The kids and I escaped to the backyard today, freeing ourselves from winter's captivity. Temperatures held between 11 and 18 degrees most of last week, mercifully today it was 65 and sunny. I happily bounced between a myriad of home and garden projects while the kids happily bounced between a myriad of projects of their own. They mainly managed to collect all their outdoor purposed possessions and scatter them to the winds, then re-purposed several fist sized rocks which they scattered like Easter eggs throughout the lawn, clustering several in the craters Missy so graciously excavated for just such a purpose. They repaid her with the customary offerings of rosemary, oak leaves, vitex seeds, grass, sand and bubbles.
I stepped into the house to refill my water, and as I returned to the patio my eye caught movement in my garden. Justin's slightly muddy green shovel lay on a chair at his side. He was squatted, tightly clutching his bucket in his left hand as his right hand froze in space, fingers curled in preparation for a nice scoop. There was little doubt I had yet again caught him in the act of liberating a healthy chunk of pea gravel from between the flagstones along the garden path for redistribution in the sandbox and lawn area. From the looks of things, this was trip number 2 or 3, which suggests the lawnmower will sound like a poorly functioning popcorn maker for the first few mowings next spring. I waited a second to see what he might say or do, and the fight or flight response told him to freeze and avoid self-incrimination.
I asked "You aren't running off with my rocks again are you?"
His reply was "No Dad", followed by a mostly incoherent claim of innocence suggesting something to the effect of "I was just bringing my sand to visit the garden." I reasoned that I might have unwittingly stumbled into opposite day. His facial expression changed to suggest "Besides, even if you ain't buyin' my story, look how cute and innocent I am!" Of course he was right at least on the second line of defense.
Despite my eternal efforts to restore order, I couldn't really be mad. I was reminded of my early childhood days at my Granny's house when I was 3 or 4 and had free reign of the house and the yard. Occasionally I swiped the keys from the back porch and made my way to the utility building behind the garage to explore Pa's mysterious treasure hoard. I loved everything about "the building" including the unlimited potential of the tools, the strange collection of odds and ends deposited there by many years of family rearing in the same place, and the sunlight illuminating the dust particles kicked up in the air by my rummaging. The "place-maker" though was the complex perfume of oil, gas, old canvas, and sawdust. It constituted that essence of man I associated with my grandfathers, sturdy men who worked with calloused hands. You can't find this smell in a mere mortal's garage, it's only found in a proper workshop. Encounters with this fragrance are few and far between now, but a single whiff today still holds the power to halt and reverse age and time and return me to the late 1970's, causing me to freeze in place for fear of breaking the spell as the tinkling of pilfered keys and the screech of an old padlock clasp echo in my mind.
Rummaging complete, I generally made off with a length of rope and a shovel and headed to the vegetable garden at the back of the lot. I was not the brightest, but I was determined, contorting my body for leverage and eventually jumping repeatedly on the thin hilt of the steel shovel to drive it inch by inch into the ground. I still remember the dull pain of the bruises on the soles of my feet, and the feeling of pride as I stood back in wonder of the awesome 6" depth pits I carved into the vegetable furrows. I disguised the treacherous pit with mimosa branches, and formed a crude lasso to surround the hole before I trod my grubby feet through the simple, but immaculately clean house to ask for a carrot to complete my rabbit trap.
My traps never failed to successfully avoid attracting or trapping a rabbit. Through the years I only vaguely remember Granny and Pa gently asking me not to dig in the garden and to please return the rope and shovel "after the rabbit was caught." I invariably forgot, and Gramps ultimately cleaned the shovel, scoured the yard for other surprises and made sure everything returned to it's proper place. As I recall there were no rants, lectures, or swats, I just remember watching hours of Bugs Bunny in the perfect comfort of air-conditioning, being happy and well loved.
In hindsight I know that love was accompanied and expressed by a great measure of patience, a precious commodity I desperately wish I displayed with greater frequency and grace. Patience is an ongoing practice of love, I gladly accept that it will be punctuated by many trips to buy more sand and gravel.
I stepped into the house to refill my water, and as I returned to the patio my eye caught movement in my garden. Justin's slightly muddy green shovel lay on a chair at his side. He was squatted, tightly clutching his bucket in his left hand as his right hand froze in space, fingers curled in preparation for a nice scoop. There was little doubt I had yet again caught him in the act of liberating a healthy chunk of pea gravel from between the flagstones along the garden path for redistribution in the sandbox and lawn area. From the looks of things, this was trip number 2 or 3, which suggests the lawnmower will sound like a poorly functioning popcorn maker for the first few mowings next spring. I waited a second to see what he might say or do, and the fight or flight response told him to freeze and avoid self-incrimination.
I asked "You aren't running off with my rocks again are you?"
His reply was "No Dad", followed by a mostly incoherent claim of innocence suggesting something to the effect of "I was just bringing my sand to visit the garden." I reasoned that I might have unwittingly stumbled into opposite day. His facial expression changed to suggest "Besides, even if you ain't buyin' my story, look how cute and innocent I am!" Of course he was right at least on the second line of defense.
Despite my eternal efforts to restore order, I couldn't really be mad. I was reminded of my early childhood days at my Granny's house when I was 3 or 4 and had free reign of the house and the yard. Occasionally I swiped the keys from the back porch and made my way to the utility building behind the garage to explore Pa's mysterious treasure hoard. I loved everything about "the building" including the unlimited potential of the tools, the strange collection of odds and ends deposited there by many years of family rearing in the same place, and the sunlight illuminating the dust particles kicked up in the air by my rummaging. The "place-maker" though was the complex perfume of oil, gas, old canvas, and sawdust. It constituted that essence of man I associated with my grandfathers, sturdy men who worked with calloused hands. You can't find this smell in a mere mortal's garage, it's only found in a proper workshop. Encounters with this fragrance are few and far between now, but a single whiff today still holds the power to halt and reverse age and time and return me to the late 1970's, causing me to freeze in place for fear of breaking the spell as the tinkling of pilfered keys and the screech of an old padlock clasp echo in my mind.
Rummaging complete, I generally made off with a length of rope and a shovel and headed to the vegetable garden at the back of the lot. I was not the brightest, but I was determined, contorting my body for leverage and eventually jumping repeatedly on the thin hilt of the steel shovel to drive it inch by inch into the ground. I still remember the dull pain of the bruises on the soles of my feet, and the feeling of pride as I stood back in wonder of the awesome 6" depth pits I carved into the vegetable furrows. I disguised the treacherous pit with mimosa branches, and formed a crude lasso to surround the hole before I trod my grubby feet through the simple, but immaculately clean house to ask for a carrot to complete my rabbit trap.
My traps never failed to successfully avoid attracting or trapping a rabbit. Through the years I only vaguely remember Granny and Pa gently asking me not to dig in the garden and to please return the rope and shovel "after the rabbit was caught." I invariably forgot, and Gramps ultimately cleaned the shovel, scoured the yard for other surprises and made sure everything returned to it's proper place. As I recall there were no rants, lectures, or swats, I just remember watching hours of Bugs Bunny in the perfect comfort of air-conditioning, being happy and well loved.
In hindsight I know that love was accompanied and expressed by a great measure of patience, a precious commodity I desperately wish I displayed with greater frequency and grace. Patience is an ongoing practice of love, I gladly accept that it will be punctuated by many trips to buy more sand and gravel.
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