Yard Work

Recently, I drove to my dad’s house for a visit, and to help him with his yard work.  The visit, he was expecting.  The yard work, he was not.  That was going to be a surprise.   Not that he likes surprises--or help, for that matter. 

My dad is seventy-two-years old.  Hardly old, by today’s standards.  But his body clearly shows the wear and tear from each and every one of those seventy-two years.  He has degenerative heart disease.  He has COPD.  His blood pressure is so low, I don’t know how he even functions.  He has to wear a knee brace simply to walk outside to check his mail.  He sees a vascular surgeon twice a year to monitor his very-blocked carotid arteries. He takes medication for  a myriad of ailments, not to mention a whole host of vitamins, minerals and fish oils.  He has so many pills on his kitchen counter, he could supplement his Social Security with Black Market pharmaceutical sales.  In short, he is one unhealthy man.  

While his current health issues are due to the bad habits of his former lifestyle,  said habits were, unfortunately, given up too late.  Thus, the basic daily chores we all take for granted, like mowing the lawn, vacuuming,  walking the aisles of the grocery store (without leaning on the cart handles for support) he simply cannot do.   As such, he rarely cuts his grass and his once neat and tidy yard, has gone from looking just neglected to fully abandoned.  

This is where I came in.  I was going to remedy the situation by cutting the grass for him.  Unfortunately, while my dad seems to have come to terms with the fact that he can no longer perform the tasks, which are necessary for maintaining his home, he has NOT reached the point in his life where he feels comfortable accepting help getting said jobs done.  Even from his own daughter!  Or maybe, especially, from his daughter!  Knowing this was going to throw a huge wrench into my plans, I decided to butter him up a bit before springing my surprise on him.  So, on the way to his house,  I stopped at Subway and picked up one of his favorites: the all meat, all cheese, absolutely no vegetable sandwich.    (Yes, I am aware that sounds like I'm dealing with a toddler.)  Leaving Subway, with our sandwiches in hand, I was feeling pretty confident my plan would succeed.  As I pulled into his driveway, though, knee-high dandelions banging against my van’s undercarriage, and scanned his yard, I realized the enormity of the task ahead and became even more grateful for the afore-mentioned sandwiches.  It was going to be a long day.  

After we’d eaten, watched some Fox News, (the only channel on his television) and discussed all of our “usuals:” the dog, my kids, my sisters in Alaska--no I haven’t heard from them either--his weekly trip to Rite-Aid to purchase his Lotto Ticket, our useless president, I summoned the courage to ask him for the shed key.  

“Whaddaya want that for?” he asked.  Although I’m sure he knew exactly what I wanted it for.  

“I am going to cut the grass for you and the mower is locked inside.”  

Knowing the next words he spoke would have no truth to them, he turned back to the television and said flatly,  “Oh you don’t have to do that.  It’s fine.”  

“Dad!” I said, trying NOT to sound like my former whiny teenage self.  “It looks terrible!  The dandelions are up to my knees!”  

“Well it can’t be cut,” he replied curtly, still looking at the television.   

“Why not?”  I asked, still sounding like a bratty adolescent.  

“It’s too long.  It needs the weed eater.”  

“Well, there’s one of those in the shed too.”  

“Nah!”  

And just like that, the conversation ended.   Just like it always does when he doesn't want to talk anymore.  (So much for my buttering up)  My dad is a firm believer in the  "better to be quiet than mad" philosophy.  And over the years, he has become The Master at this.  For  he believes avoiding conflict--At. All. Costs.-- promotes peaceful, harmonious relationships.  I THINK, it just shows that he doesn't like to be told what to do. And I don't blame him.  Who does?  

So the grass did not get cut.  The dandelions, knowing they had won another round, smugly waved goodbye as I backed out of the driveway.  They too, it seems, know that my Dad is still my parent.  I am still his child.   The child who does not talk back to him.  The child who does not argue with him.   Even when my argument is in his best interest.  Some things, I've learned, do not change simply because time passes.  Take those snotty, adolescent , under-the-breath-mumblings, for instance.  Occasionally they still slip out:  “Fine, but I’m bringing Dave up next week and we’ll bring our own mower.”  

And that’s precisely what we did.  One week later, I texted him (coward that I am) at 8:30 in the morning and informed him that Dave and I would be up to mow his lawn later that afternoon.  As the clock struck noon, however, and we rounded the bend along the water, and caught the first glimpse of his house through the trees, we noticed things did not look right.  Where were all the dandelions?  Dave looked at me and said, “maybe you shouldn’t have told him we were coming.”  

We continued our drive, along the beach, around the playground, and into his driveway.  And there he was; standing alongside the driveway, wearing my grandpa’s old grass stained coveralls and Fenwick cap, struggling to hold on to the weed eater, sweat pouring down his face, wearing the smile of a kid who had just been caught with his hand in the candy drawer. 

I was not happy.  

What was he doing?  I’d come!  We'd come! We were going to do this for him! We were going to help him!  

But he wouldn’t have it.  He may not be as capable as he once was.  But he is certainly still as stubborn  proud as ever.  

Dave decided to take his time parking the van, while I kissed him hello and demanded asked  “what’re you doing?  I TOLD you we were coming to do this for you.”  My voice, once again, coming across much too whiny. 

“Why?”  he asked, with that damn grin of his.  

I had no response to this ridiculous question.    So I walked into the house to get him a glass of lemonade.  I knew there would be a full pitcher of Crystal Light in the fridge.  Yard work days are the only times he ever makes it.  

By the time I returned with his drink, he had moved away from the fence, leaving the weed eater barely visible behind the long grass that had yet to be clipped, and was sitting on top of the wall adjacent to the driveway.  The wall he built from old railroad ties thirty years ago.  The wall that, like the lawn, the roof, and the deck, now needed help.   

My heart sank seeing him sitting there, like a toddler suffering through an undeserved time-out, his body, like the wall he was sitting upon, collapsing into itself.  I blinked away the tears starting to form behind my sunglasses and wondered “where did my dad go?”  For the man sitting in front of me was not my dad.  My dad was strong.  My dad was capable.  My dad never needed a hand from anyone.  In fact, the only person I remember ever helping out at our house, while I was growing up, was my Grandpa.  My dad’s father.  And I’m SURE he was never asked.  He simply showed up.  Wearing those exact same coveralls, work tools in hand, and worked quietly alongside my dad until he called for a coffee break.  Then he would pile his tools, and my dad, into the cab of his pickup and drive the one block stretch of road back up to his house where my Grandma would be waiting with a fresh pot of coffee, cookies and sandwiches.  

Now, this man who had never relied on anyone, was watching his son-in-law take care of his lawn.  Something, until this day, he had always done for himself.  And he didn’t like it.  (although he does LOVE his son-in-law)  Then it hit me.   This man that I love.  This man that I adore, will not be around forever.  One day he will completely shrink into those overalls and be gone. 

My dad sat on that wall until Dave finished with the yard.  Not because he was watching, or keeping an eye on Dave, but, because he wanted to feel useful.  He wanted to feel as if he was contributing.  He wanted to feel like he was still taking care of himself.

Later, as we said our good-byes, with the usual kiss for me and handshake for Dave, my Dad said,  “Thanks Dave.  For everything.  I really appreciate it.”  And we all knew he meant it.

Driving away, though, dandelions no longer taunting me, I felt terrible.   As if I'd over-stepped an invisible boundary.  Today, for the first time, I'd become the parent.  I had told my Dad what to do.  And neither one of us, liked it.  Who the hell am I to tell him what to do?  Or how to take care of his house, his yard?  If he wants to wade through a sea of dandelions, on the way to his car, then why shouldn't he?

Thank goodness the weather is turning and we won't have to worry about the lawn for a while.  I don't think either one of us could handle it.