Planting in love and reaping relationship.
by Nance Keyes
When I bought my first and current house, I was eager to get out in my own yard and start working. Dad, who loved the outdoors, was also eager to get out in my yard and start working.
I tensed when he said he was coming to trim the bushes. I fussed when he planned to transplant various cuttings from his yard and chose what flowers he would plant out front.
Reluctance
The next summer approached, and Dad’s enthusiasm to work was met again with my great reluctance. I wanted my property to reflect my personality, my creativity, my ownership. Why did Dad need to control everything?
This wasn’t the first time Dad had intervened. Thoughts churned as I rehashed the history of decisions my peers made for themselves while Dad chose my high school path, my college major, my first apartment. And now, from hundreds of miles away, he made plans to control my yard.
Guilt
I shared my dilemma with a friend whose response silenced me. “Someday you will wish your dad was still around to trim your bushes.”
I lay awake at night feeling guilty. I kept thinking of the commandment “Honor your father and your mother, that your days may be long upon the land which the LORD your God is giving you” (Exodus 20:12, NKJV).
I decided I didn’t need my days to be long, but I prayed anyway: “I want to honor my parents. I don’t want regret. But Dad’s plans smother my free spirit. How can I push back without pushing him away? How can I let him in but not let him take over the land You have given me?”
Conflict
For days my mind was preoccupied with my controlling father. I stewed. I prayed. Part of me didn’t want him to come at all if he was going to continue to dictate my life. Yet I wanted my parents to see my house, and I wanted to see my parents.
I was already feeling the guilt trip I would experience if I didn’t yield to my father’s control. Why did it have to be this way? How I longed for some type of compromise that would help Dad feel needed and appreciated yet give me a sense that this was still my house.
Plans
The answer to that prayer came to me one night when I was preparing dinner. Dad liked food. I like to cook. Dad wanted to work in my yard. So we’ll make a deal: Will Work for Food.
Work charts were drawn. Tasks were scheduled. Tools were lined up. Food was purchased. Dad would have to follow my directions, but he could do the work. In exchange, I would serve three gourmet meals a day. Mom could help him in the yard and do some cleaning in the house.
Tense beginning
Dad agreed, but it was tense that first summer. He didn’t want to trim the bushes back as far as I asked. He had other plans for the planting.
I stood with my clipboard checking off his tasks, marking several to be redone. He critiqued the meals, assigning each a rating. Photos of all the work in progress and meals were compiled in a memory book where we went back and forth debating whose caption was suitable to place beneath the pictures.
Gourmet meals
Each summer, for fifteen years, Dad and Mom drove down from New England for a week of hard work, from sunrise until after sunset — inside, outside, beneath, and on top of the house. In exchange, they were served gourmet breakfasts, lunches, and dinners — all from scratch and no repeat meals or leftovers throughout the entire Will Work for Food years.
The meals were always summer-themed and kept our practice of healthy eating — except for the decadent desserts. As much as possible, the vegetables and herbs were picked fresh from my gardens, and something always included berries from my strawberry patch. Dad the connoisseur continued to rate each meal, and I continued to rate his work. With each year there was less tension.
Teamwork
Eventually, at my request, Dad took over the clipboard and kept us on top of the to-do list, monitoring each day’s schedule and holding us to the clock. He always focused on his duties as well as reminding Mother and I that we needed to do the work under the house and not to forget about cleaning behind the refrigerator. But those tasks always got pushed to the last minute, and Dad just shook his head.
We began working as a team on some projects but had our individual chores as well. A picture of each chore and meal it earned, along with the week’s full menu and task charts, is recorded in the annual memory books.
We don’t have a photo of the midnight mowing, however. It wasn’t really midnight, but it was dark and late enough to not see what we were doing. The weather and our schedule kept us from getting the job done any other time, so we weren’t stopping until we were finished. By the light of the moon and the mower, we laughed like a couple of kids, me running behind the push mower and Dad raking just as fast behind me.
Workflow
After that, we didn’t just work as a team. We were a team. Dad started asking how I wanted things done. I started telling him, “However you want.”
Dad transplanted lilacs from his yard. They took off at first and then gave up. Eventually, he decided to try quince instead. It flourished, so next time he brought another.
As the years went on, I started asking for more transplants from Dad’s yard: pachysandra, lily of the valley, fern, myrtle — whatever he was willing to bring. And he started asking where I would like them planted. They had all started out as transplants from my grandparents’ yards, something Dad did not tell me until near the end.
Changes
One December morning Dad woke up unable to walk, so Will Work for Food the following summer was scaled back. The bushes out front were scratched off the list, but Dad wanted to do what he could, so I wheeled him out back where he trimmed the quince bushes one last time. He did a few other tasks, and he ate like royalty.
The following summer, work was replaced with rest. Hospice didn’t think Dad would survive the trip, but he wanted to come and see the house and yard one more time. We made that happen.
Last treats
Most of the time Dad rested on the deck. When he was awake, we looked out at the yard and remembered our annual projects and the bond formed when we both yielded control and just plain loved each other.
Although Dad had no appetite or strength for meals, when he saw his favorite hot milk cake with fresh strawberries and ice cream, he perked up and worked at it until his plate was clean. Each day until his death he enjoyed a little of that cake and ice cream.
Memories
The day has come when I wish I still had a dad to trim my bushes. But I have no regrets.
Instead, I have Dad’s cherished set of fifteen Will Work for Food memory books. And I have a yard full of my own cherished memories.
Nance Keyes has been published in many publications for preschool children through adult — fiction, nonfiction, poetry, activities, curriculum, inspirational pieces, and devotions. She lives in Reisterstown, MD.