|One of the primary squash flows off of Mt. Sod.|
I'm sorry—this will have to be brief, we don't have much time before—oh God! It's right outside the window!
We have to evacuate—Baby, just leave the seed catalogs, we can't save everything!—but first, I have to get word out that Mount Sod, the long-dormant compost heap towering over Fencebroke North, has erupted. Seemingly overnight, the peaceful mixed bed over which it presided has been buried beneath a moving wall of squashes, melons, and other cucurbits. So far, the ejecta has been far more gourds than magma or ash, but the destruction is nothing less than complete all the same.
If we don't make it out before the—NOO! Anything but the plum tree! It was so young! Maybe I can dig it up before—aagh! A Japanese cucumber wrapped around my arm! Cut it off! Which one … ? The cucumber, the arm, I don't care, just get me out of here!
|Get out of the way, Globe Thistle! Save yourself!|
Whew, that was close … next time I might not be so lucky. Anyway, if we don't make it out before all escape routes are snarled in climbing Italian summer squash, please contact FEMA and have them evacuate the neighborhood.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to at least try to save the tomatoes. Wish me luck.
Baby, hurry! … Bring me my Felcos!