Flower Pounding

Evening shadows stretched across the road with elongated elegance as I walked along, enjoying the privacy of my own thoughts.  I was wearing my hearing aids, and therefore noticed the murmurings of some mourning doves close by – one of just a few birdcalls I can still hear.  A light breeze tossed the tresses of a weeping willow, and the sinking sun spotlighted wild weeds featuring heavy clusters of lovely mature berries.

All of a sudden I heard something, a pinging or pounding like misfiring pistons.  As I continued, the sound intensified, until I finally discerned it was coming from a pole barn with open doors.  Wham, wham, wham-wham, wham-wham-wham-wham.

When I reached the barn, I was startled to see four banquet tables surrounded by seated older ladies presumably in their 60’s, 70’s, and 80’s, pounding with hammers.  Each one was intently looking at the spot on the table directly in front of her.  They whacked away like a practicing class of nail-drivers.

 The hostess walked out just as I passed by.  “They’re working out their aggressions,” she said, smiling broadly.

“Yes, well, I suppose so!” I answered, trying to be cordial.  “But really, what…..?

She enjoyed my perplexed expression, and laughed out loud.  “This,” she gestured toward the barn with flourish, “is a garden club I belong to, and it happens to be my month to host. We’re doing a craft project.  You take fresh flowers, and put cloth over them, and pound them until the flower pigments are released into the cloth.”

I could hardly hear her because of the pounding in the background.  Surely someone else in that group had hearing issues, and it was driving them crazy, too??

“Lovely!  What a great idea!”  I responded, trying to be enthusiastic.  But honestly, I could not have been bribed with any amount of money to be part of this project.

I walked another mile and circled back to find the ladies still heartily pounding and pounding and pounding some more.  Such relentless pounders!  The sounds of their hammers echoed across the road, and even perhaps across the lake and back, with mechanical overtones - as if some machine (a group of little old ladies – ha!) was demanding a voice here in our little quiet corner of the world.

Their results were probably beautiful, but no thanks.  No flower pounding for me.