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Mostly I kneeled there to eavesdrop on their him smile when he delivered the line. I could
foreign language of flowers. As a little girl, I
despised dirt, but I'd gladly subject my knees count on his toothy grin as I listened to them
to it for the opportunity to be included in tell their stories to one another again and
their secret society. My father and grandfa-
ther's curious bond over irises and geraniums again, and then again, to me.
fascinated me, though I did not know which I wanted to tell them things too. I wanted
fl<?wersthey were referring to at all.
to tell stories about my life like they told one
When those two worked together in the another when they worked, but I feared that
if I didn't have something important to say
yard, the stories were always the same. My about the rose bushes, then I didn't really have
dad never failed to recount how Pap worked anything to say to them. I spent a number
in the Pittsburgh steel mill and as a handy- of afternoons thinking up conversation start-
man for an apartment complex in McKees- ers about roses, but I never got anywhere. I
port, all the while keeping the second job a se- wanted to talk about books and classes and all
cret from my grandmother. It's a story I have my friends, but my grandfather and father's
bond intimidated me. Instead, I just listened.
The familiar tales they
long ago learned by heart. rrhe flowers I grew told and the enthusiastic
As it goes, Pap could nev- way they argued about
er give the handyman job suffered [rom a rare Miracle Grow or the per-
up because it was his duty plague, my love and fect compost inspired me
to mow the grass, some- to want to be a gardener.
thing he looked forward If I was a gardener, Irea-
to each week. My grand- care. soned, I could finally be
mother eventually found initiated into their special
out about it and threw a connection. I made up
famous fit. my mind one Sunday to be the best one yet. ,
"Glenn Swartz!" she had yelled late at But the things I tried to grow couldn t
night, waking their unhappy neighbors from seem to survive. The smelly marigolds I ad-
slumber. "You can't cut grass for a living! opted in the fourth grade barely made it to
the end of May. The blooms dropped one by
Don't you dare cut grass for a living!" one, sentenced to death in the terracotta pot.
Everyone thought he was crazy, and When I watered the hanging baskets on the
porch, an after school chore I convinced my
Grammy begged him to quit on multiple oc-
casions, but he never did, not for twenty-six
years. parents was perfect for me, they somehow ei-
"It wasn't the money," Pap would add
ther died of thirst or fell victim to flood. The
matter-of-factly in explanation, "It was that
flowers I grew suffered from a rare plag.ue,a
lawn." my love and care. Once, the next year, In I
While some people saw the job as de-
desperate haze to be more like the people
grading menial labor, my grandfather rev-
eled in the responsibility of the upkeep of the looked up to the most, I stole the tractor keyS
apartment grounds. He was a natural. My fa-
ther remembers that when he was a teenager, from the shed without asking. I was pro~d
Pap would cautiously let him pull the weeds,
as he worked the push mower at the complex. a good look at
He told him he could weed, but he'd have to two wee ks f or
Z~;:kof my
learn mowing.
"Forty years later and you still make me lawn.
bravery, until I got ctute-
pull the weeds," my dad always joked, signi- I was grounded for
fying the end of the story. I loved to watch
ting the grass in a noticeable maze of zi?
When my family gets together, w_estIll ·ant
about the time the lawn looked uke a gt t
lightening bolt. No one ever took my .a1-
tempts at gardening seriously, most especlali
ly my grandfather. He thought they were a
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