Snodgrass & Plum 2

Birds chirped as the next day dawned sunny and mild. Butterflies flitted from flower to flower in the lush cutting garden. A warm, gentle breeze rippled the water of the small lake that was at the center of a dozen homes. A small, snoring pink pig cuddled next to a sleeping duck at the end of a bright fuscia pier. A very angry looking old man was huffing as he hobbled toward the pier from across a large, plush lawn. His anger seemed to grow with every break his crooked body forced him to take. His wispy white hair lifted in the breeze, away from the sides of his very balding, pink head.
Grace turned to watch the man’s very slow approach towards her seat at the end of the well maintained and very colorful pier. A small paddleboat was tied to the pier with thick, oiled rope. As the man’s worn boots began to clomp down the pier, the duck awoke with a quack and fell into the blue lake. The tiny pig squealed in alarm and stared over the edge of the pier.
Grace clicked her tongue at the startled animals. “It’s all right, shhhhh, it’s all right. It’s just Mr. O’Shea. Rosie, get a hold of yourself, she’ll be fine.” She stroked the pig gently and tried to soothe the agitated bird that was frantically flapping her wings in the water. “Ms Piggle, remember, you’re a water fowl. That means that you can SWIM. Don’t forget what you learned in your lessons…stay calm…you float.”
The bird’s flapping quieted, as the duck calmed. She awkwardly swam to the nearby shore and waddled out of the water. The pig trotted to the edge of the pier and waited for the duck. As the old man very slowly made his way to the end of the pier, the duck turned to him and quacked once, sounding as angry as a duck can sound (although, truth be told, it sounded more like a pig’s grunt.) She was echoed by a snort from the pig.
Grace smiled. “Ms Piggle! Mind your manners! That’s not how we treat guests.” In her hands she held a well used fishing pole. The fishing line was stretched down to the water and was tied to a red and white bob.
“Why, Mr. O’Shea, what brings you here on this lovely morning?”
The old man glared. “How can it be a lovely morning when this monstrosity of a dock is burning out my retinas? And for the millionth time, it’s Mr. SHAY, Ms Snodgrass.”
“Tsk,tsk, let’s not get petty Mr. O’Shea. I would think you would be proud of the great heritage that comes with your name.”
“What, a heritage of loonies and drunkards? I don’t think so.”
Sighing, Grace reeled in her fishing line. “Would you like to come in for some herbal tea? Chamomile would do wonders for your temperament, I think.”
“No, of course I don’t want any nasty tea. I want to know how that stupid dock got to be a more horrendous color overnight…again.”
“Mr. O’Shea, we’ve been over this many times. How would 2 seventy something women manage to paint an entire pier overnight? Not to mention, WHY would we do such a thing? It’s just ridiculous.” She finished reeling in her line, removed the colorful, fishhook festooned hat from her head and patted her hair into place. She gracefully stood, and took off her well-used fishing vest.
“I guess it’s time for me to go in anyway. Was there anything else, Mr. O’Shea?”
“Yeah, how do you expect to catch anything if you don’t use a hook?” He looked up at her, disgruntled.
“Sir, have you ever heard the expression that “life is a journey, not a destination”?”
“No.”
“Well, I can’t really explain it to you; just know that it very aptly sums things up. Good day.”
With her arms full of fishing pole, hat, and vest, Grace softly whistled to the animals. “Come on girls, let’s go find Aggie.”
She purposefully strode past an open-mouthed Patrick Owen O’Shea- changed to Shay as soon as he was of a legal age to make it happen- and walked toward the house.
Having been summarily dismissed, an even more irritated Mr. Shay turned and stomped (as best as he could) back home.

Aggie had witnessed her sister’s exit from the company of their terminally crabby neighbor. She waited at a beautiful stained glass door that opened into a small greenhouse that led into the kitchen. Kenny Sanders, another one of their grown “indians”, had shown up one day with a work crew in tow, and built the aunts a greenhouse. Aggie was forever trying to grow different things. There were always seedlings, in their tiny peat pots, scattered throughout the greenhouse. It was so much easier to coax the tiny plants into productivity than it used to be. They used to be spread all throughout the house, on the many window sills. Sunlight was never a problem, as the house had lots of windows to choose from. The problem, as it turned out, was that they were spread throughout the house. Aggie would invariably find a dried out little peat pot on some forgotten sill, and would grump about it for the rest of the day. Whenever Grace found the withered seedlings first, she always snuck them out to the compost bin…after all, what are sisters for?
“Gracie, you really shouldn’t goad the poor man.”
“Poor man? He’s a loathsome, nasty creature. I have yet to see a changeling that could best him.”
“Hush, don’t be bringing any eyes or ears to us. Heaven knows who you might offend.”
Grace snorted, “You think I don’t know? I just can’t think of a better comparison.”
Aggie giggled, covering her mouth with a garden-gloved hand. “There is truth to that, I suppose! What was it today?”
“The pier; apparently, we’re blinding him with fuscia.”
“Oh Gracie, one day you’re going to push that man over the edge…although, it IS a beautiful color; my compliments.”
“Why thank you sister dear. Sometimes, I could just slap myself for even introducing myself to that man! Of course, then we wouldn’t have Erin, or our little Penny…hindsight and all that. Come on ladies, shall we have some breakfast?”
Grace led the way through scented flowers and plants, heavy with ripe vegetables, into the kitchen. She was followed by her sister, in a large sun hat and garden gloves, a still irate duck, and a tiny, pink pig.