I don’t know if you can see the photo of these two old trees. One’s dead, and the other is barely alive. My husband and I planted these trees years and years ago. He’s dead now – the husband. He planted the dead one. I planted the other one, the one that’s gnarled and barely alive. I’ll be eighty-seven this coming October.
There used to be a house roughly where the person taking the photo would be standing. That was our house. The first and only house we had. The two children were born there. It was our dream place; a lovely house, not too big and not too small, set on twelve acres of what could only be described as park land. We planted those two trees (and a number of others here and there) as part of the “landscaping” of our park. Our life was like a perpetual honeymoon.
Jude had built the house himself. And I helped of course, as best I could. I sewed drapes and did the painting and wall-papering and so on. Jude was the one with the saw and the hammer and the screw driver and the muscle. It was like a dream come true!
After the birth of the second child things fell apart. We’d been in the house for four years and we put it up for sale. No one ever bought it and Jude disappeared before any divorce proceedings began. I leased out most of the land to a neighbouring farmer and stayed in the house with the children. They’re gone now – the children. Tony’s a lawyer up in the big city, and Rachel manages a business that teachers adults how to do basic computer things.
My current house gets quite cold in winter, so I’ve asked Tony to come and cut down that dead tree for firewood. The one that’s barely alive has a few more years left in it. It might sound cruel but I’m looking forward to burning logs of Jude’s tree throughout the winter. It’s good he’s serving some purpose at this stage of my life. Apart from building the house he wasn’t much good for much when he was here. In fact he was useless. And mean; really mean. It’s why I did him in.
I first suspected that Jude was a wrong’un when he decided to plant a dead tree.
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Don’t you just hate it when you buy a pet from the pet shop and it’s a dead one?
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It’s pretty heartbreaking when that happens but I try not to make a meal of it…
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Depends on the recipe really especially if it’s a parrot.
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Yes I am partial to a Norwegian Blue
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A friend of mine came across a nest of freshly laid dodo’s eggs. I told her that they were much nicer fried, but, no, she wouldn’t listen and boiled them.
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I often have them poached. But as for the dodo itself – I like it rare
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Rare is certainly the way. But be careful with the poaching.
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Well, Jude was a twerp from the beginning.
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Could be a whole family of twerps!
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Jude was much better in obscurity.
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He could be madding at times.
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Besides, it’s a shame when things get crowded.
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It’s certainly tessting
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Reminds me Alfonso, the Duke of Ferrara, albeit it’s the Duchess who is in control here. I wonder if Jude is entombed in the fireplace.
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Perhaps strangely, I didn’t see it coming – that last line made me laugh out loud!
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When such callousness increases in a reader one suspects one is doing something right.
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Even without the , “I did him in,” the story would have been good.
Jude just died like his tree, the meanie weenie.
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Meanie weenie is such a good phrase!
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