Key Center, Washington 1986 (Son, 11-years-old)
The summer sun beats down on my shirtless back. Afternoon sweat beads cling to my skin as I push the mower back and forth, across the 3-acre lawn. A quarter-mile gravel road splits two rolling alfalfa fields down the center, separating our mint-green farmhouse from a distant country highway. Living near the Puget Sound means that we can usually count on a cool breeze blowing, but not today. It is hot. The only break from the heat is when I cut grass in the shadows cast from towering evergreens. Five horses along with a lonely cow watch from behind a barbed-wire fence. The farmhouse my family rents stands sentinel and empty.
Suddenly, the vibrating mower gasps and convulses in my grip. I watch, motionless. The machine ends its choking garble with a dull hum and a POP!
Running out of gas is the only acceptable excuse for not finishing the lawn. Either the grass needs to be completely manicured or I need to be seen cutting it upon my father’s return. Anything less than these two options validates that I am a lazy piece-of-shit and he doesn’t need more confirmation. To my father, me being worthless is a scientific fact that lies somewhere between the earth being round and water being wet. This ‘lazy piece-of-shit’ title is given to anyone that takes longer breaks than he thinks necessary. Under his watch, minutes are like hours and hours are like days. My dad is a poor judge of time, but makes up for it with quick eyes. Nothing escapes his notice. Even trips to the bathroom are accounted for.
Every summer, my father and I work out in the forest, gathering firewood for the upcoming winter. At some point nature forces the question, “Dad, can I go up to the house to go to the bathroom.” It’s assumed that country boys piss on the ground when women aren’t around, so this means I have to go number-two.
“Make it quick.” He’d reply.
I would take off like a jackrabbit, running as fast as I could while clenching my butt cheeks together. Once back at the house, I’d poop, wash up, and run back as fast as I possible. No matter how quick, Dad always asks the same question. “Why’d it take you so long?”
“I had to wipe.” I’d reply, careful not to make eye contact.
“You were trying to get out of work again, lazy piece-of-shit.” Dad then moves off into the woods, chainsaw in hand, grumbling about me.
If Dad follows me into the house, I trumpet wiping efforts from the porcelain throne. I have to. It calms him and lets everyone know that my workload isn’t being intentionally neglected. Taking a sip of iced-tea or soda is acceptable, but if I stop for longer than a minute there had better be a damn good reason. A one-minute break can slide by if I have dirt in my eye. He’ll help, kind of. After spreading my eyelids open, pursing his lips, he’ll blow, violating my eye-socket. The tears push the muck towards the edges. He gives me an extra minute or two to work the eyelids in a circular motion to get tears flowing again, so I can blink normally. Removing a splinter takes anywhere from one to three minutes, depending on how deep it is and what tools are available. However, if I am working at pulling out a sliver with my teeth, then the time clock stops. After all, I am still working.
