Herk was sitting on a five-gallon bucket in the backyard. In front of him was a large, say twelve-inch clay pot and a bag of soil. The pot is broken, one side has a chunk out of it, six by nine or so. Lying on the ground, a bunch of stones from fist-size down to quarter-size, a couple of smallish seashells, a four-inch trowel.
What the heck?
I didn't need to ask, for about the time I had made the above inventory, Tildy sauntered out into the yard. She asked. And in those words, followed by "are you doing?"
Herk: I am going to build a fairy garden in this broken pot I've been saving out behind the barn.
Tildy: You are going to build a "fairy garden" out of that hunk of junk? I mean, we have things that need to be done around here, you know.
Herkimer, undeterred, remained attentive to his task. As he tried pieces here and there making no response to Tildy's remark, she returned to the house.
I'll see Bitterman in a day or two and I'll needle him a bit, see what I can learn. Nibby mood.