Ever since we moved to Sandy Cove in Cohasset, in 1944, I yearned for a front lawn like normal people’s. My husband claimed he honestly preferred our yard in its beautiful wild state; I claimed he honestly preferred not mowing lawns.
At last he surrendered. (This was about the time he ordered the more powerful -- and more extravagant -- ship-to-shore phone for our cruiser.) I employed a landscape architect who decided after only an hour of meditation that we had too many trees.
“Oh, dear,” I said.
Ed has a passion for trees. He even loves dead trees. He’s had a complex about trees ever since we lost so many in the last hurricane.
All day I plotted my strategy. My husband always says I wind him around my little finger, but I sensed that this time it would take six dray horses and a winch.
“Say, honey,” I began, after mellowing him with a T-bone and stacking the dishwasher single-handed. “You know that jungle you call a yard? Well, today I think I saw a bear in it.”
“We are not cutting down any trees,” Ed said distinctly through his newspaper, rattling it for emphasis.
“Oh,” I said.
Did this discourage me? Not at all. I just bided my time, and on approximately the same day that I saw eye to eye with him on the two new 185-horsepower Gray engines, he saw eye to eye with me on weeding out all those scrubby little trees.
The landscape architect tied strips of cotton around the noble old elms she wanted spared. Shortly afterward the contractors marched in and weeded out the noble old elms.
Miss Griffin said later she had clearly told the contractors to leave standing all the trees marked with cotton strips. The contractors said they had clearly told Miss Griffin to mark the trees she wanted eliminated. What my husband said clearly shocked even me.
At last he surrendered. (This was about the time he ordered the more powerful -- and more extravagant -- ship-to-shore phone for our cruiser.) I employed a landscape architect who decided after only an hour of meditation that we had too many trees.
“Oh, dear,” I said.
Ed has a passion for trees. He even loves dead trees. He’s had a complex about trees ever since we lost so many in the last hurricane.
All day I plotted my strategy. My husband always says I wind him around my little finger, but I sensed that this time it would take six dray horses and a winch.
“Say, honey,” I began, after mellowing him with a T-bone and stacking the dishwasher single-handed. “You know that jungle you call a yard? Well, today I think I saw a bear in it.”
“We are not cutting down any trees,” Ed said distinctly through his newspaper, rattling it for emphasis.
“Oh,” I said.
Did this discourage me? Not at all. I just bided my time, and on approximately the same day that I saw eye to eye with him on the two new 185-horsepower Gray engines, he saw eye to eye with me on weeding out all those scrubby little trees.
The landscape architect tied strips of cotton around the noble old elms she wanted spared. Shortly afterward the contractors marched in and weeded out the noble old elms.
Miss Griffin said later she had clearly told the contractors to leave standing all the trees marked with cotton strips. The contractors said they had clearly told Miss Griffin to mark the trees she wanted eliminated. What my husband said clearly shocked even me.
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| 143 ATLANTIC AVENUE AFTER THE MISUNDERSTANDING |
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