Creative Writing: Weed the Weeds

Weed the Weeds

“There you are, with your thumb in your ass and your mind in neutral!”

That was my father’s favorite phrase when he saw me sitting around doing nothing. He would see watching TV as chewing gum for the mind and would urge me to sit down and read book instead. When I began devour books day after day, he would then point out the window.

“It’s a beautiful day! Get your thumb outta your ass and go outside! Grab a rake for god’s sake, the lawn is a disaster.”

Yard work had always been my most hated chore. My father would watch my every move, pointing out to lift with my legs, not my back. I held the rake incorrectly, I raked too soft so that nothing was accomplished, then I raked too hard to the point where I pulled out the grass. Nothing was ever right and he was positive I was doing it on purpose. In the back of my mind I wondered why he made me do it if I did it wrong.

“Kathleen, this is character building, stop whining,” he said.

Whenever he turned his back I would drop the rake and run in the house. I would disappear until I heard his loud voice screaming “Kathleen Anne Casey,” from the backyard. Something about the way he stretched the syllables in my name made my stomach churn. My mother once told me that they picked out my name by screaming it down the stairs and out into the backyard to see what combination of names would sound the most severe. The harsher the pronunciation and tone, the more likely a child will learn its place and become obedient. I was born to be yelled at, cursed by a name that sounded foreboding when bellowed.

I would return to my small pathetic pile, rake in hand, hoping for a helpful gust of wind to blow the leaves into the wheelbarrow. I would lean against a tree, watching the lawn people cleaning up all the neighborhood yards. Our house was the only house in the neighborhood that took care of our own lawn.

On hot summer days, I would push the old rusted lawnmower up and down the steep slopes of grass. The sun burned through my skin and heated my bones until my body boiled over and sweat poured from my skin. Every few minutes I would have to empty the bag of the heavy grass clippings and clean off the blade. Next door, the hired lawn guys would be on lawnmower tractors, riding around with cold bottles of water and sandwiches. I would drool and pray that when I tried to start the lawn mower again, it would stutter then cough its way into death just for the chance to hide inside. But it always roared to life, held together with spit, duct tape, and fear of my father.

I learned to enjoy yard work and gardening. Suddenly, without being told, I would head out back to mow the lawn or weed the garden. I would rake in the fall then rake in the early spring to clean up the area before planting. I carved out a piece of my own and planted my own vegetable and flower garden. Still, my father would walk by and inspect what I did, pointing out that my rock wall wasn’t straight or that I didn’t plant the tomatoes deep enough. Neighbors would smile and wave while saying, “I wish my son would help out like you do.”

“See dad, the neighbors appreciate me and what I do,” I said while digging a deeper hole for the tomato plant.

“Well maybe if you got that thumb outta your ass and got your mind outta neutral, I would too,” he scoffed. “That plant aint gonna grow if you don’t pay attention, Kathleen. It needs space, it needs to have room for its roots to spread. When are you gonna pull out all these weeds, it can’t grow with all this shit in the way!”

I roll my eyes, my sunburned face squinting in pain.

“Go put on some sunscreen. Your face is as red as cherry tomato!”