To Memorial Day Weekend.
The sun felt nice on my face on Saturday, but there was a lot of work going on at Camp Clifford as we tried to make some progress on the weeds.
Thankfully I had boys to handle the heavy bags of mulch and stone, but the two who were with me were very liberals with their breaks and I had to buy a pizza as well.
As we worked I thought of how difficult it all would've been for my three boys if my Dad were the one cracking the whip.
They wouldn't have survived.
And I think that was the reason I was so fired up to make some of the changes to the look around the yard.
As a kid Memorial Day Weekend was the official weekend to plant the garden. We used to plant a huge garden. The same words were often repeated over and over as Dad implored is to stop screwing around.
I was always the guy who actually sat on the ground and planted everything. I wasn't allowed to try and run the tiller.
(I had a complete weakness when it came to operating the equipment).
I also wasn't the guy who made the rows.
(They'd be a little crooked I set them out).
So I planted.
With Dad standing behind me...telling me to give the plants a little room. He'd also tell me stories about when he'd plant the garden with his Dad.
My boys weren't interested in banter.
"It's too hot," Sam said.
"Why are we putting the plastic down?"
"So we don't have to pull weeds," I said as I pulled some of the weeds that they were supposed to pull.
I wondered about their future work with their kids.
They will eventually see the value in trying to present a decent look to the neighborhood.
But I know why the kids are so essential in such a deal...
...I have an ice pack on my back as I type this...
...bending over isn't for the middle-aged.
"We got more to do," I texted Matt an hour after we were done.
"Oh joy," he answered.
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