"Hold me close and hold me fast…" beamed out the old, battered radio as Louis Armstrong's deep voice, sang out La vie en rose into this sweltering, hot, summer's day. Bees buzzed by as sweet, smelling flowers grew tall and mighty in this little patch of heaven. "And when you speak angels, from above sing…" nothing moved fast here, not the bees in the man made bee hives, not the multicolour flowers that bloomed, not even the shaggy, old cat that dozed on the outside windowsill, mid summer was a magical time in old Mrs Pumpernickel's garden that no one wished to rush.
At the end of the garden between the tall sunflowers and bright, yellow roses humbly knelt old Mrs Pumpernickel herself, pulling up weeds and humming to the petunias. She was dressed in an old, green shirt with a red, flowing gypsy skirt and broken straw hat, an attire that did not blend together well, but perfectly showed her defiant nature in doing anything deemed conventional.
As each melody floate