Sadly, there are no chickens in our neighborhood

I may be the worst yardman in the world. It is not delightful work for me. I’d rather be running a half-marathon. Or playing golf. Or reading a book on General Custer’s last stand. Or teaching grandchildren how to play hopscotch in the driveway.

But I begrudgingly, just this week, pulled out the hedge trimmer and started on the bushes between the house and the garage. As I straightened up at the end of the first row to give my back a rest, I smiled silently, and remembered another yard, in another time and another place.

I was born in January. By April of that first year, Daddy had me out in the yard, helping clean up the place. I kid you not! My first memory wasn’t saying, “Momma” or putting on a pair of Buster Brown shoes for the ride to Sunday School. My first conscious thought found me on my hands and knees, still in diapers, pulling weeds out from under a giant mimosa tree.

David Mark was born a year and a half later. I raised up on my tiptoes to get a better look through the slats of the well-worn crib. I wasn’t thinking, “a new playmate,” or “little brother.” Finally, I was going to get a little help in this yard!

Daddy stayed busy, earning a living. He didn’t have time for much yardwork but he was still a mite particular about how ours looked. So, he did the instructing. Leon, as the older brother, was left in charge, and, as life unfolded, me and David did ALL the work.

I asked Daddy a million times why the yard had to be so clean and sparkling every second of every single day. “Son, it’s not so much about our yard, we just don’t want to be an embarrassment to our neighbors.”

In those early days out at the end of Stonewall Street, Mr. Brooks had the closest house to us. You had to walk out to the middle of the road and crane a bit to see it! And I will tell you a fact, Mr. Brooks was such a hard worker raising cotton and tending to his extra huge garden, he didn’t have time to glance down our way.

Mr. Brooks had a motorized, gas lawnmower that we always envied. We had an old reel mower that definitely wasn’t self-propelled. Leon was old enough to push it… but it wasn’t in his nature.

On second thought I might not have been the worst yard worker in the entire world.

Dad would casually say after supper, “You boys set the yard right tomorrow.”

Let me interpret that 1955 West Tennessee saying for you. He clearly meant when he got home the next evening, every single blade of grass had better be cut to the correct height. He didn’t want to see any weeds growing up the side of the house. It had better be neat as a pin under every tree and shrub. He expected the sidewalk edged razor straight and uniform.

It was an all-day job. Especially since only two of us were doing any work. Leon was five years older and used that to his advantage. I’ve mentioned before how he’d tie a rope around me and David’s neck and attach it to the front bar of the reel mower. He’d hold the handle and yell at us to move faster as “he” cut the grass.

Think of the Iditarod Race in Alaska as the drivers mush their dogs through the snow.

Leon would find two flat head shovels for the sidewalk so Dave and I could finish in half the time. He’d siphon coal oil out of our storage tank and have us drip it on the grass around the house to speed up the “clipping” process.

I often longed for Pa and Gran’s yard. The chickens running loose pecked the grass till it was completely gone. They swept their dirt yard with a broom. How simple and uncomplicated. Leon could have even done that!

We’d end up praying it would be dark, or at least twilight, when Dad got home; hopefully, hiding our sloppy work. 

We finally got old enough to where David and I, if we teamed up, Leon couldn’t make us do everything he said. It was mostly Dave. He didn’t know jujitsu or kung fu. He knew crowbar and sledgehammer. He was as tough as whitleather, and would hit you when you weren’t looking!

Leon was making money as a lifeguard at the swimming pool by then. He would pay us to do the yardwork… if we didn’t tell Dad. We charged him an extra 50 cents apiece for our silence.

A passing car honked and waved, abruptly bringing me back to my present chore. I turned the trimmer to the next hedge. And hoped when I finished, my yard wouldn’t be an embarrassment to the neighbors….

Respectfully,

Kes