It turned out the so-called "Friends of the Crooked Bush" is just Mrs. Scurfield.
I rode my truck out to the Trees last Friday at 8pm, as instructed. Mrs. Scurfield was sitting quiet in her lawn-chair with a thermos on her lap, in the illumination of her headlights. Alone. “Welcome to the first-ever meeting of the Friends of the Crooked Bush,” she said with a mischievous, youthful grin, standing up to shake my hand. “You’re the second member.”
“When are the other members coming?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s just me.”
“Just you?”
“Yes,” she said, obviously pleased with her little deception.
I was amused, but also a little disappointed. Part of me had been hoping for a cult of people in black robes or something. What I’d been honestly expecting though was a stodgy little group of civic-duty types -school teachers and Christians- who met twice a year to decide who would repair the walkways through the Trees. Instead it was Mrs. Scurfield, and now me, hanging out at the Trees, drinking. I’d done that with her before.
“Now,” she said, after assuring me that, yes, she had put up the signs, and that, yes, she was really the only member and always had been, “to the first order of business."
"Okay," I said, curious.
"You must offer justification to the group as to why you hate the Crooked Trees,” she said in a very official tone, reveling a little in her own mock-seriousness. “The chair recognizes the member who smokes and drinks a lot.” She slammed her thermos on her lap like a gavel. "Mr. Wilkinson." She was being very child-like.
It was my turn to laugh. I shook my head in disbelief. “Well!” I said, like it summed up all my feelings. Then I settled myself into the chair she’d brought for me, pulled up the collar of my jacket -defying the evening chill, and glanced up at the car lights dancing in the jagged branches. I spent a few seconds taking it all in, then breathed deep and tried to pull my thoughts together. She’d really caught me off guard.
More tomorrow.
3 comments:
I can't tell you how pleased I am that the Friends of the Crooked Trees is just Mrs. Scurfield. I was partially expecting black robes, but this is much better.
I also like the thought that if I lived in Hafford, I wouldn't be allowed to join FCT because it's by invitation-only.
I'm with Boyda. I liked who the "friends" ended up being.
I think I know why you hate the crooked trees but I've been struggling with how to explain it. Mainly because there's never been a word or phrase for it in the English language.
My OCD nature forces me to point out that roman numeral 40 is XL :)
Wazzy:
YOU'VE been struggling to explain the hatred? Me too.
And thanks on the Roman Numeral front. I'm glad I caught the mistake sooner than later.
Boyda:
Yes, it's a very exclusive club. And it has many benefits, like getting to sit in the VIP section at Hung's.
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