Fuggeddaboudit
Page 8
days more by feel than thoughts as Fuggeddaboudit inched deeper and deeper. It showed in his eye indicator.
His eyes were confusion thermometers for daughter turned nurse. They let me take his level of awareness. I checked his temperature first thing in the mornings. This morning it was over Cheerios.
Dad was not much of a cereal to begin the day kinda guy. His start of the day involved chickens and pigs. He was stubborn about it. He was also vocal about it this morning.
“Cereal? What the heck kind of a breakfast is that? I ain’t a school kid. A working man needs a working man’s breakfast.”
“Well, when you go back to work, Dad, I’ll fry you up some sausage.” I poured Cheerios into his bowl. His eyes said he had just about all the cards in his deck this morning.
“Cheerios? At least we could have some Wheaties. Champions eat Wheaties. Mickey Mantle ate Wheaties.”
“Well, Pop, the Lone Ranger ate Cheerios. Let’s comprise and have my Breakfast of Champions today. Alright, Kimosabe?”
He smiled. I would have breakfast for lunch with him later. An egg and bagel sandwich sounded good and I hadn’t even sliced the banana for the cereal yet. Even talking about breakfast made me hunger for it. I was my Father’s Daughter. Breakfast was the meal of champions for this dynamic duo. All was well in Gotham City today. Dad’s eyes said so.
Seeds Of Change
It began small. A packet of seeds. Tommy brought them home from school. Snow peas. A gift from a guest speaker at his school Assembly. It was Friday. A Friday that would live in infamy. I know it was Friday. We had pizza that night. Right from the freezer to the oven to the table. One of my specialties. We gathered at the table and things went from innocent to life changing quickly. In the blink of an eye. Should have seen it coming. Didn’t. Life is like that.
“Anything interesting in Assembly today, Tommy?’ Words from my mouth to his ears and heard by everyone there. Even my sweet father.
There was banter and exchange. Some talk about the Assembly. Dad asked a few questions. Questions that mattered only because a grandfather asked them. Answers that filled a square framed by love. It was all so innocent.
A guest speaker. Gardening. A gift. Tommy went for another slice of pizza. He returned with it along with a packet of seeds. He ate the pizza and handed the packet to his Grandfather.
The warning bells did not sound. If they did, and they should have, I just didn’t hear them. Dad had an expression for times like this. He called it those moments when you have your head firmly up your own ass. In hind sight, that was exactly accurate.
Oblivious to the storm that moved quietly from my son’s hands to my father’s mind, I smiled at the sweetness of the gathering. Smiled as my father evaluated the packet before him and said, calmly, “Spring Peas. Cool. Are you gonna plant them, Tommy?”
That is when I should have spoken. That is when I should have changed the subject. That is when I should have stood on the table and showed them my single whip Ta Chi move followed by a two and a half gainer over my chair. Anything except what happened next. Because then I did something utterly and absolutely stupid that would stand in the annuals of “what the heck was I thinking” forever.
Tommy did not answer. Michelle continued to eat. Tom sat there quietly as I opened my mouth and changed everything I knew forever. Words from my own mouth.
“That’s a good idea. Maybe we should have a garden in the backyard. That would be fun. Wouldn’t it?”
Dad sealed my doom with his next words. “I would like that, Mally. I would like that a lot.”
We were on our way to Abilene. Thanks to yours truly and one goddamn free packet of seeds. What the hell had I done?
Perfect Storm
Ah, the maybes about that day. Maybe if it had been any day other than Friday. Then maybe school and weekday stuff would have slowed it. Maybe if the weather just stayed closer to winter than to spring. Then maybe we would have watched movies or read or complained or lost momentum. Maybe if we had pizza out that night. Then maybe we would not have continued the discussion and headed to the yard in mass to see what should be planted where that very evening. Maybe if I had shut my big fat trap my yard would still be that one with green spots between the crab grass and remained just a place to mow when shamed into it.
The maybes lost to the call of Mother Nature, a budget that said vegetables in the back yard were more necessity than luxury, and four people who were amazed at how excited Dad was about snow peas and garden Gnomes. We were up early the next morning and what passed for grass for many years turned into that pile of stuff that used to be where the corn would be planted. Saturday turned to Sunday and the crew was back at work. Sunday turned to Monday and it didn’t matter. The maniacs found time at night after rushed dinners to plot and dig. They were back with full gusto the next weekend. Suddenly, there was a unspoken deadline that the grass must go.
The tidal wave of momentum spilled from the front yard to the side. We went from patches of kinda green to dirt, all dirt, and nothing but dirt, I swear to God. Tom grew an environmental conscious, my children were replaced by eco-zealots, and Dad smiled as the destruction spread like a plague of righteousness. The yard of my youth became Ground Xeroscape.
Several weeks later, my loving family was aghast at even my suggestion that we slow down. They looked at me like I was clubbing baby seals with limbs ripped fresh from the rain forest when I gingerly mentioned it. Things had changed and it was my civic obligation to get on board. The free packet of seeds became Save the Planet. I was the Oil Cartel headed by Judas Iscariot to even suggest things were out of control. The Snow Pea War was over. I donned my silly straw hat and got to work.
Hosed
Once I admitted defeat, things flowed much easier. That spring became that summer and a packet of snow peas begat a less than bumper first year garden. The back yard of my youth was gone. In its place was a hang out. A hang out for birds, ladybugs, worms, two kids when they remembered, my father, myself, and Elmer, the garden Gnome.
Dad picked out Elmer all by himself. It might have been because he was so ugly or perhaps because I protested so much. His ear was already chipped, he was hidden behind two and a half pallets of marked down fertilizer, very fitting if you asked me, and he was marked down four times and still overpriced in my book. Dad insisted. I resisted. The sales clerk heard. The sales clerk gave Dad his first Gnome. Free. How special. Elmer came home along 12 tomato plants, one pair of garden gloves, a happy father, and a resigned daughter. Dad said it was kindness. I said the sales clerk wanted to get rid of the Gnome and that was the only way.
The kids loved Elmer right away. Dad smiled smugly. The “Where’s Elmer?” fan club quickly and summarily trumped the “Why Elmer?” faction. I lost another battle. Tom liked Elmer too. Of course, he did. He moved on to destroying the side yard and left me in the back with Dad, the kids, and one eared Elmer. The garden took on a life of its own and Elmer was part of that life. An aggravating part of that life because Elmer moved.
I rarely saw who did it. Caught Tommy once or twice but I know Michelle had a hand in it too. Tom even got into the game but the main player was none other than Dad. My father and his buddy, Elmer had a lot of fun that first summer. Dad had a traveling Gnome for a friend.
Dad watered the garden. It became his thing. First thing in the morning, he headed into the garden to check the crops. Hose in hand, he tended the earth. Somewhere between lefty loosey and righty tighty, Dad moved the diminutive pest. It was like Elmer’s great getaway. “That corner by the peas and strawberries feels just right today.” “This spot by the sundial is just perfect. Thank you.” “Ah, standing on the tree stump gives me a much better view.” “ Oh, yes, haven’t been by the window well in a long time. Put me right in it, please. She will love seeing me peep in the window at her.” The two of them plotted. Elmer in
stigated and Dad delivered. He watered the garden and I was hosed each day thanks to the Gnome everyone loved. Everyone by me, that is.
The first year of the garden was more miss than hit. The corn came up nice and green and then hardened before the corn itself actually arrived. Tom and Dad discussed the lessons they learned by, in their very own words, “losing that first crop.” First crop? When did we become Ma and Pa Kettle? When did our back yard morph into the back 40?
The tomatoes aimed for Roma and hit cherry, the peppers were basically deformed, and the strawberries went from buds to duds. The one crop that did well, the onions, collectively our least favorite vegetable, were almost an afterthought. Four watermelons in September marked the finale of our garden feast that first year. The garden was a hell of lot of work and cost more than the items produced. We overestimated the yield and underestimated the work. The price we paid for that free packet of snow peas continued to escalate.
Dad loved it. That was enough for me. Next year’s crop would be even better. It probably says that in the Farmer’s Almanac….every year.
Outside In
I felt it before I saw it. The garden moved to memory as Fall moved to reality. Outside pushed me inside and, quite frankly, I didn’t like it. Got used to mornings and