Porchwood Hollow

Sir Grumbles cared about very few things.

At least, that was what Sir Grumbles said.

He did not care whether the lanterns were hung evenly.

He merely objected to crooked lanterns.

He did not care whether the path became muddy after it rained.

He simply thought somebody ought to have enough sense to put another stepping stone there.

He certainly did not care whether anyone remembered a scarf on a cold morning.

He just did not want to spend the afternoon listening to someone complain that their ears were cold.

There was, according to Sir Grumbles, an important difference.

Nobody else in Porchwood Hollow had been able to determine what it was.

—

Sir Grumbles lived beside a green pot.

Or perhaps the green pot lived beside Sir Grumbles.

This had never been officially settled.

The pot was old and round and heavy.

Its green paint had faded in places, and one side had a little chip near the rim.

Sir Grumbles liked it exactly where it was.

He had spent considerable time getting it there.

Nobody knew exactly how much time.

Sir Grumbles said that was irrelevant.

What mattered was that the pot was now properly situated.

It received morning sun.

Afternoon shade.

Protection from the worst of the rain.

And, according to Sir Grumbles, an acceptable amount of breeze.

Not too much.

Not too little.

“Plants,” he explained, “do not appreciate foolishness.”

Inside the pot grew a collection of things that looked as though they had arrived without permission.

A little fern.

Some clover.

A wandering vine.

One tiny flower that appeared every spring despite nobody remembering planting it.

Sir Grumbles complained about all of them.

“They’re taking over.”

He never pulled them out.

—

One afternoon, the Keeper announced that a storm was coming.

Not a terrible storm.

But enough wind and rain that everyone began gathering the loose things around the Hollow.

Minette collected papers from the porch.

Archive Mouse secured the field reports.

Gladys Beakman hurried around checking things that had already been checked.

The Council of Opinionated Chickens began an emergency discussion concerning whether the lanterns should be moved six inches or eight.

Sir Grumbles watched all of this with increasing irritation.

“You’re all making entirely too much fuss.”

A gust of wind sent three leaves across the porch.

Sir Grumbles frowned at them.

“Show-off.”

Then he went back to his green pot.

—

“Sir Grumbles,” Minette called, “should we move your pot?”

“No.”

“The wind might knock it over.”

“It will not.”

“It could.”

“It has been there for years.”

Another gust came through the Hollow.

The little vine trembled.

Sir Grumbles looked at it.

Then at Minette.

“The pot stays.”

Minette knew better than to argue.

So she went back to gathering papers.

Sir Grumbles folded his arms.

The green pot was properly situated.

The matter was closed.

Then he noticed something underneath it.

—

Two very small field mice had taken shelter in the narrow space between the pot and the porch wall.

They were not Porchwood mice.

Archive Mouse knew nearly every mouse within reasonable archival distance, and these two were strangers.

They were wet.

One was shivering.

Sir Grumbles stared at them.

The mice stared back.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

He disappeared.

A moment later, he returned carrying a scrap of wool.

He pushed it beneath the shelter.

“There.”

The mice climbed onto it.

Sir Grumbles frowned.

“Don’t get comfortable.”

Then he disappeared again.

This time he returned with three sunflower seeds.

He put them beneath the pot.

“This is not a restaurant.”

The smaller mouse picked up a seed.

Sir Grumbles looked away.

—

The storm arrived just before evening.

Rain rattled against the porch roof.

The trees bent and whispered.

Everyone gathered beneath the covered part of the Hollow and watched the wind push through the garden.

Sir Grumbles was complaining when the green pot moved.

And then he wasn’t.

The grumbling stopped.

He was across the porch and into the rain before anyone else had quite understood what had happened.

“Sir Grumbles!” the Keeper called.

He didn’t answer.

There wasn’t anything to say.

Something needed doing.

Another gust came.

The pot rocked.

Sir Grumbles put both paws against it.

The rain soaked his coat.

“Sir Grumbles!” Minette called. “Leave it! We can fix the plants later!”

Sir Grumbles looked beneath the pot.

Two little faces looked back at him.

“They’re not plants.”

—

That was when everyone understood.

The Keeper hurried into the rain.

Archive Mouse followed.

Minette came with the scrap basket.

Even the Council of Opinionated Chickens temporarily suspended debate.

Together they moved the green pot.

Not far.

Sir Grumbles would never have permitted far.

Only enough to tuck it into the safest corner beneath the porch roof.

The two little mice stayed sheltered behind it.

The fern survived.

The clover survived.

The wandering vine survived.

And the tiny flower lost exactly one petal.

Sir Grumbles examined the damage.

“Hmph.”

Minette stood beside him, dripping wet.

“You knew they were under there.”

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

“You went into the storm for them.”

“I went into the storm because someone failed to secure the pot properly.”

“You’re the one who secured it.”

“Exactly. Imagine what would have happened if I’d left it to the rest of you.”

Minette smiled.

Sir Grumbles narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You had the face.”

Minette tried very hard not to laugh.

—

The next morning, Archive Mouse inspected the storm damage.

One fallen branch.

Four displaced lanterns.

Seven missing clothespins.

One overturned chair.

And one green pot approximately three feet from its previously documented location.

Archive Mouse opened his ledger.

Sir Grumbles appeared immediately.

“No.”

Archive Mouse looked up.

“No?”

“You are not recording that.”

“It has moved.”

“It has been temporarily repositioned.”

“By three feet.”

“Three feet is hardly a migration.”

Archive Mouse dipped his quill.

Sir Grumbles leaned closer.

“And there is absolutely no reason to include anything about mice.”

Archive Mouse paused.

“What mice?”

Sir Grumbles studied him.

Archive Mouse adjusted his spectacles.

Then, very deliberately, he wrote:

GREEN POT – TEMPORARILY REPOSITIONED DUE TO WEATHER.

Nothing more.

Sir Grumbles nodded.

“Accurate.”

From behind the green pot came the quiet crunch of a sunflower seed.

Archive Mouse did not look.

—

Later that morning, Minette found Sir Grumbles moving the pot again.

Very slightly.

“Morning sun?” she asked.

“Yes.”

He shifted it another inch.

“And afternoon shade?”

“Obviously.”

Another inch.

“Acceptable breeze?”

Sir Grumbles stopped.

“Minette.”

“Yes?”

“You seem unusually interested in horticulture today.”

She smiled.

He looked beneath the pot.

The two little travelers were asleep on the scrap of wool.

Sir Grumbles adjusted the pot one final inch so the morning light could reach the fern –

but not them.

“There,” he said.

“Properly situated.”

Minette looked at the green pot.

Then at Sir Grumbles.

She had always thought Sir Grumbles complained because everything bothered him.

She understood now that this wasn’t quite true.

Sir Grumbles complained because he noticed.

The crooked lantern.

The muddy path.

The forgotten scarf.

The frightened mouse beneath the flowerpot.

He noticed when something wasn’t right.

And once Sir Grumbles noticed, he could rarely bring himself to walk away.

Perhaps that was the important difference he had been talking about all along.

Sir Grumbles did not often say that he cared.

He complained.

He corrected.

He carried the heavy end.

He fixed things when nobody was looking.

And sometimes, when a storm came through the Hollow, he stood in the rain and held something steady.

Some kinds of love sound very much like:

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Move over. I’ll do it.”