Day 11 – Between the Hedges.

 One day, I might just deadhead the wrong thing… by accident, of course.

Today I found myself drafted into hedge-cutting duties with Fred and Graham. Both men are somewhere between fifty and sixty, and both as average in looks and build as a mug of lukewarm tea. Not unpleasant, but not exactly worth writing sonnets about either.

Of the two, Fred is the more approachable — he’ll at least ask me things, or share bits of information in a friendly-enough way. Graham, on the other hand, seems to view me as nothing more than a broom with legs. He rarely speaks, and when he does, it’s usually a sarcastic quip that suggests my only real purpose is to sweep up after their glory. Charming.

The hedge in question was one of two towering conifers, standing at least thirteen feet tall. Fred informed me that even the long pole hedge cutter couldn’t quite reach the top, so apparently they’ll have to build some kind of gantry contraption to finish the job.

Since I couldn’t exactly sweep where they were working without risking decapitation, I was diverted to the dahlia border with strict instructions: only deadhead the dead ones. “Don’t cut off the live blooms,” Fred said, as if I might be prone to murderously beheading the innocent flowers just to spice up my morning.

By the time I finally swept up after them, I couldn’t help but think — it’s a curious thing, working between men who barely notice you’re there, while being trusted with scissors sharp enough to alter the garden’s history.