Beech Tree News Network

When Garey and I were young in a very young marriage, I ordered tulip bulbs—seventy-two, to be exact.  The bulbs were on sale in one of those seed and plant catalogues they’re always sending you in the mail.  They were on sale, because it was late fall and fast approaching the cut-off date during which tulip bulbs could be planted in order to lift their little heads from the soil and bloom in time for spring.
Late one afternoon, the bulbs finally arrived.  I opened the package, counted the bulbs—seventy-two exactly—and read the attached planting instructions, paying particular attention to the must-be-planted-by date for my zone, which happened to be that very day.  I had to get the bulbs into the ground at a depth of five and one-half inches, and I had to start digging right away; otherwise, who knew what cosmic, Mayan, fall or vernal equinox influences were at work, and what sway they might have over the small bulbs.  When Garey got home, I had gotten only twenty bulbs into the ground, and it was nearly dark.  I was in tears.  I explained my situation to him.
    “Cheryl, it won’t matter if you don’t get the tulips in the ground until tomorrow,” he told me, “One day won’t make a difference.”
    “Yes it will!” I shot back.  “You’re always criticizing me for not reading product instructions.  Well, I read them, and they say the bulbs have to be in the ground by midnight tonight, so if I have to do this by flashlight, I’m getting it done tonight!”
    Garey, being the reasonable guy that he was and still is, and knowing it was of no use to argue with me when I was in this particular state of mind, pulled his pickup around to the patch of ground where I was planting, and turned on the headlights so we could see what we were doing.  We dug and planted for the next two hours until every bulb was in the ground.
    Sometimes, I look back on my younger, unreasonable self and say what my friend, Greg Hampton often says about himself: I’m just here by being lucky.  After raising my daughter, Natalie, and helping to raise my granddaughter, Sabria, I’ve realized something else.  Unreasonable is a genetic disorder. 
    When Natalie was a little girl, she decided she and I should go visit Kate from “Math Net,” a show that aired every afternoon on KET.  I could not convince her that I did not know Kate, and furthermore, had no idea where Kate might live.  She went for days believing I was being selfish and unfair for not taking her to visit someone she considered a friend. 
    Sabria often has the same sort of mindset.  One afternoon when I picked her up at Mrs. McCoy’s house (a woman she stays with two days a week) she walked out to our car and said, “I want a red car.”
    “We don’t have a red car,” I said, “We have a silver car.”
    “But I want a red car,” she argued, “And I want the roof to go down like Peppa Pig’s (Peppa Pig is a cartoon figure) and we need to get one.”
    “Well, I’m sorry, but this is all the car we’re going to have for a while,” I said.  “Red cars cost a lot, so you need to save your money, and when you have enough, I will personally take you to get one.”
My answer seemed to appease her, for a while, anyway.
    One of my elderly friends—she passed away this year—told me that she sat up in bed one morning, and announced to her husband, “I want a mink coat!  And I want one today!”
    “What happened?” I asked.
    “I got a mink coat,” she answered, in a voice that implied, “What do you think happened?”
    I suspect Sabria will own a red convertible one day; although, I’m not sure Natalie will ever meet Kate.
    My tulips were gorgeous that spring—all seventy-two of them.