My Father’s Garden: Fireworks by R J Dent

 

 

 

Bonfire Night was always fun.

Bonfires are great and fireworks are even greater.

My father never bought lots of fireworks on Bonfire Night – there were never more than eight to ten in a box, but there were Catherine Wheels, Roman Candles, Fountains, Jumping Jacks, Bottle Rockets, Fire Crackers – and we always had Sparklers.

I don’t mean to sound churlish, but sparklers are not the most exciting type of firework in existence. You light them, wave them around, they fizz and sparkle for a minute, then they die. They’re the firework world’s equivalent to the mayfly. One great (or in the mayfly’s case, not-so-great) aerial incendiary burst, and then gone, done, nothing left but the inevitable fall… Read more…

 

 

 

My Father’s Garden: Fireworks

Copyright © R J Dent (2016)

 

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My Father’s Garden: Christmas Decorations by R J Dent

 

 

 

When my father said he was ‘going to go all out’ with the Christmas decorations, I wondered what he actually meant.

          I soon found out.

          The first thing I noticed was the length of cable strung around the front garden, tacked along the front porch, stapled above the windows, secured to posts, threaded through bushes, coiled around tree branches, propped up with canes, fixed to fences and so on.

          The next night, my father had cut the cable and was fitting the ends into a light-bulb rose. I looked along the cable and saw he’d wired about a dozen light-bulb roses to it. It was obviously my father’s own version of Christmas lights.

          – Don’t tell anyone, he said. I want it to be a surprise.

          – I won’t tell anyone.

          Once my father had finished wiring all of the roses to the cable – twenty-four in all – he fetched a box of light-bulbs from the shed. They were ordinary household light-bulbs, but my father had painted them in a variety of colours using household paint. One bulb was maroon, one was mustard, one was silver, one was avocado green, and one was black. And then the sequence was repeated. And again. And again… Read more

 

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My Father’s Garden: Christmas Decorations

Copyright © R J Dent 2016

 

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My Father’s Garden: Greenhouse by R J Dent

 

Greenhouse

 

1: Frame

 

Several lengths of silver angle-iron had been in the garden for over a week before my father acknowledged their existence.

      – Ah, yes. I’d better put that together, he said cryptically, one morning.

      Later on, he’d assembled several lengths of the angle-iron into a cube-shaped frame.

      – What are you making, dad?

      – Assembling.

      – What are you assembling, dad?

      – A greenhouse. With a gable roof.

      – Are you going to grow anything in it?

      – No, I thought I’d leave it empty for years, and then knock it down.

      – Oh. What for?

      – Not really. I’m going to grow tomatoes in it. Read more…

 

 

My Father’s Garden: Greenhouse

Copyright © R J Dent (2014)

 

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My Father’s Garden: Gnomes by R J Dent

 

 

 

Gnomes

 

1: Off-white

One morning, I found twenty-two garden gnomes standing on the drive.

     My father was walking around them, looking thoughtful.

     The gnomes were made of resin and they hadn’t been painted. They were all an off-white colour and they looked eerie, like an army of albino midgets.

     – What are these for?

     – What are gnomes usually for? my father countered.

     I thought for a moment, and then shrugged.

     – I have no idea. Read more…

 

 

 

My Father’s Garden: Gnomes

Copyright © R J Dent (2014)

 

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My Father’s Garden: Summer House and Brewery by R J Dent

 

Summer House

 

Once my father realised that my sister never went near, let alone into, the tree house he’d built for her, he decided to dismantle it and build a summer house instead.

          For the next few evenings, he very carefully disassembled the tree house and stacked all of the individual pieces against the shed wall.

          He then drew a plan of the new summer house. He used a piece of butcher’s paper and a wax crayon, and then explained the diagram to me.

          – It’s got a hexagonal back and sides and a flat front for maximum sunlight capture.

          I nodded, wondering about the ‘maximum sunlight capture’.

          Anyway, within a week, my father had built a summer house. It looked exactly like the one in his diagram, which ordinarily would have been a positive factor or a compliment, but which, in this case, was not.

          It was a wooden structure that looked a lot like a very large sentry box. The back and sides nodded at hexagonality; the front was two huge sliding patio doors.

          – It looks like a public lavatory, my brother said.

          – It’s a bit open-fronted for that, my father protested.

          – That’s why I said ‘public’. Read more…

 

 

My Father’s Garden: Summer House and Brewery

Copyright © R J Dent (2014)

 

 

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My Father’s Garden: Caravan by R J Dent

 

 

Caravan

 

There was considerable excitement in our family when our mother mentioned that we might be getting a caravan. We talked it up into something more than it was, so that when it finally arrived on our drive, it was something of an anticlimax.

          The caravan itself was a bit scruffy; it would need painting before it was ready for use.

          My father, as ever, was ready for the challenge.

          He and my mother debated the colour-scheme.

          – Beige is nice, my father said.

          – Dove grey is nicer.

          – Pale green’s quite nice.

          – Dove grey is nicer.         

          – Magnolia’s nice too.

          – Dove grey is nicer.

          – I think dove grey would look nice, my father said, but only if it’s contrasted with a brighter colour – something like maroon or lime green.

          – You can paint the roof maroon, my mother said, but the rest of the outside needs to be dove grey. Read more…

 

My Father’s Garden: Caravan

Copyright © R J Dent (2014)

 

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My Father’s Garden: Tree House by R J Dent

 

 

1: Ash

 

My sister had been pestering my father for a tree house for months.

          – All my friends have got one.

          – Use theirs then.

          – It’s not the same, my sister wailed.

          – Why don’t I just throw a shed up into the ash tree’s branches? my father said. You can use that.

          – You always say something like that when you don’t want me to have nice things, my sister whinged. It’s so unfair. All my friends think I’m a freak because I don’t have a tree house. It’s embarrassing.

          – Well, you should always listen to your friends.

          – What do you mean? my sister asked suspiciously.

          – What I say. It’s not a secret message.

          – I don’t understand.

          – I’m just saying your friends are right, that’s all.

          My sister smiled victoriously.

          – I knew it, she said.

          My father walked slowly down to the bottom of the garden. I followed him discreetly.

          Right at the foot of the garden, about four feet away from the fence that separated my father’s garden from the neighbour’s garden was an ash tree. Ash trees grow very straight and very tall. This one was no exception; it had been there for years and was very straight and was about thirty feet high.

          My father looked at the ash tree for a very long time.

          – That ash tree’s got to go, he muttered. Read more…

My Father’s Garden: Tree House

Copyright © R J Dent (2014)

 

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My Father’s Garden: Wagon Wheel by R J Dent

 

1: Tyre

 

– Some gardens have a wagon wheel in them, my mother said.

          – What for? my father asked.

          – For decoration. It leans against the house wall as a decorative feature.

          – I see. Well, I might be able to get hold of one for you, my father said.

          – Oh, good. That’d be nice.

          My father’s first attempt was a dismal failure; he brought home a huge tractor tyre.

          It was taller than he was.

          My father rolled it into the front garden and leaned it against the house wall. It loomed there gigantically as he went to find my mother.

          – Oh, no, that’s not right, my mother said, on being shown the tyre.

          – Is it not? my father asked, clearly surprised.

          – Well, it’s not a wagon wheel, is it?

          – It’s very similar.

          – Not really. Wagon wheels are made of wood or metal and have spokes. This is a spoke-free rubber monstrosity. It needs to go. Read more…

My Father’s Garden: Wagon Wheel

Copyright © R J Dent (2014)

 

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My Father’s Garden: Metal by R J Dent

 

1: Statues

– What this garden needs is a couple of statues, my father said one day.

     He was standing in the back garden, looking at his horticultural empire. My mother was sitting on the garden bench, drinking a cup of tea and skim-reading a newspaper.

     – That’s a good idea, she said. Let’s go to the garden centre and see what they’ve got.

     My father cleared his throat and shuffled his feet.

     – I was thinking more along the lines of making them myself.

     My mother’s smile faded.

     – Oh.

     My father took this as encouragement. Read more…

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My Father’s Garden: Mad Dog by R J Dent

 

– There’s a dog in the garden, my mother said. It’s acting very strangely.

          My father looked out of the window. So did my brother, my sister and I.

          Sure enough, at the bottom of the garden there was an Afghan hound. It was a red-gold colour, although its coat was dirty and scruffy-looking. Also, its legs were spindly – more so than is usual for an afghan.

          Something was clearly wrong with it; its mouth was dripping yellow foam and it was growling, whining and barking at nothing. Its eyes were constantly rolling, showing the whites.

          – Don’t go outside, our father said. It’s mad. It’ll attack anyone who goes out there.

          – What’ll we do? my mother asked.

          – For now, my father said, we’ll just keep an eye on it.

          – What’s it doing? my sister asked.

          – It’s staring at the pond, growling.

          – I wonder why, my mother said.

          – It’s probably just seen its reflection for the first time and has discovered that it’s ginger, my brother said. That’d certainly be enough to drive me mad. Read more…

 

 

My Father’s Garden: Mad Dog

Copyright © R J Dent (2014)

 

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