Weeds—Dad Burn 'Em!

New Zealand Listener, Volume 18, Issue 452, 20 February 1948, Page 28

Weeds—Dad Burn 'Em!

feelings down to the bottom of the yard and lit a nice little rubbish fire. He grumbled in his beard as he piled on the dried leaves and shrivelled weeds, and his anger rose with the acrid blue smoke. The’ ground here, a waste patch between the last row of Tom’s runner beans and the high board fence, was scarred by the marks of many fires. CS oa took his ruffled Grandpa threw on another handful of twiggy bits and reached for his poker. It was a long, gaunt stick, black to the waist and veteran of many hobnobbings

with Grandpa and his garden fires. The old man handled it lovingly; his gnarled fingers caressing. _ its weatherworn smoothness and the queer little knobby bit that fitted comfortably into his horny palm. "Make the most of it, old timer," he muttered sorrowfully, thrusting its blackened point under the smouldering mass, "make the most of it." The glow woke suddenly to shoot up in small, licking tongues, and Grandpa fed them with more leaves and crooned over them lovingly, like a witch doctor at his mys- | tic rites. A thrush in the sun-speckled poplar lifted up his voice... three times through his melody, and a sharp break |in ‘the next repetition. "Funny, that," mused Grandpa, exactly as he — had mused on many other sunny mornings, and he leaned back against his tree stump. and took out his pipe. Something of the peace of out-of-doors began to sink into him, and the anger went out of his heart, leaving only the hurt. % % ~ E squinted through the smoke haze at the waving banners of the beans, the soldierly rows of gooseberry bushes and the trim vegetable ranks. Then his gaze reached the house beyond the

garden and his beard began to bristle again. "Dad burn it!" he grunted, prodding viciously until the smoke eddied up fiercely and the grey flakes of ash blew out on the ground. "Dad burn it! Compost, is it? Pah!" He pulled his old felt hat down over his eyes and stamped about, hearing again the casual words Tom had tossed across the breakfast table. "Well, Pop, no more garden fires from now on. I want all the waste for compost. My hat, when I heard that lecture last night I realised what we've been throwing away all these years." Grandpa hastily swallowed a mouthful | of porridge and opened his lips to

retort, but Tom rushed on. "Great stuff, compost!" he declared, beaming exuberantly. "‘Nature’s own method of putting the goodness back into the. ground. Criminal to burn it, simply criminal!" "Pah!" snorted Grandpa into his porridge, "criminal, is it? What’s criminal about being neat and clean, I’d like to know?" He glared over his spectacles, Tom took a bite of toast. "I'll tell you this," he said indistinctly, "some of the chaps atthe compost club have had three times the crop since they’ve been using humus. No, Pop, no more garden fires for you!" Grandpa’s beard bristled and his face turned a delicate shade of beetroot. He banged the table until the china rattled and the spoons danced. "Compost my foot!" he bellowed, rather enjoying himself, "nasty, messy stuff! Insanitary, that’s what it is, and you'll have the inspectors round to tell you so!" Tom thrust his table napkin into its ring and gulped down his coffee. "Insanitary nothing," he retorted inelegantly. "The scientifically built compost heap is as clean as a whistle. I’ve got all the data here." He began to search his pockets as he pushed back his chair. "Keep your data!" roared Grandpa, slamming marmalade on his toast.

"You'll never convince me with your facts and figurings. The proper place for garden rubbish is on a good rubbish fire and nowhere else!" And _ he clamped his teeth down savagely on an unoffending square of toast. The area immediately surrounding him seemed alive with atmospheric agitation, and every hair of his beard appeared to be separately charged with electricity. Ethel rose from behind the coffee pot as Tom dashed into the hall and came back struggling into his coat. "You can still burn the pine needles and hedge clippings, Grandpa," she soothed, trying to ram Tom into his coat and dig him in the ribs at the same time, but her husband swung round indignantly. "Indeed, he can’t!" he retorted hotly. "Clippings go to make excellent humus. hedge clippings, lawn clippings, peelings, everything goes in. And pine needles can be used, too. Rot quickly enough given the right heat. Goo’-bye." He pecked absently at his wife’s cheek and dashed out, leaving silence to settle like a blanket upon the room. % * % THEL stole a glance at Grandpa. He drooped in his chair like a suddenly deflated balloon, all the fight gone out of him. She had never felt so sorry for anyone as she did in that moment for her father-in-law. "Have another cup of coffee, Grandpa,’ she urged, reaching a persuasive hand, but Grandpa was past being cheered, even by coffee. Slumped over the table, he gazed out of the window with sorrowful eyes that saw none of the beauty of sunlit garden. Saw only a procession of days stretching ahead with never a promise of even one little rubbish fire to potter blissfully about. He supposed, with a sarcastic quirk of his grey moustache, that he would still be allowed ‘to clip the hedge and rake up the leaves. He would still tidy the borders and lumber up and down the paths behind the wheelbarrow, but all his spoils would be destined to moulder in a compost heap, not to go up in a glorious flare on the fragrant altar of a garden fire, attended by a happy old high priest in a battered felt hat. Grandpa’s sigh came from his very toes as he got wearily to his feet, and Ethel’s already softening heart melted a further six degrees. "Now, Grandpa, don’t you fret,". she said kindly. "You know how Tom is when he gets these ideas. Likely as not he'll tire of the compost bug before long, and you'll be trundling down to burn the rubbish again." Grandpa looked at her. If he had been younger he would have tossed her a derisive, "Oh, yeah?" But he was only a ruffled old man, so he merely said, "Hmmmn?" very- gloomily and sighed again. He knew that some of Tom’s ideas had a way of sticking for life, and he had a feeling that the compost bug would be one of the stickiest. "Anyway," continued Ethel, "I don’t see why you shouldn’t have a final fling with one last little fire. Tom’ll never know. Go on, Grandpa, it’s a lovely morning and you'll feel better outside," * * * O Grandpa went down the yard and lit his fire. And for a while, poking and pottering, he was happy. Then he remembered that this was the last time.

He wished fiercely that Tom had not been an only child, that he had been only one of six. That would have meant five other homes where he, Grandpa, would have been welcome to live and potter and light garden fires. He sighed dismally and shifted as the tree stump bored into his back. ‘There would be no need for the tree stump now. It might as well be dug out. He might even do it himself. If he died from the results of over-exertion Tom might be sorry for this thing he was doing. He prodded at the stump, felt the tough solidity of it, and decided to leave it for another day. It was a bluegum trunk, cut off at about three feet, and it had served Grandpa faithfully and well for years. On its scarred, flat top he had stripped many a branch, lopping off the leafy twigs read for burning. He was durned if he was going to prepared them for sacrifice upon a compost heap. Half-an-hour later he watched his fire die. Gathering up his black stick and his worn chopper, he carried them to the little shed that was his own private sanctum. In it he kept a weird collection of odds and ends, and to it he retired at frequent intervals to potter over his last, tacking bits of leather on his garden boots, or to dream over his fishing lines. On hot days he sat in its cool dimness and shelled peas or sliced beans for Ethel, and often he sat in the sun on the step and smoked his pipe, hat well down over his contented eyes. He retired to it often in the months that followed, especially: at week-ends, when he peered through the nettingscreened window at Tom, sloshing happily about his compost heaps. There were three of them, all built according to scale, and the first was ready for use. Even Grandpa could note the fine, black soil, though he would have died rather than admit it. But in his inmost thought he- began to revise some opinions, and even decided he wouldn't mind giving Tom a hand, if he would only leave him a little bit of something to burn just occasionally. * * * NOTHER spring was close enough to send Tom into a whirl of gardenplanning when Ethel, opening her mail at the Saturday lunch table, gave a sudden exclamation of horror. Grandpa looked at her in alarm, and Tom glanced up from his chart on How to Plant by the Moon. "Huh?" he grunted. "What’s the matter?" "Aunt Henry’s the matter!" wailed Ethel, allowing the letter to fall from her nerveless fingers. "Oh, Tom!" Her voice rose in a thin squeak of agitation. "Eh?" A hopeful gleam shot into Tom’s eye. "You don’t mean _ she’s kicked the-um-passed on at last?" "No." Ethel was too upset to rebuke him. "She’s-she’s coming here-for a holiday!" "Murder!" "Tom dropped the chart into his plate in his agony. "When?" Ethel went back to the letter. "Saturday," she said shakily. "Saturday!" Her eyes widened. ‘"That’s to-day! Good heavens, she must have forgotten to post the, letter for ey a weekit was written on the 10th." There was a PRE AE pes silence. Then Tom sighed and pushed away his (continued on next page)

| WEEDS-DAD BURN ‘EM!

(continued from previous page) plate. "And I suppose I’m to meet the old dragon. On my bowls afternoon, too, doggone it." Ethel nodded. "You can go back afterwards. She’ll be on the express, at three-fifteen." "Perhaps she’ll forget to catch _ it," suggested Grandpa hopefully, "same as she forgot to post the letter." "She'll catch it all right," Tom assured him gloomily, ‘and to think she might not is just wishful thinking of the most wishful sort." Ethel jumped up and began to flutter. "Heavens!" she said distractedly, "only a few hours’ notice and I'll have to turn the place out. You know Aunt Henry!" "Our misfortune, believe us," growled Tom, casting a meaning glance at Grandpa, who returned it with interest. "Now, do try to behave, you two," pleaded Ethel, poised on the brink of a flat spin. "It mightn’t be for long, and you know how important it is to be good friends with Aunt Henry." Two dismal groans arose behind her. ‘Don’t smoke in the house!" mimicked Tom. "Leave your shoes at the door!" chanted Grandpa. "My dear Ethel, do I see ... can it be ... not dust!" shrilled Tom, running an exploratory finger along a chair back. Ethel clapped her hands over her ears. "All right, all right!" she cried heatedly, "but I can’t help it, can I? It’s as bad for me as it is for you, isn’t it? But if it means having Aunt Henry wipe out the mortgage, well, I’d put up with anything. . Anything-do you hear?" *"T hear, my love," murmured Tom sorrowfully, "and. for all our sakes, and for the sake of the mortgage, I hope it won’t be for long. I’m as anxious as you are to own this place completely, but oh, boy, we’re going to earn it!" And he went away without even remembering that the moon chart was still sitting drunkenly in his half-eaten salad. * %* * RANDPA obligingly went errands and rubbed up silver for the agitated Ethel, and then went out into the garden for a well-earned smoke. He might as well get used to smoking only outside, he thought ruefully, as he fished out his pipe and rammed the tobacco down in the bowl. He wished that his little shed were fitted with a bunk, that he might move out there altogether while the redoubtable Aunt Henry was in residence. He heard Ethel’s voice again. "You know Aunt Henry!" Yes, knew her all right. .Christened Grace, she was known as Aunt Henry because there was already an Aunt Grace in Ethel’s family when she joined its ranks, and because for the last 15 years of his miserably henpecked life she had been Uncle Henry’s wife. But Ethel was right. Aunt Henry did hold the mortgage, and it might please her to hand over the deeds. "You can’t please Aunt Henry all of the time,’ misquoted Grandpa, and reminded himself to repeat this piece of

wit to Tom. He was Tom’s ally now, the word compost forgotten. It echoed in Tom’s uncomfortably reddening ears as Aunt Henry delivered herself of a few preliminary broadsides at the dinner table. "Well!" she barked, "I have looked around your garden, Thomas." Tom quivered. Had she found dead leaves untidying some corner, or dust on the pot plants? Aunt Henry left him no time to wonder. "Yes," she continued accusingly, "I looked round your garden thoroughly. .. ." (Tll bet you did!" breathed Tom into his cauliflower). ", .. . and I notice that you have so far forgotten yourself as to introduce those-those monstrosities into your yard." "Monstrosities?" Tom choked painfully on a piece of potato, "Exactly. Monstrosities." The row of brooches marching at intervals down Aunt Henry’s massive bosom vibrated with indignation. "Compost heaps, Thomas! Disgusting, unhealthy things!" "Now, wait a minute!" Stung on the raw, Tom deliberately avoided Ethel’s imploring eyes and sat up smartly. "There’s a great deal to be said in favour of compost, Aunt Henry. It’s .., st sceate 0 ", .. a lot of silly twaddle!" finished Aunt Henry with a snort that would have done credit to a war horse. "There is only one place for garden refuse, and that is on a good, sensible rubbish fire. Did you speak?" She glared at Grandpa. "Just-just clearing my throat," he said lamely, and would not look at Tom. Aunt Henry returned with renewed vigour to the attack. In vain Tom tried to marshal the telling arguments with

which he had withered Grandpa. Aunt Henry refused to be withered. Rising majestically, she delivered her ultimatum, savouring to the full her position as trump card holder. "I have brought with me," she stated, with the deliberation of a judge about to sum up, "the deeds relating to the mortgage upon this property. But hand them over to a builder of those insanitary fly-attractors I will not. Think it over, Thomas!" And she sailed from the room like a battleship on her way to manoeuvres. Grandpa closed the door behind the ladies and came back to the crushed

Tom. "Never mind, son," he said consolingly. "She won’t be here forever." "They'll have to go," Tom said dismally, "or Ethel’ll never forgive me. I suppose a total of three compost heaps isn’t a stiff price to pay for the mortgage." He looked piteously at Grandpa. "It’s the principle of the thing, Pop, meekly taking orders from that old dragon, ‘Insanitary!’ ‘Fly-attractors!’ Bah!" And he buried his face in his hands and groaned. Grandpa groaned with him. He felt it was the least he could do. * * * ONDAY morning saw Aunt Henry setting forth with the long-suffering Ethel for a day’s sight-seeing. Grandpa sneaked out of hiding when he heard the gate close behind them, blinked happily at the blue sky and breathed deeply. Truly, the world without Aunt Henry in it was a fine place. His gaze came back to his immediate surroundings and took in the blank spaces where once three proud compost heaps had stood. An aching muscle in his back reminded him that he had done his fair share in the removal work, and an unsuspecting nephew of Ethel’s, dropping in, had been immediately commandeered by Aunt Henry. and pitchforked into the demolition squad. Even Tom had worked with a will, to Ethel’s secret relief, and Grandpa fancied that, once the first pangs of paternal anguish were over, he had quite enjoyed the destruction, basking in the unaccustomed. glow of martyrdom. Grandpa chuckled as he rolled up his sleeves and went to fetch the wheelbarrow. It was quite full when he trundled it down the path an hour later, and he stopped by the shed to rest his aching back. He looked down at the mound of weeds, clippings and bits of dead creeper and, suddenly seized by an idea, he went into his little shed and reached under a low shelf for a battered box. Lugging it out on to the path, he carefully sorted into it all the green weeds and grass, and carried it back into the shed, stowing it away under the shelf and covering it with a sack. He picked ub his old black stick and went out into the gunshine, well pleased with himself. He chuckled as he picked up the barrow handles and congratulated himself upon his cleverness. He would stow away all the green waste against the shining day when Aunt Henry would relieve them of her hated presence, and then he would present the duly pleased and grateful Tom with the nucleus of a brand new compost heap. Great stuff, compost. Still chuckling happily, Grandpa went down to the bottom of the yard and lit a nice little rubbish fire. A