Years ago, I bought a coffin from Freeman's Auction House, on Chestnut Street. Nothing fancy; brushed metal, lightweight with an oddly comfortable interior. I guess that when you're making the big decision of which box to put your loved one in, the natural tendency is to check the softness of their final bed. Like at a restaurant, when the waiter tells you that the plate is hot, so you touch it.

A few years ago, I'd decided to rid myself of it. It was in poor shape, the material was tattered and torn and it was beginning to rust. My neighbour "Junior", thought it might make a nice planter in front of his house. It took a lot of trips to the Frankford and Norris (ish) Nursery to get enough dirt.

On Sunday, I discovered that my terminally ill art-car had given up the ghost. The day was shot in terms of plans that I had made, so I wandered down to Honey's for brunch. I ran into Junior and invited him along. Popping in his false teeth, he joined me in the inevitable wait for a week-end table. Afterwards, we strolled into the new City Planter to take a gander.

It is a beautiful space, with a fabulous array of; you guessed it, planters. Also, fountains, plants and objects d'art. Junior was most impressed and took less than five minutes to find the largest product in the store, a three foot tall planter with a diameter of at least that across. I suppose the good news was that it was made out of resin, so we were able to carry it home between us. He was planning to replace the old coffin with this snappy new look, when it occurred to me that the thing was too damn big. As in, it would not fit into his house through the door.

Which gave me something to do with my neighbour that afternoon. Dig dirt.
This was a steamy Philly day. Earlier in the week, I had been taken to the E.R., due to the heat, with a B.P. of 220/110: Topamax, heat and I do not mix. I was in the process of withdrawing from it, but was still feeling the effects. Junior has prostate cancer. The two of us were not exactly the best for the job, but we were the only ones sick enough to do it. And I mean sick in any way you want to infer it!

The highlight has to have been the spat he had with his other neighbour; the one with the Wisteria he secretly murdered with sprayed applications of bleach. Her son had draped the BBQ-cover over their common fence to dry on last Tuesday. Miffed and vengeful, Junior had hidden it his basement. His neighbour "Sarah" wanted to know if he'd seen it. I'll just say it ended in a stale-mate. He'll "find" it a couple of days from now and claim that the work-men moved it. In the meantime, Sarah got another ear-full of just what's wrong with her family.

Having filled the new planter and two fifty-gallon trash cans with the coffin's content, we had moved a load of mud. The empty coffin was placed in Junior's alley until garbage day. The metal guys will drive by and hit pay-dirt, no double entendre intended. He kept the tidy fir tree in his new container.

Me? I took the over-grown Dusty Millers and stuffed them into the varied collection of pots and distressed (for real) vessels that I use in front of my house. We are a study in contrast. But I enjoy him. I also never want to piss him off.