Dad versus the Yard

Dad was a man of many talents and interests:  writing, raconteurship, business, sports, travel, to name a few.  He was a loving and involved father and husband.  What he was not — in sharp contrast to most of my friends’ fathers — was ‘handy.’  I’m not sure he even owned a hammer, and I’m positive he couldn’t use one effectively.  He also was not comfortable in ‘nature.’  A Chicago boy, his idea of the outdoors was Wrigley Field or stick ball in the streets. In other words, he was the last candidate for being a lawn-proud suburbanite.

Nonetheless, after growing up on the edge of urban poverty, dishwashing his way through college, marrying my genteel mother, serving honorably but not remarkably in World War II, and working as a cub reporter in Northern Wisconsin, Dad found himself to be an up-and-coming advertising guy (yes, Mad Men in the boonies) in a reasonably-sized down-state town with a well-liked wife and two young daughters.  And a house that came with a yard.

Ah, the yard. The house in which I grew up — a compact three-bedroom colonial on a corner lot in a respectable but not posh part of town — had a smallish front lawn bordered by sidewalks and a somewhat bigger back yard separating the house proper from the detached garage. We’re not talking acreage here, or even half-acreage.  But the yard was Dad’s constant challenge.

First was the lawnmower challenge.  My father dutifully acquired a push mower that he had no idea how to oil or otherwise keep in good working order.  It didn’t occur to him to avoid stones or other obstructions, resulting in ricochet bruises and expensive lawnmower repairs (since Dad could not do these himself). I remember being convinced or bribed, at around the age of ten, to take on lawnmower duty; the mower was so heavy and the blades were so rusty that I gave up after two unsuccessful straight-line passes (the grid-mowing system had been explained although not demonstrated).  

Second was the watering challenge. In Wisconsin, there isn’t much of a spring, and by the time the dirty snow deposits have melted (and irrigated the soil), it’s summer.  Which can be hot and dry enough to necessitate lawn watering.  

As unmechanical as he was, my father did figure out how to connect a hose to an outdoor spigot.  Thus he would stand in the yard idly spraying the grass, the small plot where my mother had replanted irises from her mother’s garden, and the sidewalks.  It being summer in the days when children had little to do, my sister and I often took over watering chores, as it allowed making droplet patterns in the air and squirting each other unmercifully.  But then my dad made an uncharacteristic purchase:  an oscillating sprinkler.  

No doubt with the help of a more handy friend, Dad set up the oscillating sprinkler.  Voila:  an undulating arc of nourishing moisture, great for children to scamper through on hot summer days.  And not great for anything else, as no one told my dad that one had to move the oscillating sprinkler so it could cover the entire lawn.  The result was a rotted swath of over-watered grass surrounded by sere patches punctuated by drought-resistant dandelions.  

Which gave rise to the third challenge:  weed eradication.  Again, my sister and I were volunteered for this task, which involved a long stick with a forked metal terminus that was supposed to uproot weeds.  We weren’t very good at it, as we rarely dislodged the roots.  Even when we did, we just tossed the dandelion carcasses on the lawn — where they could easily re-propagate, which they did.  Obviously, Dad’s tutelage in this area of lawn care was less than stellar.  

A related lawncare implement that someone must have convinced my dad to buy was an edger.  This tool was supposed to be employed between sidewalk and lawn to make a nice clean edge and prevent grass or weeds from creeping into concrete seams.  I think we all tried to use this tool to no avail, and it ended up in the garage, propped against the wall with other abandoned long hard things like bent golf clubs and wobbly sweep brooms (that could have been fixed with a little glue, but hey . . . ).

Years passed, my sister and I got married, and my parents moved to what they thought would be their ‘final house’ (it wasn’t, but it was their last house in Appleton, Wisconsin). This house, overlooking the Fox River, had very small front and back lawns.  Though by this time my parents could afford professional lawn care, my father’s vexed relationship with his own patch of the outdoors did not end.  Someone (NOT ME) gave him aerator shoes for Christmas.  The point of these spiked pedal attachments was that you strapped them onto normal shoes and then walked heavily around the lawn, increasing air and nutrient flow or something, giving yourself useful exercise in the process.

My father, his aerator shoes, and the lawn lasted for one encounter, as he immediately turned his ankle while trying to stomp the yard. 

His culminating Wisconsin yard adventure was setting off fireworks that caught on dry summer grass (where was that oscillating sprinkler?) and resulted in a Fourth-of-July visit from the Appleton fire department.  

Once Mom and Dad retired to North Carolina, they were careful to buy a house with a ‘natural’ yard, and they hired people to do whatever minimal maintenance was necessary.  My father was happy to enjoy the outdoors in ways congenial and familiar . . . playing golf or tennis.  When ill health made these pastimes impossible, he liked looking out the window at the azalea-strewn yard he did not have to tend.  

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.  The azaleas are still struggling along on their own, and I miss you.