The Gardener

by Donna Poole

It was a different time.

The women wore pastel-colored suits to church in the spring; yellow, pink, turquoise, often paired with white lacy blouses. Purses and heels often matched. They all went to the beauty parlor every week, and most had short, permed hair. With powdered cheeks and a touch of lipstick, they looked like a bouquet of spring flowers. Each wore her own brand of perfume, many in flowery scents. Ruth’s favorite perfume was “Charlie,” and she splashed it on with abandon.

Then there was Old Bertha. If the others were flowers, Old Bertha could have been the gardener. Her clothes were worn and dirty, and she wore rubber boots to church with no socks. Ruth and her husband Clayton collected Bertha from her dilapidated house each Sunday and brought her to church with them.

Bertha adored Ruth and often sat next to her in church. One Sunday, during the sermon, Bertha decided to write Ruth a note. She’d never learned cursive, so in her arthritic, crippled printing, she wrote, “Hello Ruth.” But she left off the “o.”

Ruth managed not to laugh, but when she showed the note to her grown children and grandchildren later, they howled.

“Mom! How did you keep from laughing?”

“I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”

Unlike the other ladies, Bertha wore no perfume to church. She had a distinctive odor all her own; it could best be described as au scent la skunk cabbage.

One Sunday, after church, a bouquet of pastel-colored suits surrounded Ruth. Fortunately, Bertha was not with her.

“Ruth,” the spokeswoman said, “you must do something about Bertha. She stinks.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“You’ll have to figure something out. You bring her to church. You talk to her.”

Ruth didn’t say anything about it to Bertha for a few weeks. How do you go about telling someone they smell bad? She didn’t want to do it.

Once again, the bouquet surrounded her after church.

“Ruth, Bertha smells even worse. Have you said anything to her yet?

Ruth sighed. “I know she doesn’t smell very nice. I’ll talk to her. I just haven’t thought of what to say.”

On the way home from church that Sunday Ruth said, “Bertha, some people like baths, and some like showers. I prefer showers myself. Which do you like?”

“Oh, I don’t take either. I use my bathtub to store my canned goods. I just sponge off now and then when I feel like I need to.”

“Oh,” Ruth said.

The next Sunday Ruth approached her flowery smelling friends. “Listen. Bertha keeps cans of food in her bathtub. I’m not talking to her about how she smells. If one of you wants to talk to her, go ahead. I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”

“She keeps food in her bathtub?” a pastel suit asked.

Ruth nodded.

“Oh, my.”

Ruth nodded again. She didn’t mention the note she’d gotten printed in a childish scrawl. No one joked that Bertha was a brick shy of a full load, or that her elevator didn’t go all the way to the top, or that not only was she out to lunch, but she was out to supper too.

The sweet-smelling ladies and Ruth exchanged glances of compassion.

“At least she comes to church,” one flower said.

The others nodded.

Old Bertha continued to attend church every Sunday, wearing her rubber boots without socks, and looking like the gardener amongst the bevy of fragrant flowers. Maybe that’s exactly what she was. She never knew she’d cultivated the fruits of kindness and compassion in their hearts.

The End

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These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

All of my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

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