I didn’t go to summer camp, or go swimming, or ride bikes around town with friends. In the summer, I worked in the garden.
My step dad had an enormous garden. He grew everything and everything he grew was enormous.
Every day it was my job to pull weeds in one section. The corn, green beans, tomatoes, musk melons, water melons, cucumbers, green peppers, pumpkins, potatoes, squash, yams, carrots, onions.
It was up to me which section. Which might have been empowering if it didn’t always feel like a test where I had to prove I wasn’t lazy and incompetent.
“You’re always looking for the easy way out.”
“I give you enough rope and you hang yourself.”
“I’m allowing you to police yourself, don’t give me a reason to correct you.”
I hated it.
Hot, humid, sweat, mosquitos, clothes wet from dew, my hands cracking from dirt drying them out.
The discomfort that comes with summer manual labor was inflamed by his ridicule breathing down my neck. It felt like the heat was an extension of his anger. It was everywhere and difficult to breath.
“Two hands! Two hands! God damn it I told you to pull weeds with two hands!”
He expected me to work as effectively and efficiently as he did.
“Boy, I thought I told you to weed the corn.”
“I did.”
“No you didn’t”
“Yes I did!”
“One, two, three, four… Look at all the weeds you missed.”
“I got most of it.”
“Close only counts in horseshoes, boy. You’re not done ’till you do it right. Pay attention to what you’re doing. You’re really fucking up lately.”
It felt like he was salivating for me to fuck up. Like I was a recurring thief he had the pleasure of catching.
I could see he loved working in the garden. He took great pride in it. It occurred to me I might enjoy the work if I had a feeling of ownership.
“Dad, do you think This year I could have my own section in the garden? where I choose what to plant and be in charge of weeding that?”
“We’ll see.”
(Which means no.)
When he came home from work every day it was the first thing he asked.
“What did you do in the garden today?”
He never asked how I was, what else had I done that day, did I have any fun. Or shared about his day or how he was doing.
Summer after summer and day after day, I did this. The repetition of the stress and labor turned into fatigue.
The dread of it wiped the smile off each summer day. All day, it loomed.
I finally had enough. I thought “this is my summer vacation. I should be able to have one day off. That is reasonable.
So one day, I got up the courage to stand up for myself. This was a very scary risk. His anger was unpredictable as it was when I was trying to behave. I never had openly defied him and defending myself pissed him off and made things worse.
But this was the day. I took a stand.
I had an art project day with the empty Kleenex boxes I had been saving. I cut the sides of of some, the tops out of others, and taped them together to form a ship for my
Star Wars action figures to travel across the living room carpet of ocean water. There were two levels, port holes, turrets, doors, made up emblems drawn on the sides, markings to show where lasers had hit and collisions in battle.
My action figures occupied the bridge, turrets, engine room, and cargo area.
It was pretty fucking cool.
I really enjoyed myself. I loved making things and it turned out even better than I imagined. It made my make believe so vivid.
This felt like what I imagined a summer vacation day should feel like.
Ever summer day around 3:00, I started to feel anxiety because he came home around 3:20.
My senses would heighten and my hyper vigilance started. The sounds of his daily arrival are still so vivid:
- Distant sound of a car coming down the road
- When I heard it slow I knew it was him
- Turning into the driveway with gravel popping our from under the tires
- Car comes to a stop
- Emergency brake on
- Engine off
- Door opens
- Door shuts
- 10 seconds of walking across the yard silence
- Work boots up the porch steps as loud as my heart beats
- Screen door opens
- Big door opens
- Screen door shuts
- Big door shuts
- Keys, lunch box, and book on the table
- He walks into the living room, sits down and asks “So what did you do in the garden today?” This is when I see what what mood he’s in and what kind of night I have in store.
I was so fucking scared.
In my fantasy, I would state my case. initially he’d be angry, then seeing the ship, and his imagination would kick in. My ace in the hole was that he also loved Star Wars. Maybe he’d remember being a kid and imagine himself playing with it and it would soften him. He would smile and say:
“Okay. You’ve earned a day off. This is pretty neat. Good job.”
He would come to respect me and see me in a new light. Out relationship would change from here on out. He would treat me nicely.
Maybe he would even love me.
“Well dad, today I did something for me. I made this shop for my Star Wars men.”
He barely looked at it.
His face turned red, his lips winced, he grabbed me by the arm, escorted me out the front door and said:
“Get your fucking ass out there.”