On the Green Road with
"Darling, it's started again," he said as he gazed from the kitchen pavilion window at the clotted mountain air.
"What, my love?" asked his lovely wife, Tosca.
"That ubiquitous fog, you know the all-consuming early-morning mist that ruins golf shots and shopping, especially up here on our mountain top."
Their windows looked out to that pearly mist from their little piece of heaven that was part of the newly restored salute to elegant mountain living called Grandiose Manor. The mini-estates were carved from the Asheville holdings of Grover Clampert, who make his money in the first Florida real-estate wars of 1892.
"Forest, you promised you would adjust to the climate here. After all, we're only in Asheville one month a year--then it's on to Greece, Madrid, London, Peru, and our own beloved LA."
"Thank God for that," he said, as he stirred his freshly-brewed coffee that warmed his chilly hand as it held the expensive but artfully designed cup cast in the shape of a deadly amanita mushroom, one of Tosca's little jokes.
"Well, I should think so. We are, after all, fortunate to be at home here in Grandiose Manor, not only because of our wonderful home but for the fly-casting pond and the Labyrinth, all those meandering footpaths, the waterfalls, the woods, and our beloved koi pond."
"That's true," he said as he spooned more twice-filtered fresh cane sugar into the coffee, "but I do wonder about that monster who works daily in the center of the maze and preaches that drivel about redemption and Mother Crete."
"We all must work," Tosca answered, "at whatever job we do best, and you must admit our local minotaur is smashing in that outfit made from imported wool collected in the Ecuadorian Mountains and loomed in that charming little shop in Biltmore Village."
Tosca continued to butter her toast made from just-delivered bread, that food of the gods baked from wheat grown in Madison County and delivered to their estate just moments ago by a liveried chauffer driving a Morris Mini to make sure they all contributed their bit to saving the planet from the perils it faced. Suddenly, Forest was consumed with a desperate love for Tosca, and setting his cup on their newly installed kitchen table made from one piece of wormy chestnut, reached for her hand (almost cutting his finger on the 20-karet emerald imported from the north of India), and taking her hand in his, told her of his undying love and devotion.
"I adore you, Tosca, not only for your beauty, your style, your grace but for finding this little spot of manicured wilderness where not only we can find peace and happiness but the twins, Jason and Pixie can grow up in the world they were fashioned for, that world stone fireplaces, artful fountains, and the family orientated state-of-the-art fitness center that runs on water power from our own little waterfalls."
"Forest, for you anything your heart desires."
With a graceful turn, her fur-edged morning coat barely made a sound as it swept across the tiled floor, the beveled edges of each tile shining softly from the ceiling chandelier that automatically lit as the fog outside got just a bit thicker.
"You see, my love, I forgot that I must go shopping this morning--oh curse this fog--because the Twins need new shoes, and I must replace my antique hairclip that I lost yesterday afternoon while following a buzzing bee as it took its solitary insect tea at the brilliant petals of the wildflowers just outside our door."
Forest looked puzzled for a moment, then exclaimed with passion: "It's your hair--so beautiful--like you're a Repunzil gone astray--but I know like all of life's beauty, it must be under control--"
He stopped in mid-sentence, then cried out: "I must get my sketch book so I can bring your beauty to the parchment page--" and with a slap of his ostrich leather slippers hitting the floor with a soft flapping noises, ran from the room, leaving Tosca chuckling to herself about the man she married, the father of the twins, and the provider of all things great and beautiful.
"If only," she murmured, "that ubiquitous fog would fade away."
Peter Loewer ~ The Wild Gardener ~ Asheville ~ NC ~ email The Wild Gardener
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