Aganetha The Horrible

My mama has always been a woman ahead of her time. She made us compost, reduce, reuse, and recycle way before our friends and relatives in Wolesley had ever heard of it, never mind flaunt it as a reputable lifestyle. Back in the day we thought of it all as rather embarrassing that nothing went to waste like stuff did at some of my trendier friend's homes. Well, come to think of it, I think I'd still be embarrassed if my mother gnawed on a chicken foot at the dinner table..... but I digress. Ma has always been an avid gardener, way before terms like "organic" and "homegrown" meant that you were somebody really special and knew complicated formulas about soild ph and nutrient levels. The stinky pig kak seemed to work pretty well for ma as well as her team of slaves that she had pushed into this world for the sole intent of making them hoe row after row of green beans in 35 degrees without cold water or wine or anything.

Mom never figured out that she should grow old, either. When her friends and relatives started dying or moving into little side-by-side places where you hang up a little card on your door knob every morning to show if you're dead or alive, mom was out tilling her garden. She had lost a lot of her slaves due to laws and regulations and child labour advancements, but she still had "Abraham, the father of many" who hadn't either figured out that he was supposed to be old by now and nodding off in a coffee shop or something. So, in the spring when other people their age were checking their pulses, ma and pa were out planting the beans and potatoes and tomatoes so they'd have stuff to compost later on.

Since mom had lost a lot of her unpaid staff, she couldn't send one of us out to the garden to scare away the local scavengers and looters who tended to come around in the early morning to nibble on her greens.

So, she borrowed Brian's pellet gun.

Brian gave her a quick lesson, and loaded her up with ammunition. She had shown no indication of senior dementia (if you ignore the dish cloths in the freezer) and had given up depression for menopause some years back so we figured we may as well give the gal some slack, she'd lived a pretty sensible life up to date. Sure enough, granny raced out in her nightie the very next morning and bagged a thief before most of us had reached for our first coffee of the day. I was sure we'd hear of more strokes and bothersome Dr visits when the phone rang at 7:20 am, but it was just mom sounding younger than a spring chicken (intact with feet) feeling jubilant about dropping that bunny with one, single, well-aimed bullet. (consistent with her whole life view of not wasting).
It was around this time that her honourary membership to the Wolsely guild was revoked.

(and that's not a fern on grandma's nightie. That's dad's fingerprint because he probably quivered a little with the excitement of the whole thing. We're talking polaroid from 1971 or so.)

When mom dropped the second bunny, she was already suspecting that her new fascination with hunting would likely be her claim to fame, so she quickly dashed into the house to slip out of her nightie and into a more respectable outfit. Then she had the foresight to pose in front of her rose bush since the pinkish glow brought out the colour in her cheeks quite nicely. (it also complemented the red in the rabbits eyes, but they were closed at the time.)

I'm hoping that the shovel in pa's hand is reassurance enough that next time we make the trip to the homestead, there won't be a giant pot of succulant stew on the dining room table....