Picking Daisies
Cup of icy lemonade in hand, I stopped in the living room for a perusal of the front garden on the way back to work at my computer. There was a woman and a little boy staring at the flowers in the garden.
This happens a lot. No worries. The gardens are lovely.
So I stand there, sipping my lemony goodness, and watch them pointing and chatting about this flower and that flower.
And then...
... they begin to pick the flowers. Not just one or two - that is forgivable - but great handfuls of all my flowers!
I plunked down my lemonade, ran for the key, whipped open the door, and burst out onto the porch, eyes a-flame.
"What are you doing?" I yell.
"Picking flowers," the woman says.
"You can't just pick flowers out of my garden," I shout.
"Is this your garden?" she asks.
"It's in front of my house, isn't it?" I snap.
"Oh, we thought it was one of those pick-your-own places," she simpers.
"What? Are you kidding me?" I say. (It's a small yard in front of an obvious house on a street lined with similar small yards and houses.)
She frowns and shrugs. Her little boy is staring back and forth between us.
I walk over to where they are (she pulls her boy almost behind her, like I'll swoop down and eat him up) and hold my hand out. "My flowers," I snap.
"You want them now?" she asks, looking dumbfounded.
"I planted them," I say. "Of course I want them."
She hands over the flowers and, as I stand there with my hand out, she takes the flowers from her kid and hands them over to me. She is starting to glare.
I bend down to the boy (he was maybe 6 or 7) and hand him three of the biggest, nicest flowers. "It's never okay to steal things out of people's yards, hon," I say with a smile. "If you had asked nicely, I would've let you pick a few flowers, but you can't take without asking. That's stealing, and stealing is wrong."
The women goes all indignant and grabs her sons hand and pulls him away.
I retreat inside my house and put my flowers in vases.
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