Prickly Love LbNA #43429
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Add Location| Owner: | Adoptable |
|---|---|
| Plant date: | Sep 15, 2008 |
| Location: | |
| City: | Spokane |
| County: | Spokane |
| State: | Washington |
| Boxes: | 1 |
| Planted by: | The Fat Lady  |
|---|---|
| Found by: | bitterrootgirl |
| Last found: | Apr 10, 2015 |
| Status: | FFFFFFFFFFFFFF |
| Last edited: | Sep 15, 2008 |
Prickly Love
What with being nocturnal, verbose, and constantly hungry—not to mention covered in life-threatening quills—Clarence Porcupine had a hard time meeting girls. True, his graveyard-shift hours meant he could frequent singles bars, but the females there seemed put off by Clarence’s essential qualities. Sprung from a long line of story-tellers, the young porcupine loved to talk, and he had a repertoire of family anecdotes a mile long, but curiously, the singles-bar ladies wanted to exchange only minimal information, such as name, health status, and astrological sign. The minute Clarence would utter the words, “This one time, my Uncle Farley,” their eyes would glaze over, their smiles disappear, and their bar stools swivel automatically away. Should Clarence, faint with hunger, help himself to the potted ferns, the women invariably curled their lips in distaste, but they also seemed revolted if he let his stomach growl on and on.
Once, Clarence thought he’d finally met a good prospect, but she made the mistake of fondling his quills south-to-north and ran from the bar, screaming, “It hurts! It hurts!” That night, Clarence went home to his forest burrow, sat himself down to a nice bushel of willow twigs, and swore off romance forever.
A few weeks later, though, at the height of summer, Fate stepped in.
While browsing for edibles in Finch Arboretum, Clarence heard a shouted, “Youch!” from nearby, and went to investigate. In a moment he reached the Corey Glen parking lot, and, knowing his species’ poor record with automobiles, he stayed hidden, peering from behind a tree. Across the pavement, leaning on a trash can, a fat lady stood sucking a bloody finger and muttering.
But Clarence hardly saw the fat lady. His gaze was locked on a spot just beyond her, at the foot of a great rock formation, where a vision of loveliness lay across the ground. Green as a young shoot, quiet as a church mouse, and spiny all over, this young goddess wore a drop of the fat lady’s blood on one needle-like spine, yet remained bravely still, neither attacking nor running away. Clarence was captivated, and could scarcely wait for the fat lady to leave.
The fat lady finally did drive away, and Clarence walked up to the goddess, introduced himself shyly, and waited, munching a few stray grass shoots for fortification. His new love object proved to be shy as well, and she said nothing, but just then the sun shone directly on the two of them, extra brightly, and Clarence believed this to be a sign: He’d found his One True Love.
Over the next months, Clarence fell ever more deeply enamored. He shared his best stories and deepest secrets with Sweet Geraldine—a pet name he gave her that first day—and she was always there for him. Literally: she was always there. Day or night, she never moved from the spot where they’d met, and Clarence delighted in the fact that Sweet Geraldine never complained about their lack of a social life, never scolded him for chewing loudly, never grew tired of his voice. She was demure, and lovely, and best of all, she didn’t yelp when, at night, Clarence cuddled close in sleep, his quills in dangerous proximity to hers.
Even Geraldine’s home seemed designed with Clarence in mind. From his spot by her side, plentiful snack choices were visible everywhere: crisp apples beyond shrubs at 100 degrees, small hard plums at 190, and Oregon Grape all around. True, this was not the Arboretum’s most peaceful spot, but the storyteller in Clarence actually enjoyed the rush of nearby freeway traffic, for it offered him constant chances to imagine where, and why, these people were driving. Each story he created he shared with Sweet Geraldine, and she listened, uncomplaining (he dare thought entranced), to every one.
In time, love unlocked a great creative force within Clarence’s soul, and the young porcupine began to study art. Each sketch he drew, each painting or wood cut he produced, sprang from his devotion to Sweet Geraldine. His artistic reputation grew until motels and truck stops everywhere wanted an original Clarence Porcupine. At the height of his career he was offered studio space in the art world’s great cities—Wenatchee, Boise, Dubuque—but he was satisfied to go home, each day, to Sweet Geraldine, and he graciously declined the offers.
And as a token of his abiding affection, Clarence saved his greatest artwork, a block print titled Prickly Love, to share with Sweet Geraldine alone, out of the view of his public. He wrapped and stored it in a special container, behind a break in the concrete “seat” at 175° from the water feature in Sweet Geraldine’s front yard. On days when his heart was bursting with joy, he would take Prickly Love from its hiding place, bring it over to his lady love, and gaze at it, with her by his side, far into the exquisite dark hours of the night.
What with being nocturnal, verbose, and constantly hungry—not to mention covered in life-threatening quills—Clarence Porcupine had a hard time meeting girls. True, his graveyard-shift hours meant he could frequent singles bars, but the females there seemed put off by Clarence’s essential qualities. Sprung from a long line of story-tellers, the young porcupine loved to talk, and he had a repertoire of family anecdotes a mile long, but curiously, the singles-bar ladies wanted to exchange only minimal information, such as name, health status, and astrological sign. The minute Clarence would utter the words, “This one time, my Uncle Farley,” their eyes would glaze over, their smiles disappear, and their bar stools swivel automatically away. Should Clarence, faint with hunger, help himself to the potted ferns, the women invariably curled their lips in distaste, but they also seemed revolted if he let his stomach growl on and on.
Once, Clarence thought he’d finally met a good prospect, but she made the mistake of fondling his quills south-to-north and ran from the bar, screaming, “It hurts! It hurts!” That night, Clarence went home to his forest burrow, sat himself down to a nice bushel of willow twigs, and swore off romance forever.
A few weeks later, though, at the height of summer, Fate stepped in.
While browsing for edibles in Finch Arboretum, Clarence heard a shouted, “Youch!” from nearby, and went to investigate. In a moment he reached the Corey Glen parking lot, and, knowing his species’ poor record with automobiles, he stayed hidden, peering from behind a tree. Across the pavement, leaning on a trash can, a fat lady stood sucking a bloody finger and muttering.
But Clarence hardly saw the fat lady. His gaze was locked on a spot just beyond her, at the foot of a great rock formation, where a vision of loveliness lay across the ground. Green as a young shoot, quiet as a church mouse, and spiny all over, this young goddess wore a drop of the fat lady’s blood on one needle-like spine, yet remained bravely still, neither attacking nor running away. Clarence was captivated, and could scarcely wait for the fat lady to leave.
The fat lady finally did drive away, and Clarence walked up to the goddess, introduced himself shyly, and waited, munching a few stray grass shoots for fortification. His new love object proved to be shy as well, and she said nothing, but just then the sun shone directly on the two of them, extra brightly, and Clarence believed this to be a sign: He’d found his One True Love.
Over the next months, Clarence fell ever more deeply enamored. He shared his best stories and deepest secrets with Sweet Geraldine—a pet name he gave her that first day—and she was always there for him. Literally: she was always there. Day or night, she never moved from the spot where they’d met, and Clarence delighted in the fact that Sweet Geraldine never complained about their lack of a social life, never scolded him for chewing loudly, never grew tired of his voice. She was demure, and lovely, and best of all, she didn’t yelp when, at night, Clarence cuddled close in sleep, his quills in dangerous proximity to hers.
Even Geraldine’s home seemed designed with Clarence in mind. From his spot by her side, plentiful snack choices were visible everywhere: crisp apples beyond shrubs at 100 degrees, small hard plums at 190, and Oregon Grape all around. True, this was not the Arboretum’s most peaceful spot, but the storyteller in Clarence actually enjoyed the rush of nearby freeway traffic, for it offered him constant chances to imagine where, and why, these people were driving. Each story he created he shared with Sweet Geraldine, and she listened, uncomplaining (he dare thought entranced), to every one.
In time, love unlocked a great creative force within Clarence’s soul, and the young porcupine began to study art. Each sketch he drew, each painting or wood cut he produced, sprang from his devotion to Sweet Geraldine. His artistic reputation grew until motels and truck stops everywhere wanted an original Clarence Porcupine. At the height of his career he was offered studio space in the art world’s great cities—Wenatchee, Boise, Dubuque—but he was satisfied to go home, each day, to Sweet Geraldine, and he graciously declined the offers.
And as a token of his abiding affection, Clarence saved his greatest artwork, a block print titled Prickly Love, to share with Sweet Geraldine alone, out of the view of his public. He wrapped and stored it in a special container, behind a break in the concrete “seat” at 175° from the water feature in Sweet Geraldine’s front yard. On days when his heart was bursting with joy, he would take Prickly Love from its hiding place, bring it over to his lady love, and gaze at it, with her by his side, far into the exquisite dark hours of the night.