Like many Callifornians, my husband and I bought a fixer upper. When we bought it, my father spoke nostalgically about the backbreaking labor he and Mom had put into houses they’d owned, recalling with pride the retaining wall he’d built after hours of digging into solid rock. My grandpa took my husband and I to a home he’d once shared with Grandma and spoke reverentially about the retaining wall he’d built in the front yard. Perhaps I am hardhearted, but I was unmoved by my father’s and grandfather’s religious fervor for their retaining walls. Owning a fixer upper and putting in front yards and backyards just sounded like, well, work. And not just any work—the evil, weekend stealing type of work that kills that Friday night buzz. I will admit, though, that our backyard projects have led to several adventures.
A few summers ago, feeling either especially brave or stupid, my husband and I decided to tame the jungle of weeds outside. After visiting a local Manly Man store to seek advice, my husband came home with the unshakeable knowledge that we should rent a bobcat to tear out the weeds. I was skeptical, and the way that my husband was grunting and scratching as he said it made me more skeptical. My hands were still calloused from unsuccessful hours of hacking at the weeds, however, so in a moment of weakness I was persuaded.
When my brother and father heard we were renting a bobcat, they were suddenly overcome with a sense of familial duty and volunteered to help. Once my husband brought it home and unloaded it, the three of them spent several minutes basking in the awe and manliness it inspired, then broke into a chorus of Tim the Tool Man grunting. You could cut the testosterone in the air with a knife.
I guess the bobcat was worth it. If nothing else, it was a bonding experience and family gathering. It’s also a good story that my husband enjoys recounting, his eyes staring off into the distance as he tells it, while his friends listen in salivating, rapt attention.
The sad part of this story is that the weeds grew back in the unfinished sections of our backyard. They were easier to pull out, though, thanks to the bobcat work.
In fact, another fun backyard adventure occurred when my dog, frolicking in these weeds that towered over his head, managed to get one of them lodged in his ear. Of course, it happened on a Friday night when he had to be taken to an emergency vet.
After attempting to dislodge the weed, the vet told us that our dog had the hairiest ears of any dog he’d ever seen. (I was a little proud. Really? THE hairiest ears? You’re not just saying that?) Because of this, the vet had to use anesthesia and pluck all of Rocky’s ear hair before removing the weed. It was a bit tragic for Rocky, and more tragic for us, when we saw the bill.
After the weed-in-ear-incident, we erected a temporary fence to keep our puppy in the de-weeded zones of the backyard. It was a depressing addition for Rocky. He stared longingly at the vast expanse of backyard that lay outside his puny pen. There were several successful Houdini puppy escape attempts, and it eventually became a battle of wits—us vs. the fluffy puppy—and my husband and I are struggled to maintain our edge. In Jurassic Park, the velociraptors systematically tested each section of the electrical fence, searching for a weakness in the barrier, and Rocky did the same. He stared at the fence for hours, much like Bolt waiting for his laser vision to work. Often, he achieved freedom by performing stealth crawls and unnecessary dive rolls that would have made James Bond jealous.
Our next project in the yard was—wait for it—a retaining wall. After far more months than it should have taken, we finished. Sometimes, I look out the window and see the wall the way everyone sees it, the way I saw my grandfather’s retaining wall—small, simple, unremarkable. But, most times, I understand my father’s and grandpa’s reverential awe. In these moments, I want to go outside and burn incense and slaughter small lambs before it.
A few summers ago, feeling either especially brave or stupid, my husband and I decided to tame the jungle of weeds outside. After visiting a local Manly Man store to seek advice, my husband came home with the unshakeable knowledge that we should rent a bobcat to tear out the weeds. I was skeptical, and the way that my husband was grunting and scratching as he said it made me more skeptical. My hands were still calloused from unsuccessful hours of hacking at the weeds, however, so in a moment of weakness I was persuaded.
When my brother and father heard we were renting a bobcat, they were suddenly overcome with a sense of familial duty and volunteered to help. Once my husband brought it home and unloaded it, the three of them spent several minutes basking in the awe and manliness it inspired, then broke into a chorus of Tim the Tool Man grunting. You could cut the testosterone in the air with a knife.
I guess the bobcat was worth it. If nothing else, it was a bonding experience and family gathering. It’s also a good story that my husband enjoys recounting, his eyes staring off into the distance as he tells it, while his friends listen in salivating, rapt attention.
The sad part of this story is that the weeds grew back in the unfinished sections of our backyard. They were easier to pull out, though, thanks to the bobcat work.
In fact, another fun backyard adventure occurred when my dog, frolicking in these weeds that towered over his head, managed to get one of them lodged in his ear. Of course, it happened on a Friday night when he had to be taken to an emergency vet.
After attempting to dislodge the weed, the vet told us that our dog had the hairiest ears of any dog he’d ever seen. (I was a little proud. Really? THE hairiest ears? You’re not just saying that?) Because of this, the vet had to use anesthesia and pluck all of Rocky’s ear hair before removing the weed. It was a bit tragic for Rocky, and more tragic for us, when we saw the bill.
After the weed-in-ear-incident, we erected a temporary fence to keep our puppy in the de-weeded zones of the backyard. It was a depressing addition for Rocky. He stared longingly at the vast expanse of backyard that lay outside his puny pen. There were several successful Houdini puppy escape attempts, and it eventually became a battle of wits—us vs. the fluffy puppy—and my husband and I are struggled to maintain our edge. In Jurassic Park, the velociraptors systematically tested each section of the electrical fence, searching for a weakness in the barrier, and Rocky did the same. He stared at the fence for hours, much like Bolt waiting for his laser vision to work. Often, he achieved freedom by performing stealth crawls and unnecessary dive rolls that would have made James Bond jealous.
Our next project in the yard was—wait for it—a retaining wall. After far more months than it should have taken, we finished. Sometimes, I look out the window and see the wall the way everyone sees it, the way I saw my grandfather’s retaining wall—small, simple, unremarkable. But, most times, I understand my father’s and grandpa’s reverential awe. In these moments, I want to go outside and burn incense and slaughter small lambs before it.
