The ceremonial spade

An original satirical account of an invented planting ceremony.

The ceremonial spade arrived in a velvet sleeve. I had not known that digging possessed evening wear.

By then, the hole had been prepared, the soil arranged into a photogenic mound and the young tree placed where three different cameras could admire its prospects. We stood in a crescent around the mayor. Behind us, the gardener waited with a muddy barrow and the expression of a person listening to a story in which her own name has been changed.

The mayor lifted one neat portion of earth. The cameras woke. For a moment, the whole morning balanced on the blade: speeches, polished shoes, a promise that generations would enjoy the shade. Then the soil fell into the hole and the spade was returned to its sleeve, exhausted by history.

After the applause, the gardener stepped forward. She adjusted the tree, checked the position and resumed the work which the photograph would remember as one dignified lift. Her boots made no claim to represent anybody.

I do not object to a ceremony. A shared beginning can give people something to care about. I simply wish the final picture had included the barrow. The tree would spend a long time depending on work which did not arrive wrapped in velvet.

Examine the methods the writer uses to contrast ceremonial attention with practical work.