On a video call with Ginger last night, she
gave me a tour of her shop, which at first con
sisted of a few Christmas lights, dimly lit in red,
white and blue. I had called to speak with
Mom, who had once again had a couple
of nights recently spent in the hospital for
some reason (this happens, the reasons have
been numerous). Mom was there at Ginger’s
house a few miles from rural Charleston, in
Arkansas, where we all resided from when we
each were born until we left the home of our
parents. Mom was sitting in my sister’s living
room when I initially attempted to call, and I could
see her eating her supper, which consisted of some
combination of chicken and potatoes, followed
by dessert, which Ginger kept stressing was baked
with a bit of a mistake, because rather than
Mom, who had once again had a couple
of nights recently spent in the hospital for
some reason (this happens, the reasons have
been numerous). Mom was there at Ginger’s
house a few miles from rural Charleston, in
Arkansas, where we all resided from when we
each were born until we left the home of our
parents. Mom was sitting in my sister’s living
room when I initially attempted to call, and I could
see her eating her supper, which consisted of some
combination of chicken and potatoes, followed
by dessert, which Ginger kept stressing was baked
with a bit of a mistake, because rather than
with cherries, which this cake’s original recipe
apparently called for, it had been baked
(erroneously), well, backing up a bit, Ginger
said it would have “made more sense” to be
baked with the cherries, this dessert, but the red
fruity splotches that were in the heart of this
odd-looking cake-like dish were not cherries,
again, as Ginger kept noting were wrong, but
and this should have been obvious (wink wink!)--
rather than cherries, but some wiseguy-like
character, had instead put in strawberries (big laugh!).
of the baker that had gotten the bright idea to put in
strawberries (also some Cool Whip, and, for good
measure, sprinkles of slightly browned coconut).
Somone had mischeivously and wrongly but yet slightly
naughtily, but in a good sort of way, put in the wrong
naughtily, but in a good sort of way, put in the wrong
fruit. The winks and laughter were implied by the all
the faces Ginger made as she kept repeating the story
the faces Ginger made as she kept repeating the story
of the baker that had gotten the bright idea to put in
strawberries (also some Cool Whip, and, for good
measure, sprinkles of slightly browned coconut).
Oh, and Ginger’s shop turned out to be much bigger
than a few dimly lit red, white and blue patriotic
bulbs slung somehow slightly into the woods
next to which Ginger lives. There was
a huge warehouse filled with exotic-looking
vacationing automobiles and RVs, wherein
there had also been some recent time put
into adding a facsimile of a second floor with
one room. And there was a warehouse-sized
open space that had a concrete floor with a roof
over it (no walls), a roof which I imagined as cover
to a large open shed rather than a shop, within and
outside of which there were potted plants with
nestling cats (one was named Betty and Betty
was quite a tiny cat) and there were otherwise
fountain-shaped sculptures of live plants
scattered about as if to mimic flowing fountains
from which spring splashes of leaves and blooms
belonging to the various plants within the “sculpture.”
These plants resided within the open-aired shed
and were not actually spouting waters cascading
from elaborate sculpted pipes or spewing
from the lips of, say, metallic fish of various sizes,
around some sort of fountain periphery. Those
qualities would have made it an actual fountain,
and there yet may have been one of those somewhere
around or within what Ginger calls her shop, which is
actually a rather elaborate set of spaces, slanted and
flat, walled in and open, some wooded, others more domecile
in nature, all of which apparently make up Ginger’s shop.
next to which Ginger lives. There was
a huge warehouse filled with exotic-looking
vacationing automobiles and RVs, wherein
there had also been some recent time put
into adding a facsimile of a second floor with
one room. And there was a warehouse-sized
open space that had a concrete floor with a roof
over it (no walls), a roof which I imagined as cover
to a large open shed rather than a shop, within and
outside of which there were potted plants with
nestling cats (one was named Betty and Betty
was quite a tiny cat) and there were otherwise
fountain-shaped sculptures of live plants
scattered about as if to mimic flowing fountains
from which spring splashes of leaves and blooms
belonging to the various plants within the “sculpture.”
These plants resided within the open-aired shed
and were not actually spouting waters cascading
from elaborate sculpted pipes or spewing
from the lips of, say, metallic fish of various sizes,
around some sort of fountain periphery. Those
qualities would have made it an actual fountain,
and there yet may have been one of those somewhere
around or within what Ginger calls her shop, which is
actually a rather elaborate set of spaces, slanted and
flat, walled in and open, some wooded, others more domecile
in nature, all of which apparently make up Ginger’s shop.
