XXVI. To My Father, I Just Don't Make the Cut
My father is 60 and cuts his own yard. I am half his age and have some guy who looks like Tommy Chong do mine.
This does not play well in the elder Lang’s court.
"A real man does his own yard," goes the indictment. Usually when he says this, I try to change the subject.
"I killed a guy in kindergarten," I offer.
"Don't try to change the subject. You need a lawnmower, and you need to do your own yard."
When I first got a yard, I loved taking care of it. The weed-eating, the edging, the mowing, the blowing. It all felt so rite of passagey. Then it got old after a year, but I had to keep doing it, because of Dad. When he would come over, he would survey the landscape.
"Looks pretty good. Using a Briggs and Stratton?" His approval felt like pajamas outta the dryer.
As a boy, I remember my dad coming into our house, smelling like gasoline and fresh grass clippings, sweat beads dripping off his nose, his dark sweatshirt marked with a circle of salt between his shoulder blades. He was so big, like a bear, that I thought, "I can't wait until I grow up and get to do my own lawn, because that's what a man looks like."
Unlike many fathers who force their sons to take over lawn duty when their voice first breaks, my dad treated lawn mowing as his sacred time. Man, machine and God, together in the heat. And we young bucks weren't going to take that away from him.
He kept at it, year after year. He never changed the oil and never cared about fresh gas. The machine was expected to be as manly as the man. So I had to be the same.
Because I was my dad's son, I wore no goggles, pants or sunscreen. But unlike my dad, after a day of a weedeater slapping my ankles, the steady bombardment of projectiles assaulting my eyes, and that terrific sparkler display of edger on concrete giving me hotfoot, I found my enthusiasm for the meditation waning. When I came in the house, I didn't look like a fatherly bear, I looked like an escaped kidnapping victim.
Finally, the most wonderful thing happened in my life. My lawnmower was stolen, along with my edger, weedeater, and blower.
When I told my dad about it, I think he suspected an inside job.
"What are you going to do now?" he asked.
"I don't know, Dad. There is a guy down the street who cuts lawns for 20 bucks, and he needs the work."
"Well, do the Christian thing. But you should cut his lawn for free."
So I hired the guy to cut his own lawn, too.
This does not play well in the elder Lang’s court.
"A real man does his own yard," goes the indictment. Usually when he says this, I try to change the subject.
"I killed a guy in kindergarten," I offer.
"Don't try to change the subject. You need a lawnmower, and you need to do your own yard."
When I first got a yard, I loved taking care of it. The weed-eating, the edging, the mowing, the blowing. It all felt so rite of passagey. Then it got old after a year, but I had to keep doing it, because of Dad. When he would come over, he would survey the landscape.
"Looks pretty good. Using a Briggs and Stratton?" His approval felt like pajamas outta the dryer.
As a boy, I remember my dad coming into our house, smelling like gasoline and fresh grass clippings, sweat beads dripping off his nose, his dark sweatshirt marked with a circle of salt between his shoulder blades. He was so big, like a bear, that I thought, "I can't wait until I grow up and get to do my own lawn, because that's what a man looks like."
Unlike many fathers who force their sons to take over lawn duty when their voice first breaks, my dad treated lawn mowing as his sacred time. Man, machine and God, together in the heat. And we young bucks weren't going to take that away from him.
He kept at it, year after year. He never changed the oil and never cared about fresh gas. The machine was expected to be as manly as the man. So I had to be the same.
Because I was my dad's son, I wore no goggles, pants or sunscreen. But unlike my dad, after a day of a weedeater slapping my ankles, the steady bombardment of projectiles assaulting my eyes, and that terrific sparkler display of edger on concrete giving me hotfoot, I found my enthusiasm for the meditation waning. When I came in the house, I didn't look like a fatherly bear, I looked like an escaped kidnapping victim.
Finally, the most wonderful thing happened in my life. My lawnmower was stolen, along with my edger, weedeater, and blower.
When I told my dad about it, I think he suspected an inside job.
"What are you going to do now?" he asked.
"I don't know, Dad. There is a guy down the street who cuts lawns for 20 bucks, and he needs the work."
"Well, do the Christian thing. But you should cut his lawn for free."
So I hired the guy to cut his own lawn, too.
posted by Clubber Lang at 2:39 PM
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