Vince's Nightingale Garden

         I hate cutting the grass, Vince fumed, kicking the offending foliage as he walked around the yard.  Why can’t it rain today?  He shook his fist at the wisps of cloud as if his anger would evoke a thunderstorm. 

         Fifteen-year-old Vince was like any other boy his age.  “Summers should be spent playing video games, kicking a ball with friends, and doing fun stuff,” he’d told his mother when school got out.  “I have to think all the rest of the year.”

         “Well, chores still need to be done,” she’d replied. 

         And this is one of ‘em, he thought, recalling her words.  “Why are moms always right?” he mused.  Looking back over his summer he couldn’t complain.  He’d beaten his previous scores on his favorite games and spent his saved allowance for a new game.  Vacation had been fun, too; he’d gotten some great shots at the Grand Canyon.

         Stretching the cord across the yard Vince entertained himself by whipping it along the ground and watching as his action traveled down the length.  He remembered doing similar experiments in science class.  He jerked his arms a few more times and sent a series of waved through the bright orange cord.  Yanking his arm up and down, he sent a set of vertical waves through the line and smiled. 

         Vince hung a cold damp towel around his neck, adjusted his ear phones, and pulled the lever.  Whir… the engine came to life and echoed off surrounding houses. 

         As he walked behind the mower he thought about school.  Summer was drawing to a close and he’d be back to classes in a few short weeks.  Finishing the front yard, he stopped and wiped the sweat from his face and stepped into the cool shade of the garage to take a drink. 

         “How’s it going out here, Vince?” Mom asked, presenting a tray of fruit. 

         Ah, the one good thing about grass-cutting:  Mom brings snacks.  Vince eyed a bunch of juicy grapes.  “Front’s done,” he answered, pinching the grape stem and lifting the cluster into the air.  Condensed water droplets clung to the fruit, sparkling like crystals.  The bright sun shone through, turning each grape into a translucent, glowing orb of brilliant burgundy.

         “Mmm,” he murmured, biting into the sweet, crisp produce.  “Where do they grow grapes like these, Mom?”

         She smiled as her son enjoyed the fruit.  “California; or Mexico, maybe,” she replied.  “I can check the box and see.”

         Vince shook his head.  “Don’t worry; I was just wondering.”  He wiped his face again, but the towel had warmed from the heat of his body and was no longer refreshing. 

         “I’m going to get a fresh towel before I do the back,” he announced.  As he entered the house through the laundry room he tossed the towel into the open washer and grabbed a clean towel from the shelf.

         “Let me get that,” Mom said, taking the towel.  “Your shoes are full of grass and I just swept.”

         “Sorry.” 

         Vince hung the fresh towel around his neck and headed back to the mower, trimming along the rosebush as he went.  Since their conversation about fruit, his mind lingered on Mexico.

         “'A legend says the Aztec Indians built their capital Tenochtitlan where they saw an eagle perched on a cactus, devouring a snake',” Vince recalled his teacher explaining in Spanish class.

         An eagle perched on a cactus with a snake in its mouth, he thought with a smile.  If I ever see a bird perched with a snake in its mouth, maybe I’ll build something there, too.  Like that would ever happen.

         As Vince reached the middle of the backyard, a shadow passed in front of him. A nightingale landed in the far back corner of the yard and began pecking furiously at something on the ground.  Vince approached cautiously to investigate.

         The nightingale hopped up on a rock, pulling something long and black along with it.  “This can’t be happening,” he gasped.

         “Mom!  Mom, come quick; and bring the camera,” he hollered excitedly, running toward the house.  Breathless, he repeated his plea as he approached the kitchen door.

         “A bird perched on a rock with a snake in its beak?” she asked in disbelief.  She tested the camera as she followed her son around the house. 

         Vince pointed at the nightingale.  “I was just thinking about Spanish class and how the Aztec Indians said they’d build a city where they saw an eagle perched on a cactus devouring a snake and I thought maybe I’d build something if I ever saw a bird perched with a snake in its mouth.”

         Mom laughed.  “I’ve always wanted a garden in this corner,” she quipped.  “What better reason to build one than this?”

         Mom took several pictures of the nightingale before it flew away, leaving the snake behind.  Vince went over for a closer look and snickered. Against Mom’s protests, he bent and picked up the snake, holding it high like a trophy.  Through his laughter he exclaimed, “It’s not a snake; it’s just a black rubber dog collar!”

         Mom laughed, too.

         Vince laughed so hard he used the towel to wipe away the tears.  Driving a stake into the ground he proclaimed, “On this spot, where we saw a nightingale perched on a rock devouring a black rubber dog collar, we shall erect our garden.”

         When the yard was finished, Vince and his mother went to the store to purchase plants and soil for their new garden.  “I want this, too,” he said, holding up a stepping stone kit.  “I want to make a stone with our new coat of arms, just like the one on the flag of Mexico; well, kind of like that one.”

         That evening Vince showed his father the new garden.  “The stepping stone looks great, son,” he said, admiring Vince’s hard work.  “I dub this ‘the nightingale garden’.”

         “‘The nightingale garden’ it is,” Mom agreed.  “Vince’s nightingale garden.”

995 words  Writer's Cramp entry: write a poem or short story that contains a nightingale, a rosebush, and a black rubber dog collar.