There isn't much of story to this one, I'm afraid.
photo courtesy of Becky Strike, Oak Alley Plantation, LA.
The Color Doesn't Matter
Herringbone. Twenty bricks across, thousands of courses long. All laid by my hand, all still lying straight and true.
I fought the notion of planting live oaks along the path, but the Mistress, she always did what she wanted, no matter what. So, I've fought with their roots down below since they laid me in the ground a century ago.
Same with the rare frost we get in these parts. But the bed is deep and the fit is tight. The herringbone pattern was a pain to keep true, but it locks them bricks in place. The Mistress got that one right, at least.
She wanted them painted, but I put my foot down and flat out refused. I built the path to lead visitors to her front door, and I knew it would last much longer than a silly book for children would be around.
The book was her obsession. She held dress-up parties with guests clanking about in metal suits and others with hay stuck in their hair and sticking out of their shirts and pants. She even rented a lion when a circus came to town. Damn thing nearly ate her little dog.
When she renamed the manor house after the book, too, I was thankful my days were numbered. Pink or yellow, the color didn't matter. It seems the path I laid leads straight to Oz.