Ah, the warm -- no, make that hot -- languid days of summer. Generally, an easy-going pace for me, something I probably inherited from Dad. “Take it easy…”, I can still hear his voice. “Yeah, yeah…,“ I respond, somewhat dismissively, but now note I’ve assumed his more relaxed tempo. Paula was out of town this week, but son Ethan announced plans to drive down from Minneapolis.
As his Father’s Day gift, he’ll help address my expansive project list. Be sure to bring your chain saw; we need to remove a few dead trees.
Ethan’s impending visit prompts bonding memories of a June night two-plus decades ago, when a ten-year-old boy REALLY wanted to camp out. His neighborhood friend Patrick was out of town. Somewhat reluctantly, I agree to take one for the team. We haul out the necessary equipment and retreat to the backyard.
It probably wasn’t the summer solstice, but it was surely light long into the evening. We engage in basic, pre-sleep chatter… about our day, our summer plans, why the Twins probably wouldn’t win the pennant. Finally, after several quiet moments, Ethan sums up the situation. “Gee, Dad, it’s almost… (pause) like we’re friends.” A surge of contentment.
Ethan arrives Monday evening in time for a late supper, accompanied by his mildly neurotic dog, Bandit. They’re good for one another and revel in their five-year bond. We agree to tackle our list at 9:00 Tuesday morning: felling trees, clearing underbrush, purging sumac from the hydrangeas, beating back prickly ash and honeysuckle encroaching on the lawn. Manageable assignments, not too arduous.
“Dad, where’s oil for the chain?” “I don’t know… it’s your saw.” “Yeah, but don’t you have some?” Two trees get a temporary reprieve while I run to the hardware store.
By midafternoon, we’ve worked our way through much of the list. Ethan identifies several unusual plants with his phone app. I enhance my luddite status by employing a thick handled, double-edged weed cutter… no motor, no moving parts, just good, old-fashioned “elbow grease”. Gripping and swinging, it feels like a baseball bat, making considerably more contact (albeit with stationary underbrush) than in Little League. We admire the thriving red cedar we two replanted fifteen years ago. My trusty bow saw slices through several volunteer saplings smaller than my wrist, no oil required.
Eventually, we stroll down to the little stream in the backyard, an incline steep enough for the weed cutter instead of the mower. Wait, is that light colored rock a Native American scraper? There, about a yard out into foot-deep water. I wade out to retrieve it, disappointed when I pull up a small, oddly shaped piece of limestone. I was fooled, Ethan amused, by my optimism.
I have to hand it to the kid. Like his grandpas and several uncles, he has the handy “knack” gene, which seems to have eluded me. While I’m bushwhacking a wider path to the compost bin, he swiftly crosses several items off our list. When I mention our next task, he explains that he’s already completed that particular assignment.
There’s an insightful moment in the 1991 Steve Martin movie, “Father of the Bride,” when Martin looks across a long dining room table at his about-to-be-wed daughter. In the blink of her father’s imagination, this poised bride-to-be is magically transformed into a sweet child of eight or ten, pigtails, the essence of youthful innocence. I’ve recalled this scene numerous times, certainly prior to the days when our dear daughters married.
I doubt I’ll have this same flashback this fall, at Ethan’s small, long-awaited wedding. It’s more likely I’ll have visions of a tent pitched in the backyard, two sleeping bags, a battery lantern stationed in between, a ten-year-old boy and his dad, wondering aloud about sleeping through the night.
In this updated scenario, however, it’s the father who says wistfully, “Gee, kid, it’s almost like we’re friends.”
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