GRANDFUNK RAILROAD AND MY BROWN THUMB

Dad was at it again, at it irritated the bejesus out of me!

Way back in the early 70’s on a hot sunny weekend, outside my bedroom window I thought I heard something over the din of my new Grandfunk Railroad double-live album that I was enjoying at a volume level just short of blistering. Then I heard something that was not supposed to be there. At first the sound was unrecognizable so I finally hauled myself off my bed to turn the stereo down to hear what it was that was aggravating my musical sensibilities and harshing my mellow. With the lower volume, the sound outside my window became instantly recognizable. It was the distinct rumble of a  Briggs & Stratton engine.

Dad was at it again, and it irritated the bejesus out of me.  My old man had borrowed the neighbors old tiller again, the one with the baffle missing, and was now out in the side yard, directly underneath my bedroom, tilling a small plot of earth. I squeezed out the window onto the roof of our bathroom to confirm my suspicions. Oh jeez, he was putting in another garden.

Every year dad would use some of his precious spare time to put in a garden. And every year the responsibility of that garden would ultimately be passed on to me. I had no choice as dad was an over-the-road truck driver and I was the oldest child and only son. I wanted no part of that garden, and it showed. I’d over-watered it or forgot to do water it at all. I had a brown thumb and gardening kept me from baseball pursuits, listening to music on my stereo, or hanging with buddies, just so I could pull a damn weed. Inevitably, by the time it was time to harvest the fruits of dad’s labor, they were either brown or dead. Some of it was difficult to find due to five-foot weeds clogging the garden. And who knew what snakes or varmints lay nestled underneath all that brown vegetation. 

Eventually dad would come back from the road trip with his truck, tired and weary. At daylight he would run out to check on his garden  to discover how his first born had failed him again. Dad would get angry and charge back into the house to berate me. I would get angry, which always made dad even more angry. Arguments would ensue, to be followed by harsh words that none of us really meant. Well, most of them. 

Over fifty years later it would dawn on my he may have been trying to teach me some responsibility by managing his garden, or how to take nutrients from the earth, or some other cosmic explanation that a thirteen-year-old boy would never understand, at least not this one. Cynically, I wasn’t buying it then, as I was sure he was just trying to prevent me from pursuing my own pleasures. You see, dad wasn’t too interested in baseball and despised rock and roll music.

In my mind, it was his garden, why couldn’t he tend it or hire someone to tend it for him rather than saddling me something I already had a proven track record of failing miserably. Besides, he wasn’t paying me to pull those weeds, he was ordering me to do it. I suppose the truth might have been somewhere in the middle, but all these years later one thing is crystal clear:

I hate gardening.

Now, all these years later, God is showing his sense of humor again. The wife and I found a house we absolutely loved, so we bought it. However, in our new beautiful backyard are six cages. Each cage is about six foot tall by three foot square, with thick wire mesh and a hinged door for entrance. The previous owners lovingly built these cages so they could grow fruits and vegetables in their yard without javelina’s and rabbits attacking them.

I can see those cages from my office where I write. They beckon me to go out and plant something. I joke with guests I’ve started a pot farm, which isn’t happening either. The wife has tried planting a few things, but her green thumb is only about two notches above mine.

So for the past few years, the cages sit mostly empty. They’re too well made to get rid of. The wife is cultivating some strawberries and a pepper plant in one of them. But, if left to me, those beautiful cages can rot.

I still hate gardening. I think I’ll go dig up that old Grandfunk Railroad album and give it a spin.