Leota's Garden Read Online Free PDF Page B

long-abandoned garden, her place of retreat and renewal. She merely glanced at it now—it hurt too much to see the scraggly roses growing in a tangle, the undisciplined bushes that had once been so carefully shaped. Weeds poked up everywhere, choking out the flowers. The lawn was dead in some places and overgrown in others. Pots still lined the brick restraining wall, but the precious plants she had purchased with hard-earned money were dead, some from thirst through the summer months and others drowned by winter rains. The cherries that had dropped last year had rotted on the small patio, leaving stains like drops of dried blood. Oh, and her lovely lavender-purple wisteria . . .
    Leota closed her eyes against the grief. Her wisteria had gone wild, shoots twisting, twining, and thickening until they broke the overburdened lattice now sagging and blocking the gate to the vegetable garden—a garden that once yielded enough to feed her family and the neighbors. Now it produced nothing but mustard flowers and milkweed—and tiny apricot trees from the fruit that had dropped and rotted into the ground.
    Flexing her fingers slowly, Leota reached for the newspaper, sliding the blue rubber band off and putting it into an empty plastic margarine container. All those silly rubber bands, one for every day of every year she’d been reading the Oakland Tribune . What was she going to do with all of them? What was she going to do with the dozens of plastic margarine containers stored in the pantry? Or the pie tins? Or the magazines? Thank the Lord the magazine subscriptions had run out and no more were coming. Now there was a bane from Satan called junk mail.
    Though inclined to read the paper, Leota decided a glance was enough. What good would it do her to read the details of how the world at large was going to hell in a handbasket? Iraq and its madman. Soviet splinter countries with their nuclear weapons and hot tempers. Japan and China with their ancient grudges. As for the local news, she already knew Oakland had more than its share of murder and mayhem and government corruption. Editorials? The same old stuff year after year. Why read about it? The last time she read the whole page, they werefiring pros and cons about teaching inner-city children ebonics! What happened to learning proper English? She thought of how hard Mama Reinhardt had practiced the language, even though she never intended to work outside the home. And Papa, who did manage to learn English well, only worked until the war years; then fear and suspicion kept him unemployed.
    No, she didn’t need to read the front page to see that the world hadn’t changed much in her lifetime. If she wanted details, she could watch them in living color on one of the news shows that ran between four in the afternoon and eleven at night. She had watched from time to time and seen the same carnage repeated hour after hour. No need for people to go out and rubberneck anymore. They could see actual footage from a police car window if they liked. As for wars, take a good long look at CNN. And nothing was too disgusting or perverse to be discussed openly on any number of talk shows.
    “Don’t even get me started on the sitcoms,” she muttered to the silence. Politically correct was just another way of saying anything goes, no matter how deviant. And all this hoop-tee-la about celebrities, most of whom she didn’t know.
    Lord, why don’t You just take me home? I’m tired. I hurt. I’m sick of seeing what’s happening in the world. It’s getting worse. I’m no good to anyone. I’ve become a cranky old hag who scares neighbor children half to death. Those I love have their own lives to live. Isn’t that the name of a soap opera?
    That was something she swore she would never do. Watch soap operas. But she was getting desperate. Sometimes she turned the television on for no other reason than to hear the sound of another human voice.
    She found the newspaper sections she wanted: