Once again I’ve had no time to write a column; eighteen relatives are visiting Sunnybank for our annual Fourth of July reunion. Laughter, lots of food and story-trading devour the hours and days. So, in that spirit, I offer this story, written a few years ago. (I still remember the fragment of music my mystery man hugged so close…)
Just before the beginning of the Film Festival a beautifully dressed businessman rang the garden bell. He wore an expensive dark blue suit, an elegant tie with a diamond clasp, highly polished trotters, and expertly cut hair. Wow, I thought. Here’s an executive who emanates power…
A constant, chant-like musical phrase puzzled me, but, as he moved closer, I realized he was singing, rhythmically, repetitively, and with quiet emphasis, “Mashed potato one, mashed potato two, mashed potato three four five six blue…” The numbers were delivered with vigor and panache. Moving through the main garden, setting a slow, deliberate pace, he followed the beds’ contours, hands clasped behind his back. Though I tried not to stare (he hadn’t acknowledged me, his mind being filled with mashed potatoes and flowers) I always knew where he was by listening, with growing amazement, to his song. Actually, the melody wasn’t half bad. It consisted of five notes, and his intonation and diction were excellent. But he’d gotten stuck, like my old 33s, in a groove, and I realized, nervously, that the chant-song was seeping into my mind, disrupting my thoughts. That’s the trouble with rhythm, and repeated words and melodies; they capture a brain. Really insistent ones, sung with confidence, make feet twitch and tap.
On and on it went, and I actually found my trowel responding to the accented numbers. Grinding my teeth, I carried on, praying he’d hurry up and leave.
Suddenly, the song ceased. Stopping in mid-stride, he bent backward and looked up, and, holding that pose, stared. There were no other visitors, and no breeze to break the spell. I held my breath, and grinned. Aha! The tall meadow rue had captured him! (It was in its glory, with those purple, water-filled stems supporting tiny, vividly blue flowers cheerfully perched atop this bog-loving, slim relative of columbine.) Bless that rue; at last something had silenced him.
Clutching my trowel, I waited…after about 30 seconds he snapped forward and resumed his song, exactly where he’d left off. He mashed-potatoed himself around the Ram’s Head Garden, circling it twice, before moving into the Library Garden. It got 3 trips, and ten potato cycles, and then he was out, and moving down the stone path to the Brick Walled Garden---when Bang! Total silence. This time the delicately beautiful weeping larch had snared him. He stood stock-still; then one manicured hand tentatively traveled to a soft, lovely, arching branch. He smoothed it once, and focused on its details. His gaze was intense. Never has that weeping larch been stared at so hard.
Suddenly, he snapped to attention; hands back-clasped themselves, and he stepped down to enter the last garden. But before vanishing, the potato man paused one last time, turned around, and smiled. Then he was gone. I thought I heard a murmured numerical fragment; the heavy, creaking door thumped shut, then- silence.
I was mystified. Why cultivate and nurture a potato tune? Maybe he was a musician, mulling over measures; maybe he anticipated too many helpings at dinner, or maybe he had a musical tic…
After pondering this puzzle awhile, I sighed and resumed digging out weeds, but found myself singing that awful spud-tune, over and over. Horrified, I threw in the trowel and rushed into the kitchen. Tea, I thought; tea will fix this-- and classical music…
It took an hour, three cups of Yorkshire Gold brewed strong, and the Lone Ranger’s thrilling ‘Hi-O Silver’ music from Rossini’s ‘William Tell Overture’ to peel that persistent potato scrap from my brain, and chuck it.