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Green Was the Growth in Father's Garden
I
love green—all shades of green. I love the color green in famous
paintings. I love the green of spring when the grass begins to turn green,
and the trees begin to put forth their new leaves. I love green
clothing—even the olive drab of military clothing. I especially like the
deep green of summer, especially the green one sees in the forests. But
there is one green I totally despise—the green of plants growing in anyone's
garden; the following tale tells why.
The
sky was cloudless. There was no wind. The heat was intense. The
Depression was at its height, and in order to provide food for the family,
Father had planted the most monstrous garden in the world. My brother Bogie
and I had been drafted to provide the necessary labor for keeping the weeds
out of the rows—raking and hoeing, and whatever else Father deemed necessary
for the well-being of the garden.
On
this particular day, we had worked steadily throughout the morning hoeing
weeds. Bogie was a willing worker since he felt he was making a
contribution to the family. At the age of 12, I believed work was something
totally unnecessary; work was one of the devil's inventions designed to
punish those who were too dull to avoid it. As the sun moved toward its
noon position, the heat increased. As the heat increased, my resentment at
the unjustness of my lot in life increased tenfold.
Instead of the dry blistering air, the smell of manure and my own sweat, I
began to visualize the coolness of my favorite swimming hole. I conjured up
pictures of a splashing group of carefree boys with their naked bodies
glistening from the cool wetness of the water. I was in their midst.
As my
mind wandered, my hoe wandered. Chop, chop, chop—two weeds, then a bean
stalk, another weed, two more bean stalks, and so on.
Reality set in. Father suddenly became aware of my actions. At first the
admonishment was calm and parent-like, "Son, I wish you would be more
careful with your hoe. Don't cut the beans down.
I
replied in a semi-apologetic tone, "I didn't even know I was cuttin' those
beans down, Daddy, but I'm so hot and tired—besides, I want to go swimming.
I hate these old beans! I don't even like to eat 'em!"
"You'll change your mind when you're hungry. You are not going swimming
until we are finished. Now, don't cut down any more beans!" Father ordered.
My
brother, sensing an opportunity to grab a few minutes rest, and an
opportunity to improve his standing with Father, stopped work and joined in
the conversation, "Daddy, he chopped those beans down on purpose. I was
watching him."
Filled with righteous indignation, I started to make an emotional denial,
but then I heard Father agreeing that was probably true, and there were
times when he figured they would be better off without me in the garden.
Father turned angrily to me and shouted, "Boy, if you chop down one more
bean stalk, I'm going to blister you! I'll teach you to behave if it's the
last thing I ever do. Now, you get back to work!"
My
brother's smug smirk drove me to complete madness. With a shout of rage, I
grabbed my hoe and destroyed four or five bean stalks in rapid succession.
With
a roar, Father grabbed the first bean pole he could reach, yanked it from
the ground, and charged in my direction.
I
fled in terror from his charge. At a dead run, I headed for the west end of
the garden with Father closing the gap and swinging the bean pole toward my
rapidly moving backside.
Suddenly I realized I was heading for disaster; the gate was at the east end
of the garden—the west end had no escape route. I circled and headed for
the gate.
Father was brighter than I was; he dashed for the gate faster than I had
imagined he could. At the same time he was yelling for Bogie to catch me.
Fearing my brother's speed, I turned once more toward the west end. We must
have circled that garden three or four times. I was running with the panic
of a frightened animal; Father was swinging the pole closer and closer; and
my brother was howling with laughter.
Sheer
desire for survival saved me. With a new burst of energy, I headed straight
for the west-end fence. Father's bean pole had begun to make contact. I
charged the fence, closed my eyes, and leaped. To my surprise, to Father's
surprise, and Bogie's chagrin, I cleared the top of the fence with ease! I
landed running; I was free; the afternoon was mine. But I knew payment
would be due if and when I ever returned to my Father's house.
I had
my afternoon of fun. The swimming was better than I had anticipated; the
fruit we stole was sweet; the world was a good place in which to live.
I
returned home as late as I dared. I knew retribution would be waiting.
Having considered every alternative possible—even running away from home
forever, I had decided to plead insanity brought on by too much sun, and to
emotionally beg for forgiveness for all my wicked ways.
No
one appeared to be angry. Mother fed me, even though everyone else had
eaten. Father just looked at me with amazement. My brother grinned. And
my sister ignored me as she usually did.
After
I had eaten, Mother called me into the kitchen. Waiting for me were all the
supper dishes and all the pots and pans. Waiting for me also were a scrub
brush, a pail, a can of paste wax, and some rags.
Mother said, "wash the supper dishes and the pots and pans. When you finish
that, scrub the floor, wax it and shine it. When you are through, you may
go to bed.”
I
finished my chores sometime near midnight. Dog tired I stumbled up the
stairs to the bed Bogie and I shared.
I
could feel him grinning at me in the dark. "You shouldn't have run off," he
said, "Daddy bought us all popsicles after we finished."
I
started to cry.
He
put his arm around me and said, "Don't cry. Daddy isn't really mad. He
fell over laughing after you got out of sight."
I
told my wife when we got married, "If you want a garden, you are going to do
it. I won't plant it; I won't cultivate it; I won't harvest anything from
it; I won't even enter it!"
W. Ray Dunn
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