The worst part about working in a Garden Center in a college town is not the “expert customers” who are desperate to impart their planty wisdom upon your sun dried head, nor the occasions when we are required to fit a nine foot tree into the back of a Prius. The worst part about working at a Garden Center is not the lack of air conditioning on days over a hundred degrees, nor the non-stop attempt to keep the shelves clear of fly poop and spider webs. No. None of these things can be the worst part about working at a Garden Center in a college town, because the worst part is the college kids who work at the Garden Center for several years and then leave!
They graduate and then….
Or they get better jobs elsewhere and
Or they follow a significant other to a new town and they
They go off to other jobs in far away places like New Mexico and New Jersey and Kansas City!
And they leave us behind!
They don’t take us WITH THEM!
And we are left alone… and shivering… on a dirt road to nowhere…
To pick up the broken pieces without their smiling faces
And without their tinkling laughter
And their jaunty dance moves
And their Broadway show tunes!
And we miss them very much.
To say goodbye to all the kids that were leaving this year, we went out to dinner and then to something called “Bar Bingo”.
I am afraid that I have never before attended a “Bar Bingo” and was not exactly excited about going.
I am not really a “Bar Bingo” kind of girl.
I tried to get everyone interested in doing something other than “Bar Bingo”.
“How about we go to the Bluestem Bistro and sit on the veranda and order the hummus platter and drink cold white wine whilst listening to smooth jazz as we talk about our dreams?” I said.
But no one listened to me.
They all wanted to go to Bar Bingo.
And so to Bar Bingo we did go.
I did learn much at Bar Bingo.
I learned that if the “caller” of the Bingo numbers rolls double numbers, he then will shout, “DRINK!”
Everyone will else will also yell, “DRINK!”
But no one will actually drink anything. They will just yell drink and wait for the next number to be called.
And if the next number is B7, the caller will say the words “honey badger” and then he will shout, “DRINK!” because somehow these things are all connected and it took me a while to figure out how exactly they were connected, which was further complicated by how frequently I was being instructed to “DRINK!”, but evidently the honey badger is an animal that “just don’t care” and there is also a college football player named Tyrann Matthieu who also “just don’t care” who sports the number “7″ on his LSU football jersey and both Tyrann and the honey badger exhibit this “just don’t care attitude” by doing crazy stuff like getting stung all over by bees while breaking into a hive for honey and going to battle with a cobra and getting bitten several times and then winning the cobra battle and of course eating the now dead cobra and then passing out from being poisoned from the cobra venom but then waking back up and eating the rest of the cobra.
So to be a honey badger is to be somewhat immune to severe discomfort in order to get what you want.
I am nothing like a honey badger.
Except that I was enduring Bar Bingo in order to say a proper goodbye to the youngsters who were taking their leave of the Garden Center.
Here’s Cassie C.
She actually left last winter, but she came back to say goodbye to Brady.
That’s Brady standing beside her.
The top photo is Brady and Justin on either side of Melissa.
Brady and Justin are leaving, but Melissa can’t ever leave.
Melissa is stuck at the Garden Center forever.
Which probably makes Melissa the most honey badgerest of us all.
But we are all going to miss Brady, Cassie C and Justin.
There will simply be less sunshine at the Garden Center without them around.