You know What’s Crazy? I’ll Tell you What’s Crazy!™
Doing so much yard work on a Saturday, your neighbors call INS to check for a green card.
I found myself looking over my shoulder all weekend long.
The sun was baking down upon me, broiling me like a migrant worker. I was so sunburned, so grimy with gardening mud, it looked like I might have smuggled myself over the border from Nicaragua. As I labored away, I had one eye on the grass and the other looking for federal agents in dark windbreakers.
I really need to lather on some sunscreen, I think to myself.
Sure you will Paco.
I am a glutton for punishment with a bizarre desire to have a nice lawn. That’s a bad combination, like sniffing glue and performing brain surgery.
So I start pushing the mower. It’s wheels are heavy, rolling sluggishly, like magnets in a super conductor. I was sweating, my muscles burning. To deal with the pain, I pretended the lawnmower is a treadmill and I’m burning unneeded calories.
Note to self: This isn’t yard work. I’ll think of it as: organic-cardio.
Sure thing Raul, Everyone loves organic cardio.
I push the cascade of salty moisture out of my eyes and move to the next chore.
Why?
Because I am a migrant worker deep down inside.
I grab the weed eater. It only weighs 15 pounds. I’ll pretend it’s like curling dumb bells and I won’t have to go to the gym later.
Yeah, right Pedro, like you were going to the gym later.
I whack away more weeds from the side of the house. I am covered with so much dust, I look like a feather duster dipped in honey.
I could quit, but that is not the migrant way. So what do I do? I change the attachment and put on the edger.
Nothing says wasted time and energy like the edger. The sole purpose is to cut a manicured 3 inch trench between the curb and the driveway. Nothing more. Nothing less. It is a rather useless implement, except for this task, which, when the ground is hard and packed, is daunting.
Sure glad I had that circular driveway built, as mud and chunks of stone pop me in the face. I think I’m bleeding, but under the insane amount of filth on my face, it only seems to add to my crazy lawn camouflage.
Be all you can be!
Well, at least I’m getting a good tan out here. Yeah like I need another helping of skin cancer.
“Hey Paco, bring me a Taco.”
5 hours later I am finally blowing the dirt and grass and weeds with a 3rd attachment. Why Not? Why not just keep working. You are past pain now, and entering the arena of delirium.
I feel my back twinging. I wouldn’t last half a day in the lettuce fields of Salinas. How do these guys do it?
My ears are ringing. My neighbors hate me because I have done nothing all day but make infuriating noise and a smoky stench that angers the soul. I look like the Smoke Monster in Lost.
That’s enough right? WRONG.
What’s another chore? I visit the tree in our yard that was ravaged by the flood waters.
Funny thing about that flood. All the trees I planted the year before are store bought, from the Home Depot. When the waters consumed them, I assumed they were gone. But when the water subsided, the little trees had survived.
The tree that didn’t make it was the one planted by God, ions ago.
So I drive my SUV up to the tree and wrap a tow strap around the trunk. I slowly engage the all wheel drive and pull the tree to an erect position. I bang stakes in the ground and tie the tree off.
I step out of the SUV and look at my work. I am a carmel apple covered in twigs and dirt. Birds fly around me, deciding I would make a good nest.
I smile a white, toothy smile. That’s the most erect I’ve ever seen that tree, which once again seems happy.
I’m sweating dirt and bleeding from both elbows. I have salt in my eyes and every muscle aches.
Why do I do this to myself. Why do I act like a border crosser?
I’m so dirty, I can’t even take a shower immediately. I have to hose myself off in the yard. I have to get the twigs and chunks of mud off my skin. I use a rake to wash the preliminary layer of goo off me. It’s disgusting at best.
My clothes are so soiled, they are unwashable. I throw them in the trash and get in the shower, my head hung wearily. The water is cool and rejuvenating.
Helluva way to kill a Saturday I mutter to myself, my mouth filling with soap.
The crazy thing about it. Nobody will say a word about the work I just did. The kids could care less what the yard looks like. The wife, she would only notice if the weeds were too weedy or the grass too grassy. Otherwise, the yard is the place that vanquished husbands go to escape and be forgotten.
I dry off and my thoughts turn to a cold Corona with a splash of lemon. I’m a true migrant now, and I need a beer that has a South of the Border flavor.
I want to sit on the deck and fire up the grill. I want to stare into the setting orange sun and look at my beautiful lawn and resurrected Home Depot trees.
Like the mighty migrant worker I am, I don’t need anyone’s applause. I just want a cool cerveza and a wiff of freshly cut grass.
I exhale with satisfaction knowing that I.C.E. will not be raiding my house tonight.
And That is Crazy.