Memorial Day Weekend

What did you have for dinner? Corn on cob, canteloupe, cabbage and onion stir fry. (Vegetarian dinner!)

How are you spending Memorial Day Weekend? It has been two days of steady yard work. Saturday, we rented a gas powered tiller and cleared about 300 square feet of ivy in the side yard. It is a five horsepower tiller from Best Rent – All. Three days for $45. Gotta love that. I also did about six feet deep along the length of the front retaining wall in the Urban Ave. portion of our yard.

We built two boxes for the side yard space. One is seven foot by four foot, and six inches deep. The other is 4 by 4 by 10 inches. I like to create some vertical variety in a garden. The eye notices. We already have two that are 8 foot by 4 foot by 8 inches.

I took John to the Home Depot to get the wood.

I had to tell him about me, and the smell of saw dust. For me, saw dust matters.  It always brings me back to Saturday mornings in my early childhood when my dad would take me to work. I guess they had to work Saturdays. Dad worked in an office with lots of moulding samples. On the other side of the door, though, was a huge warehouse. It had a set of loading docks for trucks on one end. Another side of the building had a set of railroad tracks. I remember climbing all over the place. I am not sure if that is a factual memory, but it is definitely a part of my mind. John just thinks that the idea of being able to climb in a place like the Home Depot would be great.  So, I think he understands what I am saying.

Rosie helped me to make the boxes that will hold the soil.  She handed me two nails at each corner, and she provided her 26 pounds of heft as weight to keep the posts still.

I look up from hammering for two more nails.  Rosie has a question (festion).

“Daddy,” she says, “why do you have a whole in your shirt?”

I am wearing a shirt I got from a college roommate back in 1992.  That was a few moths ago.  But it holds sweat just fine, right?

She strokes her index and middle finger across the dime sized rip, just below my collarbone.  Our foreheads are about four inches apart.  She looks at me in the eyes.  She pursesher lips and makes a half-sneer.

I can tell she is about to offer a judgment.  That is good — having an opinion.  I can tell she doesn’t like it.  It is a time like this, when as a parent, I learn about my child.  Does she believe in herself?  Does she challenge people, or let them establish right and wrong for her?

“I don’t think this is so good. Silly, Daddy.”

She walks off the post, stands on a small stool, leans forward and grabs the handle of the door to our porch, and falls forward on to the front step of the slab in the space of the opened door.

I go back to hammering.

Then, two minutes later, she’s back.  (The door is much easier to walk through going out.)

She produces some scotch tape.

“Daddy!” she is screaming.  “Come __  over __ here!”

I assent.

She cuts a piece of the tape off and puts the roll down.  Carefully, her hands guide the tape to my shirt, and press it over where time and moths have roiled my shirt.

“Much better, daddy.”

She lifts her right knee, then slams her foot down on the pavement.

Miles ridden: 32

Run 4.4

Area tilled: few hundred square feet.

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