The trick to pulling Johnson grass from a Bermuda lawn without destroying that lawn is to carefully trace your fingers along the thick, rough blades to the stalk and down the stalk to the base. You have to pull right at the base if you hope to get the roots of the weed without pulling out any Bermuda. This requires a bit of patience and, if you're weeding a patch of any size, a comfortable position. I was weeding the large patch that grows in the shadows between the shed and the trampoline. I was sitting cross-legged and leaning forward, guaranteeing myself a backache later.
"To keep your garden from this wicked grass," a voice said suddenly, "you must eschew the vice called gossip." It was an odd voice, almost Scottish, almost Cockney, almost South Philly. I couldn't place it. It was lowish and gruffish, but not unpleasant. It struck me then that I was not startled by the voice. I had become accustomed to odd things in the shadow of the shed.
"Hello? Is someone there?" I asked, sitting up straight and looking around. I didn't see anyone.
"A gossip makes a sorry friend and makes a friend sorry." It was definitely behind me this time.
"I'm not a gossip," I said, and then I thought about it, "I do love to tell stories. I suppose I talk as much as the next person, though rarely with malice. I don't think it would be fair to label me a gossip." I stood to my feet and looked around to the side of the shed. There was no one there.
"A gossip cannot keep a secret." Now it was coming from the other direction, over by the trampoline. I turned that way.
"I have no secrets."
"A gossip never does for long." It was on the shed roof, right beside my head.
This guy was anywhere and everywhere, and I began to feel foolish looking for him. So, I sat back down and went to work. "It's funny that I'm supposed to be the gossip here. You're the one slandering me. I've said nothing about you."
"That's because I'm a terrible gossip," said a shape that leapt from the shed roof to the grass in front of me. He landed lying on his side with his elbow on the ground and his curly head propped in his hand. I jumped slightly, startled, but I tried not to let him see. "I'm the worst there is." He smiled a huge, friendly, mischievous smile.
"Hello there," I said, and I returned his smile with a polite smile of my own and a nod. "You must be Chuck's friend." Something told me I had to watch out for this one.
"Who?" a puzzled look crossed his face for just an instant and then he said, "Oh, right. Him. Chuck. Yeah, I've known him for a long time."
"How long?"
He ignored the question. His expression got very serious for a moment, and he sat up and faced me. "Do you know who I am?" he asked.
"Well," I said, "I think I do. I mean, I know who you look like."
"Who?" he asked, leaning forward and staring into my eyes as though his existence depended upon my answer.
"Puck."
He grinned hugely.
P.S. - I posted a story on my cogito writing site. It's called Sobriety and Gravity. I'll be honest, it's a little long and it's really strange. I really have no idea why it popped out of my fingers this morning, but I blame half on insanity and the other half on my cursory skimming of The Universe in a Nutshell by Stephen W. Hawking. Having been warned, check it out, if you'd like. Thanks for stopping by.
