Chapter 17

After the service was over, a caravan formed in the parking lot, many more people than expected, as could be expected I suppose. Practically the entire congregation congregated, and we headed out to Old Mrs. Wordsmith's place. The weather was mild, overcast but rain was not threatening, and soon the meadow was turned into a parking lot. Many hands make light work, and the worker bees spread out like a disturbed hive, attacking everything in sight. A group of men worked on the porch and step, the women-folk, either weeded the garden or ambushed the bramble bushes, while a sizable contingent including Beth set up saw-horses and sheets of plywood for impromptu picnic tables.

Food of all sorts was laid out along with paper plates and plastic forks, turning the checkered table cloths into a display to rival the judging table at the State Fair. I put on my gloves, and waded in to the brambles, clearing around the shed first, to make room for the demolition team. I cut the brambles low, and rolled them up ahead of me, forming a wad, then a ball, and winding up the vines into a heap, before cutting it loose and rolling it to the side. Others started following my example, and in hardly any time there was a row of stacks ready to be loaded into waiting pickup trucks to be hauled off.

Flo sat in a rocking chair on her porch, smiling and being friendly to all, the icon of the reason for the effort. Dave's Uncle showed up with a tow truck, and didn't want any money for delivering the 'sweet little heap' to our driveway, caught up in the awesome display of civic action. Holly rode along with him to show him where to put it, and put down the promised cardboard. Soon they were back, and I caught a 'thumb's up' from Holly when I paused to wipe my brow with a bandana.

A bandana is standard equipment when wearing overalls, don'tcha know. You can't be very picturesque in overalls unless you on occasion stop and flourish your bandana. With the brambles cut back, Dad led the demolition team to set to with their hammers, sledges, crowbars and cat's-paws, turning the swaybacked shed into a neat pile of lumber and a number ten can of nails, which my Miss Tiff had even straightened more or less using a ball-peen hammer and the side of a maul.

The brambles now all cut, and the former shed stacked, we began pulling and digging the roots of the bramble vines, turning the patch of dirt into a patch of root free turned earth. Mom had fun pulling the runners free of the ground, getting roots ten feet long, before having to dig again. Everyone (except the Church Ladies) got dirty, except for Kitty-cat, who found her place on Flo's knee, entertaining or being amused. The old battle scarred Tom cat lay impartially on both of their laps, holding them down and keeping them out of trouble, purring loudly with closed eyes.

It was too bad we didn't have a wood-shed to store the shed wood in, I thought with amusement.

In under three hours, it was all done but for hauling off the brush, which was ongoing. We washed off the dirt or rust at the faucet, and stickers and splinters were dug out by a trio of gentle mothers. At some unseen or unheard signal, a line formed going past the tables of food.

There was plenty for everyone, especially desert. The after church coffee and desert social had been hijacked after all, and as I have mentioned before, Lutherans are all about the desert! I overheard plans being made to continue this tradition at least once a month, to have community unity and help out elder or needy folk with a group effort. Flo just smiled at everyone, and gave me a saucy wink to go with a knowing grin.

I held up my hands to protest my innocence, and told her "I just called two of my friends to help tear down the shed, I don't know how all the rest of this happened!" She didn't say a word, but lay a knotty finger along side of her over-sized beak, and gave me that "uh huh, sure!" look. I shrugged in defeat, and went back for some more apple brown betty. I had kept my plate and plastic fork for a purpose, you know!