The Greenest Grass
Tomorrow is the anniversary of when my father left the worries of this world behind. May 18, 2014.
Those closest to our family knew he was a man nearly obsessed with certain rituals. When I was growing up on Long Island, watering the grass in our front yard by hand after work in spring and summer was one of them. A glass of scotch on ice in one hand, a garden hose in the other, he’d methodically sweep the spray of water from side to side. The bushes of lipstick red impatiens seemed to lean forward anticipating their turn. Our front yard was always gloriously green, even during the driest seasons on record.
When my parents moved to Florida in 2001, they exchanged their view of emerald grass for a topaz blue ocean. My father immediately began to establish new habits. I understand now that rituals brought him a great sense of comfort, and maybe even something else - although I still don’t know what the ‘else’ might have been. As a retired man, the schedule of his every day was predictable. When we would visit with our young children, adjustments to his set itinerary were carefully considered. Looking back, I can see how he did his best to enjoy time with his grandchildren while coping with the unpredictable nature of daily life with young children. He could be simultaneously enamored and annoyed.
The ocean-facing balcony of his condo in Florida became his space. He would spend hours upon hours listening to talk radio and observing the tide. He’d be there in August heat, in chilly January, during an April storm. One year we gifted him a handheld anemometer so he could measure the actual wind speed from his perch. It became a favorite toy.
If I could go back in time, and sit with him once again on his balcony overlooking the Atlantic, I’d have one question I’d like to ask. It surprises me that I never asked it. Perhaps somehow I knew I might not like the answer, or the direction the conversation might go. But, today, I am curious.
“What do you think about when you are out here, Dad?” I’d inquire.
Clearly, his mind was at work. Years before, when he’d spend an hour a day watering our front lawn, his mind was at work. And, for several hours a day as he gazed from his patio chair, his mind was a work. But, at work thinking about what exactly? What riddles was he trying to solve? What worries was he trying to unload? What questions was he discussing with God? Sure, some of that time I’m sure he sat with an empty mind - but there was more going on. I am sure of it. I could see it as a little girl watching the hose being pulled behind him and as the young woman playing with her children on the floor in the living room watching the smoke from his cigar drift from the balcony railing. In my father’s quiet time he was a very busy man with a very busy mind.
What did you think about when you were out there, Dad?
Tomorrow, on the anniversary of his heavenly homecoming, I’ll set aside some time for him. Since I can’t water the grass of our home on Long Island, or stare at the ocean, and because I can’t stand the taste of scotch or cigars, I will have to improvise. Instead, I will break out the Waterford Old Fashioned glass, pour some Maker’s Mark over ice, and water my front yard by hand. The neighbors will wave. The breeze will shake the leaves. The grass will shimmer and my impatiens will lean forward awaiting their turn.
Hi, Dad. It’s Valerie. I’ll see you tomorrow.
