit’s gardening trowel!

And Mum? She fretted over me for years, hoping that my cemetery outings was just some phase that I would grow out of.

Twenty-Five years later, she was discouraged to hear from MiLady that I had stolen her gardening trowel and watering can. I had added them to my explorer’s kit, that was recently expanded to include a digital camera (to capture unique pictures to describe on my blog) and three well-used water pistols!

SLR

 

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