What can Brown do for you?

Today, as I left work (my gym bag packed for the cardio workout my body has been craving) I noticed the ominous sky and decided to race home to mow the lawn instead. Thursday night should (if at all possible) be “lawn-mowing night.” This is a way to ensure you can look out onto your well-manicured property on Saturday and Sunday and sigh in proud, satisfied relief that you do not have to spend 2 hours on the weekend sweating the grass down to a height the neighbors won’t scoff at.

I almost always mow my lawn in my dad’s old “UPS- Buster Brown Doubles” shirt. I have cut the sleeves off and widened the neck and I’m not going to lie to you, I look good in it… When I do yard work in this t-shirt while wearing my practically threadbare, men’s, cargo shorts…it’s hot! I look like the main attraction on Commercial Street. It’s enough to make the 11-year old tom-boy that lives 4 houses away fall off her skateboard and stand there staring while her skinned knee bleeds (for a few too many minutes) before she grows sheepish and sprints away… But I digress-

I wear the shirt (not to stir up the ladies in the neighborhood but) mostly because it is comfortable. Also I’ve realized, I wear it to share some sort of communion with my dad. So many nights, that guy was out there mowing the lawn as it grew dark and even guided by a flood light in the pitch blackness of a summer night. I don’t know what he used to think about when he was out there alone, but I imagine that I probably run through the same rotation of unexpressed thoughts: Random to-do lists, concerns about home ownership, and many things related to the desire to provide for and ensure the stability and/or future of my family. Yard work can be contemplative meditation if the mower is mechanically sound, if the beads of sweat aren’t stinging your eyes, and the mosquitoes are leaving you alone…

In our family, we mock the slogan, “What can brown do for you?” We utter it in a kind of sarcastic, ironic way that former Enron employees must reserve for the “Ask Why,” motto. (Yes! That really was Enron’s company slogan.) The truth of course is that “Brown” has done a lot for us- beautiful homes, solid educations… A lot of amazing food (and drink) has been purchased, shared, and consumed over the years. But for all that was earned, there were some things taken too. Dad sacrificed a lot of time and sweat, blood and cartilage (in his knees and hands and wrists) over the years. Less easy to lament: the houses he might have built, the degrees he might have earned, the patients he might have cared for, the students he might have taught. The union wages and benefits were too steady and too immediate to compare or trade for construction work or continued education. I never heard the dude complain- not even once… I mean he led a dissertation-worthy lecture series every other night of the week railing against big business; and he told countless stories that taught us how to stand toe-to-toe with supervisors that might be taking unfair advantage… but I never heard him complain about his “lot in life” or his un-realized dreams. It was pretty much implied if not explicitly stated that we- three ladies in his life- were his dream. He didn’t drink himself silly or spend much time yapping about whether or not his job was satisfying…

Tonight, as has happened several times since I moved into this home, it grew dark as I finished the lawn. I tried to push the Lawnboy a little faster, and I enjoyed the breeze while spending some time with my dad… Big B and I are so much alike: Both sensitive souls who can also play the role of "life of the party" if it is required. Both trying to be more organized, more efficient, more productive… but we can’t help but get completely sidetracked or distracted (for hours or days.) We might be waylaid by a conversation with friends or even strangers; or happen upon a book or magazine to read. Fixing something might turn into a marathon garage-cleaning mission (that we’re likely to abandon halfway though); or we might just be staring out the window, contemplating the rain, snuggling a baby, or playing our new favorite song over and over (and over) again. Both of us lean a little towards melancholy when everyone is gone except those who really know us. Both of us rarely talk of the deaths we have witnessed, and the grief we carry, but we try hard to live better because we are grateful even for that, sad part of life.

I am the spitting image of my father; a real chip off the old block. I have practically all his mannerisms- the shrug, wink, nod, eyebrow raise… the tight jaw and the stubborn, “It’s not me, it’s YOU,” expression when I get frustrated (or accused of acting surly by the people who really know me.) I’ve learned from him things that he learned from his father: How to be truthful and straightforward; how to be brave and do what you know is right, even when it’s hard or not popular; how to be generous; how to feel good about an honest day’s work… I’ve learned things from my dad that his father could never have taught either one of us: How to be sensitive; how to be sincere; how to be strong-hearted and not just strong-headed; how to use humor to put people at ease and not to make them uncomfortable; how to give great hugs.

I rarely think of myself as “Daddy’s little girl.” Over the years, and presently, I have been “Daddy’s little side kick,” “Daddy’s little, can I barrow your truck/chainsaw/ladder this weekend…” “Daddy’s little sparring partner.” (Sometimes, it’s hard to be so much like someone and not feel as if he is trying earn some unnecessary redemption by cleaning up MY act…)

One time, a while back- when we didn’t seem to be getting along, and I worried we might not ever get along that well again, my dad sat down next to me and said, “You know, if I was a girl, I think I’d like girls too...” (eyebrow raise… shrug… wink) And I was reminded that there’s not much of anything in this world that makes as much sense to me as he does…

My poor Pa never got a “father’s day shout out” like Nance did on Ma’s day- I just wasn’t feeling it then… But tonight, I couldn’t wait to wash the sweat and grass off myself to come write him a love note. I love you, Daddio! Thank you for everything.