Fingerprinted by a D-Day Vet

Garbage day morning-

Before I filled the last white trash bag, my minds eye unexpectedly focused in on my grandfather’s fingerprints.  He taught me to be thorough—a legitimate skill in young years which could grow into a gift.  My grandfather’s hands always stained by dirt, tractor lube and diesel fuel, made his fingerprints visible at all times: holding toast, his pointer finger through the hoop of a coffee stained porcelain cup, a lit cigarette wedged between a two fingered "peace sign," the ceebee near his mouth in the truck we called “old blue.” 

This morning, I got my hands dirty.  It rained last night and straight through till morning.  It was a light rain, determined and consistent.  For several months like troops whose goal was divide and conquer, thistles have been moving in and surrounding the property.  They are near the side tree now, around the rock wall that got knocked over last summer, and only the wind knows how they’ve jumped the asphalt driveway and set up a most populated camp between the hydrangeas and the strawberry bed.  With no disrespect to Scotland, I did say this morning, this here results from a great fall in a perfect garden.  I don’t imagine thistles in paradise.

Surprisingly, without internal negative chatter, I pulled.  One after the next, with the helping hand of overnight rains, they gave up easier than previous tug o wars I’d had with them.  Without gloves, cool raindrops were more prevalent than the stickers of their leaves (although now my hands being clean and dry are itching in places that are unable to be properly itched on the hand—pointer finger knuckle, and that bone which belongs to the thumb down at the wrist).

Normally, because I’m geared toward selfishness, I would stack a proud pile of weeds on the drive and wait for someone to come home to them, drop their jaw, and crown me the queen of all weed pullers, honor me, be in awe.  (I’m going to blame my Mom for that, very few individuals in my little growing family now are in awe of me unless I can long burp a nonsensical word).  Fleeting as it was, I was going to leave them stacked high and let them dry before I did away with them, but my mental recall told me, those stickers were more fierce dry.  I filled a thirty-five gallon white plastic bag with them.   Because, I pursued the toughest fight first and did well, I wreaked havoc on unarmed weeds too, plucking from paver stones, reaching those camouflaged in mums.  

My grandparent’s garden was no joke and (as a child) summer weeding was the sole reason I voted “YES” for the possibility of year-round childhood education.  You can’t fake it with weeds—they sell you out every time.  How?  [* If you know this, skip the rest of the paragraph.]  Lets say this, you’ve wasted time-instead of being diligent or honest at the task of weeding, there comes that tipping point and you find time is running out to produce some “good” weed-pulling results.  But what you can do is trust yourself as you avoid labeling it procrastination or denial, instead you rest well knowing this is when you do your best work, this is how you prove your multitasking skills are better than average (and, humbly speaking, on the rise!).  You make inner proclamations, a couple outer ones, this place can be weed free by 3:00. Nuff said.

You missed nothing and it bought you time. It was a good move.  But, you find yourself aware you’ve left something, behind.

Heathy weed roots with broke off tops only wait so long before they resurface.  In Grandpa’s garden, skipping the real process earned you plenty of extra face time in the weeds.  And it usually came at more of a sacrifice than that, this could be the week you get to choose the royal blue ball cap from the Front Street hat shop where you chose your hat embellishment (a blaze of fire, or Tenderheart Bear, or the horse silhouette rearing in front of a sunset…that would look amazing with my name under it).  Or not.  Pulling the tops off weeds buys only a trip back to where you began, and it sets you behind too, now the onions need a weeder, and by weeks end the squash mounds will be calling for you.

Different from those early years, this garbage day morning I was patient with the weeds, pulling easy and intentionally.  I had hope of best results.  I did good.  I was tender with the weeds, and gentle.  It was this awareness of my unusual gentleness that started this whole thing.  As I’ve grown, there’s lots in my life that needed to be plucked out of me.  I’ve done it a number of ways.  At times, (and this is not a point of pride) I was quite diligent, had to be, because I was pulling off the green only, pretense which resulted in tending to that emotional or behavioral ground often—and sometimes with fervor.  Each root that came up quietly was success (and with thistles who knows how long “success” ever is).  Those times when I heard and saw the snap of the root, I knew it would be up again before long.  Sometimes those roots were short and other’s pulled out long, impressively long.  How deeply they must be in the soil and, how deeply the treatment to stop them would have to go—and thistles, it seems, have a way of not wanting to “go.”

I don’t want to rush the season here but, as far as I’m concerned it’s Fall that’s “the most wonderful time of the year” (Spring is a close second—and I guess they are interchangeable depending on what hemisphere of the world you are.  A global win-win).  In any case, because of the calendar, New Year’s Resolutions are again right around the corner.  This past year, I can’t remember mine enough to know whether I conquered it or gave up!  Disciplines are tough (and for both sides).  I am an experienced adult (isn’t that what they call today’s forty-somethings) but last year was the first time I saw the difference between discipline and punishment.  I thought all discipline was punishment, all punishment equalled discipline.  True in cases.  Now I see upon discipline patience sits-whether resolutions, weed pulling, or general dedication to anything.  Breathing.  

Again, in the spirit of not rushing the season, this morning I decided going forward I’d be more patient with my internal thistles (they’re stickery, don’t get me wrong).  I have a feeling my new uprooting style will produce what harried pulling cannot, what adding a new thick layer of fresh dirt has never.  There are no quick fixes for thistles (in life) and to that I say good, let’s deal slow and steady—the whole root, trading plucking and maintaining insanity for deep gentle extraction after that steady and glorious rain of preparation.  

I don't know if I ever saw my grandfather's hands come clean.   So much work and lube and fuel.  My grandfather’s hands, were always stained.  Through my little blue eyes, I knew that was true.   

After all these years have gone, and through the ones still to come, this is my truth today:  his fingerprints will never disappear. 

Salute.

love you Grumpa-