Notes From Madoo: Blues

Hideous indiscretions.

   I suppose it was inevitable that designers would turn their color wheels for a protracted swim in the garden, but, oh lordy, to have begun on hoses? What in heaven’s name is one to do with an orange hose, a violet hose, one that is royal (what throne, pray?) blue, another lollipop yellow, and many other hideous indiscretions.
    On shoes, for example. Plastic repros of Dutch footgear can now be had for the gayest, most violent pastel confections of the sort usually reserved for holiday cakes and cookies, balloons, bubble gum, cheap ice cream, and cheaper candy. Gloves, ladies and gentlemen, are now color-matched to tool handles and the aforementioned shoes and hoses, and of course there are sun hats of similar spectrum (as long as this blue lasts, fellas, we’ll have blue anything) and wheelbarrows even, tables and benches and chairs and tuteurs and stakes and by this time you get the point that anything is fair game for brightening up.
    We have tomato-hued plastic mulch for tomatoes. Clearly, this is no garden ordinary. I believe that it is ready for designer water for when plants get thirsty, in appropriate shades of nutrition, vitamined and mineraled, for foliar feeding as well as the root. We will have eggplant for the eggplants and green for cucumbers, yellow for squash (unless zucchini, which means doubling up with cuke water, and so on).
    Every brightly painted house will have its personal color wheel adjusted to the nozzle of its hose for watering specific plants (and, of course, fruit trees and berry bushes) as well as a special unit on the dial-a-water for plain, unadulterated, unvarnished, ordinary water, just as God-given raindrops made them, for keeping terraces and baths clean as well as alleviating the dog’s thirst (his is the scarlet bowl).
    You are having a little part in the garden and you think it would be nice to have beer in the pink wheelbarrow, but it has a flat and you are forced to borrow your neighbor’s rose-mallow one, which causes your wife to rush out for different tablecloths and napkins. “Hardly coordinated but this is all I could find!” Fuss, fuss when electric-green cloths appear with polka-dotted blue napkins. Food being the same old hues, the potato salad looks grim and sordid and the coleslaw not at all appetizing and as for hot dogs and hamburgers on mustard-brown plates, they might as well have been black for all their appeal.
    But we are forgetting the garden, are we not, the garden that all of this is supposed to celebrate.
    It is still there of course, richly green, nicely weeded. Clipped and weeded, it glistens in the sun.
    It has no flowers. None new. None old. No buds for same.