Cut Flowers – Everpine & Petal

A Tail of Treason

July 8, 2025July 8, 2025 LaShelle

A not-so-love story featuring nudity, betrayal, and livestock.

Frank is an asshole. Honestly, the moment a man tries to defend something that pees on him and lives in a box? Red flag. Immediate eviction. I don’t care how many mice it eats.
My husband tried to convince me otherwise, and after Rob knocked on the door to our own house, I should have seen the dead giveaway coming.

“Look at him, babe! He was so afraid, he hid his little head so he didn’t have to see me. I found him hanging out in the shed, curled up in a cardboard bunker!”

I squinted suspiciously. The guilty often look innocent. I would know—and Rob should too.

It reminded me of the last time I had played innocent—big eyes, fake shock, the whole act. Rob had walked in and caught me mid-plant smuggling operation, and I’d tried to lie my way out with the confidence of a toddler covered in cookie crumbs.

“Where did that new rose bush come from?”

“What rose bush?”

Rob pointed at the one I had definitely bought in the Lowe’s garden section. “That rose bush!”

“You haven’t seen this seven-footer before? She’s obviously always been here. I sure worry about your memory sometimes, love,” I said as I shoved a few more plants under the porch with my foot so he couldn’t bear witness to them.

He knew.
We both did.
Which was how I understood his new “friend” was already a troublemaker.
And I also didn’t want it anywhere near me.

“Aww, poor guy peed on me.”

I wanted to vomit.
“Attempt to let it touch me and it won’t live to see tomorrow.”

“You can’t do that—they’re helpful to the farm!”

“The only good one is a dead one,” I argued.

Nikolai came racing toward us and all hope of running it over with the car vanished.

“Ohhh!!! Where did you find him? Can we keep him?”

Please. Lord, no. Don’t wish this on me.

“Kinda! He can live here and you can name him if you want. What should we call him?”

“Ummm… how about Frank?”

My house has a long history of hosting creatures that should come with warning labels and their own bail bondsman.

I. Find. Everything.
Missing lizards Niki had misplaced in the car, frogs where they shouldn’t belong, bugs the size of Chihuahuas that had forced me into learning karate just to win a death match.
I knew I would find Frank.
Not if. When.

There had been a lot of mice in the horse trailer where we kept our feed bin. So naturally, Rob and Nikolai had lovingly rehomed him from the shed to the location I used more than anything else… to fatten up.

And of course, I had been left out of the loop. Why would anyone want to clue mom in?

Months had passed with me peacefully swaddled in a false sense of security, until one morning when I went to grab the horse scooper to feed the chickens.
It was nearing the end of summer, as warm days crept into cooler evenings. Sunlight stretched across the greenery, birds cheerily gathering and stashing seeds, while I hummed a tune with a skip in my step.

Creaky hinges groaned. The door opened to dance with light, and I grabbed the feed bag.

Do you remember that game with the little clown—or sometimes a weasel in a box? You’d crank the handle, wind it up with dread in your gut, bracing for the inevitable—

All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel.
The monkey stopped to pull up his sock…

POP! went the weasel.

My hand reached into the bag and Frank launched out.
At. My. Face.

Black. Slithering. Fangs.

I shrieked in horror and ran up the driveway, foot pounding pavement, screaming for my life. Stripping naked for the neighbors like I was starring in a one-woman matinee performance of Snake! The Musical… all to be sure he hadn’t found a way to attach himself to me.
And then I made a vow to buy new chicken feed instead of sticking my hand into the old one ever again.

Izzy had been farm-sitting for me while I was on a trip with Rob. She had gone to the well-house to fill Caspian’s water bucket, and as she reached for the spindly blue knob… there was Frank.
He exploded from the shadows at her as she screamed for mercy, fell on her rear end, and ran to her car to call me for an explanation.

I wish I could tell you it stopped there.
But it didn’t.

One of my best friends found Frank hiding underneath the large, shallow black water bucket I had left out for the chickens when she went to refill it for their daily gulp-and-splash routine.
He had chased her to our porch.

As if that wasn’t enough, Frank decided to up his game. Rob had been searching our old Ford truck glove box for a part he had stashed.
The door flipped open, papers began rustling on their own… and then came the sound of a rattler.
Rob had snagged a screwdriver for protection, heart racing. A flash of scales.
A jolt so sudden and visceral he forgot to breathe for a few seconds.

Frank became an unintentional kebab.

Injured but not near death, Rob used his military first-aid skills to patch him up.
He petted him. Whispered words of comfort and healing.
The man even apologized to his reptilian mastermind. And Frank didn’t even own a rattle.

I couldn’t have been more appalled. Disgusted, even.
And then Frank had been released, to commit more acts of trespassing and treason.

A few weeks ago, a ghost skin of scales the size of an anaconda was found and pulled out of the headlight within the Colorado farm truck we used regularly.
I wanted to cry—because I knew Frank would return. And his last known sighting had been the well-house incident from Izzy’s account.

I had begged Rob to hook up the hoses for me before he left for work. They were long enough to hydrate the roses, Caspian, and some of the farm dogs, without needing to haul water.

I walked out to the field, ankles bare. Chest, arms, and face exposed to the breeze.
Exploring the edges of the garden and preparing to pull the hose and press the button that would send water shooting out.
The hose was coiled like a spring and I was about to launch… my anger through the speaker phone at my wonderful husband—on behalf of forgetting. The ends were unattached and unattended.

I had to go in. Turn the blue lever. And pray I was alone.

I. Had. No. Choice.

Honestly, if anyone deserves sainthood, it’s me—for not burning the well house down and pretending it was lightning.

I made noise.
I pleaded for my sanity as I stomped closer toward the cement brick walls. Swallowed bile. Terrified.
Replayed the time I had found him tucked into a hay bale I was pulling apart to use as mulch for the garden bed—when he was nearly in my hands.

The flashbacks crept in as I edged closer, cursing my husband, cursing the day Frank slithered into our lives and refused to leave.

POP! Goes the weasel.

I heard a rustle as I reached for the knob—something moving quickly.
I begged my hands to turn fast as my rib cage thrummed.

A lurch. A movement I didn’t get a good look at had me reeling, running backward—unknowingly straight through the same patch of poison ivy I’d already face-planted into earlier at the well house.
Which was probably now smeared on my ankles, arms, neck, chest… maybe even my lips.

Doing my best owl impression—mouth rounded in a panicked oooh, eyes scanning the grass—I once again stripped for the neighbors as Nikolai yelled:

“Hey Mom! I need you for something!”

Poison ivy oil sets in fast. The quicker you get your clothes off, the better your odds.
So I danced, trying not to touch my face—except my ear itched from a mosquito.
I stupidly shooed it away and touched my lobe.

Arms waving, running in floral tennis shoes with alabaster thunder thighs sliding sweatily together. I made it to the house without eating the rocks on the driveway, or getting bit by Frank. Looking like a possessed scarecrow mid-bender knowing he was still out there somewhere.

Watching me.
Laughing.
Mocking.
Pissing me off for all the damage he had caused.

Whether he had been there or imagined—I blamed him for everything.

Because Frank is an asshole.
Who deserves what he gets.
Rat snake or not.

Niki was still behind me yelling, “MOM! MOM! MOM I NEED YOU!”
While I was yelling, “After the shower, kid!”

One shock to the system and a sudsy Dawn dish-soap dip later, I thought I had it licked.
12 hours went by—clear.
24 hours—nothing.
Day two?

A steroid shot in the ass for a poison ivy reaction was not what I had signed up for.

Frank. Is. An asshole.

And you never know where he’ll show up next.
I’m already avoiding the truck where his skin was found… dangling like a promise, out of the headlight.

And if you see him? Tell Frank I’m coming with car keys in hand.

Critters, Chaos & the Occasional Corpse

A Life Fulfilled

July 26, 2022July 26, 2022 LaShelle

Earth chunks soared over my shoulder. Some fell short only to land onto my itchy scalp. My shirt was soaked all the way through, my jeans… pressed so tightly against my skin that in order to remove them, they had to be peeled below my hips. Once I tossed the last of the carnage into the compost pile, I am rewarded by sinking into a hot lavender bath. I can almost taste the icy bottle of water that I left in the freezer before it’s pressed against my sun kissed lips. It only takes about an hour for me to get the job done because I am determined to get it over with.

The war on weeds is my biggest gardening frustration to date, yet I feel so empowered and satisfied when I’ve finished the task. I wait until the sun begins to set after a small rainstorm has loosened the soil and then… I attack! I rip unwanted stems out by the head and dig for their roots with my hands until the muscles in my legs feel too wobbly to keep me in a squat position. Sweat pours from my brow and my hair lacks luster when I’m done, but tiny red curls form at the nape of my neck.

The long-term reward of weeding around all the beautiful things in my garden is spying brand-new buds on my camellias the next morning. Eagerly waiting for my dahlias to make their appearance and having the room I needed to tuck new blooms into the paradise I have created with my own two hands. I use the hose to fill up my mud smeared watering can, and then I take a little walk clutching a pair of nippers against my chest.

Stormy and Waddles, (our ducks) are usually taking a stroll as well. I typically need to wave them away from my vegetables or they will use them as an all-you-can-eat buffet. Sometimes I’m forced to chase them off because they like to crush my flowers as they walk and nibble leaves and petals off my blooms. During our big family trip this summer, I received a call from one of my best friend’s informing me that Waddles wasn’t a drake (a male duck) like I had originally suspected.

Waddles had laid a clutch of eggs near Stormy and the two ducks were terrorizing my farm sitters. The girls were determined to have babies, but I didn’t have a drake old enough to provide them with fertilized eggs. This problem also caused havoc for Harlow (our big black and white paint) and Caspian (our miniature donkey). While trying to eat their feed, Stormy and Waddles would launch themselves at the equine and horrify them by nipping at their hooves. It was hysterical to watch the boys retreat to a corner of the pasture and eye the ducks suspiciously out of fear for their lives. Two large animals at the mercy of two angry females.

Izzy (my daughter of sorts) made a wonderful suggestion. She recommended buying some baby ducks and in the cover of darkness, to swap the duck eggs in exchange for ducklings. This way the girls get the babies their hearts desired, and the little ducklings get the mothers they never had. So, I went to Tractor Supply, and I carefully selected and bought four tiny, orphaned puffballs. I had never witnessed an adoption like this before and I couldn’t wait to see the outcome.

I sat on a log nearby and watched the shadows in the forest grow longer. I listened to the chuck-will’s-widow and heard an owl shake off the cobwebs of slumber. A daddy-long legs with two missing limbs crept over the dirt but when blackness encompassed me, I made my move. Moose (our farm dog) had stolen Waddle’s eggs earlier in the day, but thankfully I was able to snatch some from Stormy. Izzy had told me that the two ducks would share and raise the babies together if the imprinting was fruitful.

Stormy tucked those babies underneath her wings as if they had been hers all along. The relief in her body language was evident. Her purpose in life, fulfilled. The next day my neighbor drove by with her granddaughter and watched the ducklings play in a puddle with their two mothers. I myself stopped mid-snip of a flower stem to witness the binding love between adopted ducklings and their protective mothers. Rather than chasing two ducks out of my garden beds, I was now having to watch my step and encourage six to find another place to feast.

I adopted a love for gardening in the same way my grandfather adopted me. I didn’t have a father who was present in my life when I was young until my mom meet my stepfather. My childhood after their marriage became even more complicated but that’s a story for another day. My papa was the one (besides my mom and grandmother) who was always there for me no matter what. One of my most favorite memories was of holding his finger in my fist as he let me pick an armful of flowers.

He had sewn the seeds inside a drainage area that was fenced off and locked up when he worked as a ground’s keeper for a local hospital near Chicago. The skill seemed to come naturally to him while it took a long time for me to learn how to have a “green thumb”. It’s funny that I say that because the secret to growing beautiful things is simply… sunshine, food, and water. I reached a point in my adult life where I had a moment of clarity and suddenly an achievable passion blossomed. My papa however… he could grow things in the middle of the desert.

Long before I was good at growing things, my husband knew that simply pulling over on the side of the road to pick a bouquet of wildflowers was the way to my heart. I can’t imagine what people driving by must have been thinking. I wonder if they sat and watched as a tall man with broad shoulders, in full military uniform stood alone in a field of flowers as he carefully selected which blooms to add to the handful. They probably assumed he was in marital trouble. As a friend pointed out to me not long ago, my husband understands my love language and he knew what would make me happy. He still does.

Before that green thumb kicked in, I used to dream about having a secret garden full of beautiful flowers. It helped me cope with events in my life that were out of my control when I was young. Underneath my bedroom window a large cluster of daffodils bloomed and there was (to this day) the biggest lilac bush I had ever seen near the edge of our property. I would pick clusters and stash vases on every available surface. It was my way of bringing light into the darkness. Storm clouds brewed within the walls of that house. It was beautiful on the outside, but what lied within was destruction.

As an adult, I have surrounded myself with people who bring peace into my life. One of my most precious friends is a woman named Heather. When I was feeling especially lost with yet another health crisis, she invited me to see the farm where she worked and encouraged me to bring along a bucket for cut flower clippings. Her hard work and encouragement inspired me. She had created an oasis of living things with a few seeds, some bulbs, and a lot of hard work. The beauty of it breathed new life into my soul again.

“Do you think that I could have a garden like this one?” I asked her.

“Girl, I believe that you can do anything!”

My first year growing cut flowers was so successful that I made floral arrangements and gave them away weekly. Seeing how much joy it brought into the lives of other people had me researching ideas to improve my output. One of the first steps I needed to take was to expand our farm. We succeeded in doing that in March and rebranded our farm with the name Everpine Forest & Farm. This year we’ve cleared trees and worked to create a new pasture space that would allow us to move the equine around.

Harlow’s original pasture has served as my new gardening space. This spring I bought out four stores of their cut flower seeds. I planted hundreds of dollars in seeds and bulbs. Most of the time it was a matter of experimenting to see what worked and what didn’t, but each day taught me something new. I now know that next year I need to stagger my blooms by their growing season to help me have flowers to cut year around. I also learned that it’s best to keep each type of flower together with its own kind, so they don’t have to compete for sunlight.

I have discovered that like any crop… spacing is EVERYTHING. Rather than planting thick rows like I did this year, I need to plant smaller rows with a narrow space in between so that I can walk in and gather blooms without trampling, tripping, or dancing my way around them. I’ve learned that it’s better (and cheaper) to buy seeds and bulbs in bulk than it is to buy from your local Walmart, nursery, or dollar general. Best of all… I learned that in order to keep my output flowing efficiently, a greenhouse is a must have essential.

While all these changes are in the works to help me improve next year’s garden, I am thankful for the joy that this year’s garden has brought with it. I look forward to planning and building our greenhouse, and I can hardly contain my excitement regarding my future cut flower stand. I have high hopes of donating arrangements to people in hospitals and nursing homes who need a little extra love to lift their spirits.

A couple weeks ago Heather called to tell me how proud she was of my hard work. To my delight she told me that she was envious of my flower garden this year! This woman is the most selfless and hardest working human (besides my husband) I’ve ever meet. Her house is covered in plants, and she basically helps grow lovely things for other people even though she works three jobs and has no spare time. I’ll never forget her kindness in sharing seeds and bulbs with me to help get me started.

I can’t adequately put into words how much sunshine floods my veins when I’m standing in the middle of something tangible that I thought I could only dream of accomplishing. As a summer storm unleashes above me, I’m laughing as I chase six ducks out of my haven. I have rose petals plastered to my cheek. Rain is dripping off the tip of my nose, and my butterfly top is drenched as I attempt to carry a watering can stuffed with blooms up to the house. My favorite pair of nippers are clutched close to my heart and I’m overflowing with fulfillment.