“Parker, come inside and wash up!” My mom yelled from the back porch. She said it in a way that sounded more endearing that it was uninviting, something only a mother could do. I think it was because of the way she stretched it out; “Paaaaar-kerrrr”. It always made me smile.
“OK Mom, I’ll be right in!”
I stared up to my best friend Thomas who was busy hammering in the last nail into the top board of the makeshift ladder.
“Tom, I gotta go. I told my mom that I would help cook dinner tonight.”
“That’s fine. I should probably head back home too.” He said with a disappointing shrug.
It was never easy to say goodbye after a long afternoon of laying blueprints and continuing construction for our soon-to-be “Swiss Family Robinson-esque” treehouse. So far we only had about five or six two-by-fours hammered into the trunk of one of our backyard pines, but it was nonetheless taking shape to be quite the sight, even if just in our imaginations.
“Let’s play tomorrow?” “After school, halfway. Later Park”.
Tom and I had become such good friends over the years that we had, hardly by accident, created our own method of communication. Being the stubborn 4th graders that most are, neither he nor I wanted to bike all the way over to the others house each time we hung out. Personal sacrifice was not in my vocabulary, or many 4th graders I assume. So as a compromise, we agreed that no matter where our destination, we would always meet halfway between our houses at a local park first. Plus we found it silly to bother trying to figure out plans ahead of time as they were bound to change anyway. All that was needed was a “meet you halfway” and a simple head nod and the schedule was set. Meet at the park and figure it out then.
The park had a way of clearing my head of the fuzziness of the day and to focus on the tasks ahead. Not that building a treehouse required a lot of mental fortitude, but it still helped in a way that not many other things did. So maybe the bike ride was therapeutic in a way. If only things now were as easy.
After Thomas hopped on his bike and pedaled off, I gathered up tools and slugged my way through the trees towards the house. If luck were on my side, I would smell the grilling of my Dad’s famous pork chops as I passed the deck. Although I was sad that my friend had left, I was rejuvenated by the aroma of his secret marinade sizzling into the evening azure sky. I’m pretty sure there was nothing too secret in that marinade, but maybe it’s just something dads say to make their grilling sound more appealing. Regardless, it didn’t really matter to me since I figured anything that could taste that good must have something secret in it.
As I hung up the hammer and tossed the sack of nails back into the toolbox, I happen to glance over against the wall and a coy smile rolled across my face. Most days after school and of course after the park, you would find Thomas and I sitting in that garage conjuring up some needless gadget, increasing the already lengthy project list. He would, almost by muscle memory, plant himself near the workbench on the bottom step of the staircase, and I would assume my own position on the riding lawnmower. These were our “thinking spots”. We were not to be disturbed.
We thought of ourselves as regular kids but with an imagination far above the rest. Sure others our age were creative and all of that, but we did so with reckless abandon. Much to the chagrin of our parents, trial and error has become our scientific method. That’s the funny part. When they saw us strapping a can of hairspray to a PVC pipe while mounting a Zippo lighter to the end, they rarely intervened. Even if we ran inside with cuts on our hands and dried tears on our cheeks; they always let us make our own mistakes.
I bet a lot of folks would call that neglect or child endangerment of some kind, but that’s just the way it was. If you tripped you got back up and pushed forward. Pure and simple. Parents had a much different way of raising their children in those days Go back even further, and the autonomous-child-epidemic was even more widespread.
It was at that point I shook my head out of the daydream to continue my aimless glancing. After what seemed like hours I ran up the stairs, making sure not to disturb Thomas’ sacred spot, and into the house. Luckily, my moment of silence in the garage didn’t make me late for dinner.
“Did you and Tom make sure to bring in all of Dad’s tools?” my Mom asked.
“Yup”
“So if he went out there he wouldn’t find anything out of place or missing? Right Park?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think? Or you are not entirely sure? Why don’t you go and double check honey. Dinner will be another few minutes anyway.”
I can’t really blame my Dad for having such reverence for his tools. Somebody who spent that kind of money on something ought to have some vested interest in its maintenance. My Mom knew this, and all of my Dad’s other habits better than anyone. I still appreciate the way she always wanted to steer me clear of my Dad’s pending, albeit usually avoidable, wrath. It was never the big things that made him mad at me, but rather the small stuff that he knew, I knew better.
The bar in the Mitchell house was never set that high, nor low. We operated under the “common sense and common decency” school of thought. Respect others, work hard, and things will usually work out in your favor.
I should probably point out that my Dad wasn’t one of those guys you hear referenced in hushed tones during fond childhood memories. And definitely not someone who repeated some proverbial verse like “You know son, one in the hand is worth two in the bush." As if his entire persona could be summed up in a single phrase.
I always thought that was selling someone short.
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