Tales of Ricky #3

Ricky sat on his flagstone patio drinking coffee. The stones were old, but like all stones they had aged well. The coffee was still hot in his double-wall, vacuum flask coffee mug. He had been outside now for over an hour, alternately scrolling through apps on his phone and looking around the yard imagining the work that needed to be done to bring it up to par.

Ricky had worked on that damn yard most weekends for the last six months, nearly as long as he'd owned the house. Some of it was acceptable, but much of the property still looked sloppy and unkempt. Mostly because it was sloppy and unkempt and had been that way for who knows how many years.

There was one section, though, that he was quite proud of. It was a shade garden filled with 31 ferns that Ricky had purchased at the local nursery and transplanted to fresh soil under the outstretched limbs of a larger mulberry tree and an even larger tulip poplar. Three months ago, that part of his property had been covered with English ivy, blackberry, and Asiatic bittersweet vine, the most evil of them all. A lot of work went into clearing all of it out. His shoulders and back were sore for weeks from the constant digging, pulling, yanking, and cajoling. Mixed in with the ferns were a few foxgloves, now in bloom for added color.

It seemed that nearly anything would grow here in California as long as you did a little research. In a lot of ways, California was a paradise to live in or see. Much more so than Central Ohio where Ricky had lived until recently, until his career change and cross country trip. He was anonymous here, which was exactly how he wanted it. No more beat up old brown briefcase in the trunk all the time, just in case he needed to make it across the border. Out here in the California desert, he could remember his name, who had once been, long ago. It felt good to be out of the rain.