‘Ahem.’ Where was I?

Hibiscus, my first love!

Oh yes, memoirs. But this latest heartbreak has left me morose, and harking back to a younger, more carefree day when love was still fresh, new, and cupid had not overshot his aim. Friends, I shall tell you the tale of my First and True Love. It was with, you see, a lady of most delicate taste and nature, Ms. Hibiscus T. Porridge.

Shocked, are you? Do not be! While we have a most understanding and mature friendship these days, Ms. Porridge and I go way back – almost 85 years, to be perfectly frank!

When I was a younger man, I briefly attended a university by the name of St. Olaf’s. While I may be a man of learning, I most certainly am not designed for such a staid and ASININE organization. Did you know that they actively dissuade a gentleman from consuming his own faeces? Travesties! In any event, I was walking across the most lovely campus greens, lost in thought over some quadratic equation or another, when I most rudely ran SMACK into a hurried young lady. It was Hibiscus, late again to Looming 201 (she is QUITE the loom’s mistress!), and in the kerfuffle we managed to mix up our handkerchiefs. After a bit of hunting ’round the sorority houses that evening, I found Hibiscus reading Woodsworth in the dusky summer twilight on a porch swing. Words cannot describe the turnings over of my heart at the sight of her in her pastel dress, but suffice to say that I was most smitten.

How can one describe the three perfect months we spent together? I could not summarize our morning walks between classes, the picnics by the river, or the midnight swims we took in Lake Tomato. It was beneath a tree at the side of Lake Tomato that I held her hand tenderly in mine and gave her the most gentle of kisses. What?! A gentleman does not normally kiss and tell, but these are Memoirs!

I cannot say why we ended our summer affaire, but perhaps it was over the objections of her father – a most upstanding local pastor – that she was far too young, and I of far lesser status, to consider marriage. And it was true then, I was a rank lower-class gent, and she a proper lady. Years later, surrounded by the acquisitions of a lifetime of trying to attain standing and status, I yearn to know how different my quiet life of solitude would be if I were born in her circle, or she in mine.

Dearest Sir,

It was never my intention to have to write such an unseemly and unsavory a note, but the events of the past few days has forced my noble hand to act.

I attempted to assuage your desire for my Ward and Charge, Lady Featherbottom, when it became quite clear that you showed interest. However, I had underestimated the sway of Young Love, and my tactics were not bold enough to put forth a defense for your most gentlemanly affections.

You see, chap, the Lady is promised to another suitor – the venerable Sir William Plumenom. The pair were betrothed

Sir William Plumenom

whilst still in the nest, and his family is Most respectible in the line of shipping and recieving hazlenut imports. Your “love” – if one can call it that – simply cannot be.

It is most regretable that you had to find out in such a coarse and cruel fashion, but I sincerely hope you bear the La

dy no Ill Will. She is young, sir, and we both know ladies as protected and immature as she are not always aware of the sway they hold over us gents.

The pair are in my charge, and will be married in a mere week. The reception is at The Hall, should you feel so inclined to pay your resepects.

Best of luck to you in your amourous adventures,

Sir William Tendertoes III

P.S. I have enclosed one strand of paste-pearls you left behind the other eve.

Late the morning, just after my second breakfast of fine grasses and faeces, a toady little messenger arrived at my stoop. Please do not think I am being racial, he was LITERALLY a toady little messanger. I have MANY toad friends, and would never think of using that as an epithet. *Ahem* Where was I?

The letter was printed on the most sublime stock of paper, scented just so with a hint of honeydew and marigold. It read:

Why? Why!

How I long to see you again, how my tail feathers simply tremble at the thought of your embrace. Do pop ’round the villa nearish supertime and take me for a stroll?

All my fidelity,

~ Lady J. Featherbottom

P.S. I would not be opposed to a slight trinket of jewels to demonstrate your affection!

I was beside myself with excitement at the possibilities of strolling with this lovely creature under the glow of La Lune. So I pipped off immediately to the local bank to withdraw my mother’s PRIZED pearl strand from the vault. What good, after all, are wonderful heirlooms without a lovely bird to share them with?

Well ’round 7, I pipped over to her estate. Dressed in my most impressive suit of brown cut velvet (ermine trimmed, of course) and black patent boots, I looked every bit the dashing gentleman. What my stately look did not convey, however, was that my HEART was going one million beats per second – just ready to explode at the sight of my one love.

Sir William Plumenom

But folly, folly! As I approached the gate, I saw Sir William Plumenom gently caressing my lover’s UNGLOVED wrist, before whispering in her ear. She let out the same musical laughter I thought belonged only to me, and waved him well as he took off.

From the top-floor window, I saw Duke Tendertoes surveying the scene. With a smoking pipe between his teeth, and the sash of his silk bathrobe cinched tightly, I could almost see him laughing at my predicament. I stormed off quite immediately, that hussy Featherbottom’s cries of my name wafting in the ill late-spring wind.

Oh what to do, what to make of these events?! I am simply Crestfallen and Shocked at the likelihood I’ve been cuckold!

Even from the bridge, she looks as lovely as a picture!

Friends, friends! I had QUITE the wonderful day with Lady Jane Featherbottom yesterday afternoon.

The Lady surprised me on my morning walk, coming from the back fields with parasol in hand. In her pink cotton hoop-skirt, she looked the vision of beauty and grace as she devoured her morning handful of grubs and chicken scraps. Sigh.

After polite inquiry into the location of her guardian, Duke William Tendertoes, (he was bedridden with the most profound attack of The Gout) we seized on the lovely weather and delightful spirit of the day.

First came the picnic. Who knew a lady of such Upstanding breeding and refined sensibilities could whip up a picnic feast from only the leavings of the local park attendees? I was most impressed, also, when she fashioned a picnic spread from a spare pair of petticoats. Do let me say, a gentleman such as myself would have been REMISS for not attempting to sneak a peek of her creamy ankles during THAT encounter. Swoon!

After a nosh and some delicious gutterwine (a beverage I am growing quite Fond of, afterall), we took a lovely canoe ride around the lake. Discussing Chaucer has never been so erotic and gay!

As the dusky sun set, Lady Jane was called back to the roost by way of birdsong, and I was left with a rising urge to propose Marriage. Mark my words, friends, there has never been a lady more suited to raise at least 400 of my children.

After the MOST frightening hangover on Friday, I decided the best course of events would be to attend the local parish’s Farmer’s Market. What better to cure an ailing skull and tender embarrassments caused by debauch then the season’s newest greens and berries? NOTHING!

DO I DARE DREAM?

So on Saturday, off I pipped to the market, basket under my arm. Whilst tasting the most Delightful and Creamy sheep’s milk Gouda, a sudden tingle went up my spine. ‘Round I turned, and ran smack into the lovely Lady Jane Featherbottom! She was as fetching as honey in milk, with a lavender bonnet tied under her quivering chin and a calico gown trimmed with lace and ribbon.

“Gatsby, fine chum, fancy meeting you in the market this morn!” she exclaimed, daubing the corners of her MOST aristocratic eyes with a perfumed square of lace. I, for my part, was barely able to chumble out a sentence before her guardian, Duke William Tendertoes, RUDELY interrupted. His exact words – though I am pained to recall them – were, “Come Jane, let’s away to an area less infested by rodentia.” THE NERVE!

UNCOUTH

By the time I prepared a witty retort, he had squired the lady away to a waiting carriage. But sirs, that is not the end of things! Because over a turned shoulder, the Lady glanced at your dear Gatsby in a flutter of eyelash and freckles, and covertly released her love-ly scented lace square. I hold it now in my left hand, clutched to my bosom, and ponder the possibility of what worlds of magic and delight this beautiful creature may have to offer.

I must write her a letter immediately! Note to self: enclose a single peony. Ladies simply cannot resist a peony!