Charity Begins at Home - Ch. 1

Excerpt from Charity Begins at Home by Pat Otterness

Chapter One

?I couldn’t seem to sit down. I kept traipsing up the hillside to my iris garden, looking for blooms, as if checking every half hour would hurry the process. It was always like this at the beginning of bloom season. The garden was brimming over with green buds on tall stalks. Some buds showed a hint of color at their tips. Those nearest to blooming were more colorful, and many boasted points, called horns, at their tips. They would have heavy ruffles. But in these early days of the season, the iris garden was primarily a sea of green buds.

What I wanted to see was a fully opened bloom. It was the first day of May, time for the season opener … the harbinger of things to come … the first bloom of the new season. I paced up and down the long rows, finding here and there a colorful hopeful that promised me bloom tomorrow. I wanted it now.

To keep myself occupied, I'd potted twenty-five or thirty new iris seedlings, and washed clay pots I should have washed a week ago. Thank goodness the worst of spring weeding was done ... or as done as it was going to get. Once buds have formed, trying to weed the narrow rows is more a danger than a help. One wrong move of the hoe can bump a bloom stalk and cause its bud to break off. I had done what I could to prepare the garden for spring bloom. Now it was just a waiting game.

In the distance, I could see Frank Ortiz walking the rows of his garden, much as I was doing, looking for early blooms. His property adjoined mine, separated only by the boundary of Dancing Creek, which traveled the length of the valley. He was far enough away that I recognized him chiefly by his straw hat and brown apron. As I watched, he looked up, raised an arm in greeting, and beckoned me to join him.

I returned his wave and made my way carefully downhill through several dozen rows of iris, gliding carefully between plants heavy with buds. Frank was?an iris breeder tired of sandy soil and Texas heat, who had opted for Virginia’s temperate climate after reading some of my iris articles. Go figure! I thought my published laments about the cows and the weeds would warn people off, but apparently not. Soon iris growers and breeders from Idaho and Arizona had followed suit. Before long a few optimistic Oregon gardeners opted out of the never-ending spring rains and settled here as well.

At the creek's edge, Frank was waiting, a smile on his weathered brown face. "Any bloom yet?" he asked.

"Nothing so far. A few buds that might open tomorrow or the next day. How about you?"

"Just one today, but it's a beauty. Want to see it?”

He didn't have to ask twice. The creek was low, so the crossing was more about getting down the bank on one side and up the bank on the other side. He reached down and gave me a hand up. With long strides, he led me towards the one splash of color in a sea of green. "Wow!" I said. "What gave you this?"

"A long shot. I crossed BAMBOO SHADOWS with COPPER CLASSIC." The golden bronze bloom with brassy mustard beards seemed to possess the best traits of both parents. Frank’s handsome face creased with pleasure. “I feel like I’m off to a good start,” he said, blue eyes sparkling.

"I'll be interested in seeing what else you get from this cross. I've used both varieties, but never together. In fact, I've got some BAMBOO SHADOWS seedlings coming along right now. Let me get a photo of you with your first bloom,” I said. “Maybe I can use it in my article.” I pulled out my iPhone and got a nice shot of a smiling Frank with his first seedling bloom of the year. My Tall Tales readers would enjoy seeing it.. “I hope I’ll get something as nice as this,” I said, inclining my head towards his promising bloom.

“There they are again,” said Frank, nodding towards the road without turning to stare.?“Have you seen them before?”?

I glanced towards the road in time to see a pair of middle aged women walking past, peering over the fence into the Frank’s garden.?“Nope,” I said.?“Just a couple of ladies out for a walk.?Probably hoping to see iris blooms.”

“Aren't we all?” said Frank.?“ But these ladies constantly walk the road, peering over everybodies fences.?Sometimes three or four times a day.?I don't quite know what to make of them.”

“They're probably just enjoying the spring weather.” I said. “I'd better get back to work.?Thanks for sharing your gorgeous bloom.”

"Come back any time,” said Frank as I prepared to head home. “You know you’re always welcome." He headed back towards his shed and I turned away to make my own return journey. Crossing the creek was harder on the return. Since there was no one to help me up the high bank, I picked a different spot where it wasn’t as steep. As I struggled to get a foothold in the clay, I noticed boot prints leading up into my garden. Who on earth would be coming here without an invitation, I wondered. I looked around, but there was no one in sight.

Puzzled, I tried to follow the boot prints, but they ended in the harder soil of the garden. I was paranoid about intruders. I knew it, and increasingly, my neighbors were becoming aware of it too. Living alone, I had begun to jump at every sound since the influx of newcomers had begun.

I moved back to this rural area of the Virginia foothills to get away from people, seeking the peace of isolation. It was a mixed blessing, for I soon discovered that too much isolation can be lonely. But the recent influx of iris growers had turned my peaceful valley into a hive of industry. Suddenly there were people everywhere. Give them their due, the incoming breeders didn't intrude too much on my privacy. The men they hired, migrant workers and others, were a different story. But mostly, it was the looky-loos, visitors who drove out to see all the new iris gardens and strode onto my property as if they owned it, that caused me to feel invaded.

I was hungry and thirsty, so I headed for the house. As I approached, I saw that my kitchen door, which faced the road, was standing open and swinging in the breeze. Omigosh! Just then a long face, wrinkled and unshaven, popped out, followed by a tall, lean body in jeans and tee-shirt.

“There you are!" he said. "Where've you been? I been lookin' all over for you."

I gritted my teeth. "Chance", I said, "I really don't like it when you go in my house like that."

"I knocked, but you didn't come, so I thought you mebbe didn't hear me." He studied my face, not liking what he saw. "Aw, Chat! You coulda been hurt or something."

"I could have been in the shower or something. I could have been on the phone. I could have been wanting my privacy."

"In Texas we show a little hospitality."

"Well, you're not in Texas any more, Toto!"

"Huh? Toto? What you talkin' about?

"Never mind. What did you want me for?"

"I was gonna tell you about Harm comin’, but maybe you don't have an interest."

"Harm coming? Is there some problem I need to know about? Are you in trouble?"

"Mebbe yes, mebbe no," he said, "but be on the lookout. Harm should be comin’ soon, so keep a look out." He smiled apologetically and hurried down the road towards his own place.

"Chance, what are you talking about?" My voice grew shrill. "Was that some kind of threat or what?"

"You'll see soon enough," he said, and disappeared around a curve in the road.

Chance Cassidy was my nearest neighbor, a nice enough man, I guess, but hard to understand on many levels. I knew little about him except that he came from Texas and bought out the previous owners of the land that adjoined mine. I'd heard it was against their will, but not what leverage he used. As best I could figure, he paid them well, because they were able to buy a much nicer place for their cattle farther down the road towards the highway. Still, there was ill feeling on the part of the uprooted family. I knew that much.

Crazy old man! I entered the kitchen and set about fixing myself a meal. What on earth could he be talking about? Did it have anything to do with those boot-prints on the creek bank? I settled on the back stoop with my sandwich and drink, and watched the road for whatever harm might be coming my way.