Father's Day, Early and LatePudentilla is thinking much about her late father today. The reason is yard work. We have been doing vast quantities of yard work for the last week because the weather in central Maine, until yesterday afternoon, was glorious. 65-80 degrees, sunny, a nice breeze. The
snow banks in front of our house that topped six feet in mid-March, had melted and Pudentilla's partner decided it was time to finish off that poison ivy patch she'd been blasting with brush-be-gone for the last two years. Since she had rather generously helped Pudentilla move a ton (literally) of gravel last spring to
lay paths around the vegetable garden beds last spring, Pudentilla's available rhetorical responses to her requests for help consisted of "yes" and "we'd love to!"
So we raked out the offending area, covered it with landscape fabric and bought a dozen bags of mulch. A friend then gave us a bale of pine needles to cover the mulch, which lay on a slight slope, so that it wouldn't erode in rain. It looks very nice and in a few years we'll landscape the area. The project took about a day and we were completely beat by the end of it. Which is why Pudentilla's thoughts turned to her father.
In our whipper-snapper days, we helped our father with the yardwork in spring and fall and the reward was a night out bowling with the Old Man. Perhaps, you, Gentle Reader, would not have been highly motivated to do yardwork by the promise of a night out bowling with your dad, but our Dad was, in his day, a most excellent bowler, one of the champs in the Holy Name Bowling league in our parish. He managed to teach us how to bowl and how to enjoy bowling. He was a good teacher. By her sophomore year in highschool, Pudentilla was the champion bowler in her highschool league with 5 (I mean f-i-v-e) 200+ lines to her name. To this day, Pudentilla is wont to shock her first year students by rewarding them for a semester of hard work with a night of bowling, during which she cleans their clocks. The reward for yardwork was that Pudentilla, uncluttered by the company of competitive siblings, got to go bowling with the Old Man. It was worth a lot of raking.
The Old Man also fostered Pudentilla's love of the game of golf. Our brother wanted to try the game and Dad took him to a local driving range. Pudentilla, who, at the time, was barely as tall as a brassie herself, tagged along and learned to love hating the game. There was a public golf course about 20 miles from our house that would let the first dozen golfers play nine holes for free on weekend mornings. Since we were too young to drive, our dad would rise at 5 in the morning many a summer weekend to drive us out to the links so we could play. Pudentilla was not, even in her callow youth, an ungrateful git and on the Father's Day that followed her graduation from college, since she finally had a paying job and some spare cash, she wanted to take the Old Man golfing at a fancy course, with a fancy lunch after, by way of saying thank you for a life time of dawn drives to the golf course.
We discovered, to our amazement, when we called to arrange the day, that the Old Man
hated golf. He had been appalled all those years ago to discover that he was stuck with offspring who loved a game that required one to play outside during the day, rather than inside, after dinner - as bowling, the activity of civilized men and women, allowed. But he figured you take the kids God gives you, so he took us golfing. So we took him out for ribs and bowling that Father's Day, amazed that we had never even suspected, all those early Saturday mornings, that he didn't love to golf as much as we did.
Which brings us to Pudentilla's aching knees, shoulders, back and feet. The poison ivy project was so successful, Pudentilla's partner decided to spend the rest of the week reclaiming a sloping garden on a ledge behind the house that previous owners had let return to a wild, and as we have discovered, unreclaimable mass of weeds spotted with occasional interesting perennials. Three days of landscape paper, two truck loads of mulch, and an afternoon of assistance from a good friend later, we have rendered this slope quite pleasing to look at. Thank the lord, it poured rain last night and the temperature has dropped 20 degrees. Our partner's spring gardening frenzy appears to have worked itself out and we know longer owe her bigtime for the ton of gravel.
Let us just say that if we had to take a 10-year old bowling any night this week we would have bought a gun and done violence to someone or thing. Which makes us realize with every ibuprofin tablet that the Old Man was made of more sterling stuff than we had the sense to appreciate.