Green Stuff

“Three shiny green leaves,” said my Dad.

“Like these?”

“No, those are strawberries – see the buds? Their leaves are more ragged and not shiny.”

“So, like these?”

“No, that’s an ash maple, also known as Acer Nugundo, Box Elder Maple, or Ash-leaved Maple. In Canada they call it the Elf Maple and the Manitoba Maple. Some people call it the Cut-leaved Maple, the Red River Maple, the Stinking Ash, the Three-leaved Maple, the Western Box Elder, and the Sugar Ash. The Russians call it the American Maple.”

“Uh huh.”

“It's a tree, Headley.”

“But it looks like a bush.”

“That's because it's young. If you look at the stem… Never mind, just look for three shiny green leaves.”

“Like this?”

“Yes, Headley, that is poison ivy. You should probably put that down now.”

I have a hard enough time telling green from blue, telling green from green is just too much for me. Botany class seemed like a practical joke. I half expected someone to slip a Chinese finger trap on me as I stared at hundreds of nearly identical items with Latin names that had been specially immunized against memorization.

The one exception – and not in botany, but in real life, was in the swamp behind my house growing up. We had cattails, pussy willows, elephant ears, and skunk cabbage. This stuff was memorable, but if a plant didn’t look or smell like mammal parts, I was out of luck.

Flowers are different. I know a daisy from a marigold, a pansy from a violet – but once you pick the blossoms, it’s all back to green – just green.

It’s not easy naming green.

“Headley, help me weed the garden.”

“Sure, Mom. What do I do?”

“You pull the weeds and leave the flowers.”

“Which are the weeds?”

“That clover is a weed.”

“Got it.”

“That patch of grass is weed.”

“Got it.”

“Headley, you know the difference; just pull the weeds.”

“Like this?”

“No, Headley, that used to be a petunia. Go help your father.”

Maybe it doesn’t surprise you that I got a very serious case of poison ivy when I was nineteen. My father wanted the entire back yard stripped of foliage. My arms were rotting so profusely that I had to have my hands strapped to a pole above my bed in order to sleep.

(sorry - I probably should've warned you.)

The foliage grew back about a week before I recovered. I think a lot of it had three shiny leaves, but what do I know?

I don’t get green stuff.

Tarzan knew green - he just didn't know English.

Another Day at Amalgamated Monster

Though I’m convinced that my natural state is unemployed (though not necessarily penniless in spite of the paltry compensation I get from Go Figure Reads,) I just recently celebrated my 6 month anniversary working for Amalgamated Monster LLC.

To commemorate, they allowed us two hours of radio by their wholly owned subsidiary WEVL (all evil – all the time.)

Beetle customarily sits next to me in his Papa John’s Pizza shirt. Wearing it each day saves him time for three games of Galaga between his shift at Amalgamated Monster and his delivery job.

 Apparently Beetle also saves time by not doing laundry, showering, or perhaps even brushing his teeth.

“Aren’t you embarrassed wearing a Papa John’s shirt when you’re not delivering pizza?” I asked him.

“Why?” said Beetle. “It’s not Little Caesars.”

Word around the Pepsi machine is that Beetle is true Amalgamated Monster material. Everybody figures he’s on the fast-track for promotion. I’d be tempted to ride on his coat-tails if they weren’t slimed with long-dead anchovies.

I might not have seen Helga Hofstra again if not for Amalgamated Monster. She was my childhood sweetheart and I’d lost track of her nearly forty years ago. One day I spotted Helga working on a machine with so many blaring lights and creepy sounds that everyone in my work-group was afraid to even ask what it does. As I gazed upon my lost love, I reflected on how she grew up to look much like my High School chemistry teacher.

And he was not a good looking man.

WEVL announced a Milli Vanilli countdown as the afternoon project came in. We were each issued a stack of 8 ½ x 11 sheets and told to tri-fold them to fit in a business envelope. When asked why they didn’t use the paper folder machine in the office, Pam, our middle manager just shuddered and walked away briskly.

 The writing on each sheet was in some foreign language, so we didn't know what we were doing. The most popular theories among my co-workers were 1) we were packaging biological weapon infused paper for enemies of the NSA, 2) the sheets were fold-n-sniff samples for the cologne eau-de-skunk cabbage, and 3) that we were sending out Amway propaganda to third world nations.

I hoped it was one of the first two – third world nations have enough trouble without sicking Amway on them.

Just as we were about to pass out from the great cloud of skunk cabbage flavored anthrax, Helga’s scary machine gave out a flatulent sounding fanfare that either announced our imminent deaths, or the end of the work-day. Our response to either possibility was the same. We packed up our belongings and headed for the exit except for Beetle who made a decayed pizza smelling bee-line for the Galaga machine.

Yup, that was another day at Amalgamated Monster. I still say that my natural state is unemployment, but if I have to work – this is the best job I've ever had.

Speaking of tough work - here's one of my favorite movie openings.