Roots

"Father!" Ophelia yelped from where she sat, "what's this one?" In her hands, which on this particular morning were covered with dirt – as were her knees, feet, and belly – she held a deep red, earth-encrusted bulb. The bulb was like a tiny ball, white near the top where tall fronds of green exploded from its cap, and white again where a thin vein hung from its base. But the red, the pure deep red of its middle, was so beautiful Ophelia could hardly stand it – like a ruby, a treasure excavated from some forgotten pharaoh, and Ophelia had found it first. The archaeological community would, undoubtedly, be in awe.

"What's that?" her Father grunted from a few yards away. Mr. Chester was on his knees in the manor gardens as well, but Ophelia's enthusiasm was lost on him. Sweat bristled on his thick mustache, and his shirt was plastered to his back like the wrappings of a mummy. Looking up from the clump of weeds that, despite his best efforts, was still firmly planted in their bed of cabbages, Mr. Chester chuckled to himself at Ophelia's discovery.

"Why, my dear, that's just a radish. You can try it if you like, but you'd better brush it off first. Now haven't you pulled up enough of Ms. Braeburn's vegetables this morning?" Ms. Braeburn was the widow of the Chester family's former groundskeeper, Mick, and she had stayed on to carry on her husband's work. She was a gifted gardener, but a bit reclusive. Mr. Chester, out of pity for the widow, and out of sheer hatred for disorder, helped pull weeds from the vegetables from time to time. This day, however, was the first time Ophelia had taken a real interest in the neatly rowed garden beds. A book on loan to the Chesters from the British Archaelogical Society may have aided her conversion.

And yes, Mr. Chester was right. Ophelia had pulled up a fair few of Ms. Braeburn's vegetables that morning. Strewn about the girl were the following: some new potatoes, yellow and lumpy like clumps of gold sifted in a creek; a few varieties of carrots, precious daggers made from living orange stone, their hilts as green as jade and worth far more; and one fat turnip, its white and purple exterior signaling it was clearly from a nest of dinosaur eggs, buried in the garden from time out of memory. And now, finally, the radishes, the glorious radishes, the most valuable discovery of the day. Wiping off the dirt on her already-filthy blouse, Ophelia found that their coloring was even more brilliant than she had first hoped. She flopped on her back and stared at the blessed thing from every possible angle.

"I suppose it's good you know your roots," Mr. Chester mumbled, turning back to his weeding. He got to his knees, wrapped his hands firmly around the stubborn clump in front of him, and pulled with all his might. His face turned red. He pulled harder. His face turned deeper red, then deeper. Ophelia stopped to watch her father work. Finally, his face was ruby like the radish in her hand.

"Oh father," Ophelia cried, "you might explode!"

"Woah!" he yelled, the weeds finally giving way. The force of his pull threw him backward, laying him out flat. "Good gracious," he heaved, "these weeds will be the end of me."

"Here, have a radish father, it will make you feel better!" She handed him the clean radish, then picked another for herself.

"Don't mind if I do, thank you my dear." Holding the red radish next to his red face, he looked ridiculous.

Crunch. Ophelia bit into her radish. Her eyes took a queer turn. "Oh father," she spit the bite out, "it's so bitter!"

"Yes," he replied, crunching on his radish thoughtfully, "they usually are."

"I suppose most buried treasures aren't meant to taste good," Ophelia thought to herself. "But they are so, so nice to look at." She put the remains of the radish in her blouse pocket and inspected the rest of the vegetables and concluded that yes, they were important discoveries indeed.

The End.

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This post is part of a synchroblog (a group of people posting every two weeks on the same topic). This week's topic was "know your roots." To read the other posts, which are quite good, follow this link:

http://synchrobloggers.wordpress.com/2011/08/23/know-your-roots/

Sunshine

In the parlor of her family’s Victorian home, Ophelia was kneeling in a wing-backed armchair, her elbows folded and resting on its back. Looking out the large parlor windows, she squinted just enough so that she could look at the noonday sun without hurting her eyes. Every so often, she would fling her lids wide and gaze upon the great orange ball in all its burning splendor. Able to bear it for only seconds, she would quickly look away, blinking furiously. To her delight thereafter, whether she closed her eyes or simply stared at the floor, she could still see the image of the round sun as clearly as if its shape were burnt into her pupils. When the sun’s likeness had faded, she would start at the beginning, squinting to give her eyes a rest, then capturing the sun all over again.

“Father,” she said, sitting up quite suddenly after nearly half an hour of her game. The mustached and be-monocled  Mr. Chester was dozing in another armchair nearby. “Father, have you ever looked up at the sun?” She could scarcely imagine that her father had ever done so, or that he had ever had a childhood for that matter, stuffy and boorish as he was.

“Eh?” he grunted, cracking an eye and giving her a sideways glance. “The sun, what’s that?”

“Have you ever looked up at the sun?” she persisted.

“Oh,” he yawned, “that’s a silly question, my girl. Of course I have.”

“You have?” she said, a note of surprise in her voice.

Both his eyes were open now. Mr. Chester stretched, then scooted his armchair around to face his daughter. “Ophelia,” he began, “I once looked at the sun through a telescope! It nearly blinded my left eye!”

“Oh father!” she said in mock horror. “But you got better, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did, my dear,” he chuckled. “Of course. But you have to be careful, you know. Too much staring at the sun, and who knows, you might not be so lucky as me.”

“Hmm,” said Ophelia thoughtfully, looking outside again and watching the sun glitter on a small pond in the gardens. “You know, Father, I think that if the sun came any closer to the earth, we might all be blinded! It’s just lucky that the sun keeps far enough away to give us light, but not too much.”

“Ho ho,” her father chuckled. “Ophelia, I don’t think the sun will be moving any time soon. It’s quite happy where it is, I do believe.”

“But father,” Ophelia turned to him, annoyed. “The sun moves every day. It goes all the away around the earth, round and round. I read about it in a book.”

“Well, I hate to argue, but I think you’ve been reading the wrong books Ophelia. The sun doesn’t move – the earth does. We’re on an orbit, you see, and – oh, but I suppose you wouldn’t understand all that.”

“No, father!” Ophelia jumped up in her chair. “You're wrong! If the earth were moving, we would feel it. We’d be stumbling and nothing would sit on the shelves properly. Stop playing,” she fumed, jumping down from the chair. She ran over to the couch across the room and flung herself upon it.

“Be reasonable, Ophelia,” her father began in an exasperated tone.

“No, you be reasonable Father!” she called back. “I know what I know, and I see what I see. The sun runs around the earth like a big chariot, and it’s beautiful, and I would watch it run all day long if my eyes could stand it! Hmph!” With a final sigh, she snuggled her face into a pillow and lay still.

“Well, Ophelia,” her father said carefully, “I suppose you can decide for yourself which way is the right way. But maybe you’ll change your mind some day – you should be open to that, you know.” He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette. Clenching one between his lips, he struck a match and tried to light it – the small flame from the match crept closer and closer to his fingertips. As he finally puffed the cigarette to life, the match came to its end. “Ouch!” he said, and dropped the spent match onto his lap. “Blast it all,” he muttered, sticking his burnt finger in his mouth.

“Serves you right,” Ophelia whispered into her pillow. “If the sun were any closer, it’d do the same thing.”


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This post is part of a synchroblog, where people post at the same time every two weeks on the same topic. This week's topic is: 'The Earth around the Sun or the Sun around the Earth: Centers of Gravity.' To read the other posts (which are quite good), follow this link:


Synchrobloggers