Boot Camp Day 4: Easter Morning

Gordon knows his wife could use his help inside the house. There are many things to do before the children arrive for Easter dinner. She likes to put out the good china, and there’s silver to polish, and linens to iron, napkins to fold, but he doesn’t consider any of that to be his responsibility. Early in the marriage, he would have been more accommodating on this point, but that was a long time ago.

Bernadette was up at 5:30. She made coffee and began puttering in the kitchen. Gordon lay in bed until 6:15, his usual time, then got out of bed, put in his dentures, took a four-minute shower in the coldest water he could stand, and went to the kitchen for a cup of black coffee. As he drank the hot liquid in impatient sips, he toyed with the garage door opener in his other hand.

“You don’t really have to do anything out there today. It looks fine. The boys did a good job,” she said.

“Mm.” He wasn’t in the mood for a debate. He liked for the yard to be perfect for company. But the boys had cut the grass on Thursday and then it poured rain on Good Friday. Leaves and twigs littered the driveway and the street in front of the house.

Gordon rinsed his mug and put it in the dishwasher. He noticed with irritation that she hadn’t run the machine since he put his cereal bowl in there yesterday morning. They had gone back and forth about this. She didn’t like to waste the water.

“I’m the one who pays for the water. Water is cheap,” he said one day.

“But there’s no sense in wasting it. And I read just the other day where they were saying that countries are going to be fighting wars over water soon. Did you know that Atlanta almost ran out of water last summer?”

“We don’t live in Atlanta,” Gordon had replied.

“That’s not the point,” she said.

“I don’t know what the point is,” he had said. He put a stop to the discussion by walking out of the room.

She was going to give him a hard time about the leaf blower again if he gave her a chance, so without telling her his plans, he headed for the garage. He clicked the opener and stood watching as the door went up. He took down the blower, checked the tank, topped it off with a few drops from the gas can, then hoisted the strap onto his shoulder. He loved the efficiency of the machine, but it sure was heavy.

His neighbor across the street had complained about the leaf blower once, but now he just gave Gordon dirty looks. He didn’t much care what the neighbor thought. The guy was a writer, for God’s sake, so as far as Gordon was concerned, he’d never worked an honest day in his life. Anyway, why shouldn’t he use the right tool for the job?

As he walked out to the street, he wondered again why none of his neighbors took advantage of these cool morning hours to work in their yards. He savored the fresh air and the early-morning quiet for a moment. Then he pulled the cord to fire up the blower.

First he would clear the debris in the street. Some of his neighbors routinely left a dusting of grass clippings in the street after their yard work. They swept their own sidewalks and driveways clear, but anything that went beyond the curb didn’t seem to concern them. He didn’t understand how they could leave the work unfinished that way. Who did they think would pick the stuff up if they left it there?

The engine groaned at low idle while he sized up the job to be done. He gave the trigger a tentative squeeze, and then he was off and blowing. The leaves were wet, so they clung tenaciously to the cement. He found that short bursts from the leaf blower were more effective at dislodging the stubborn waste than a steady blast. It occurred to him that the intermittent noise might be more annoying to some people than a steady droning. Then he mumbled, “Whatever.” He smirked at the thought of using the expression he’d forbidden his teenage grandchildren to say in his presence.

As he turned to get a better angle on a cluster of oak leaves lodged in a crack in the concrete, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He was careful not to look directly, but a furtive glance confirmed that Bernadette was standing on the front porch trying to get his attention. He leaned into the next sweep of the blower so she’d see that he was too busy to be distracted, but the motion set off a spasm in the muscles of his lower back. He stretched his back with the most discreet motion he could manage and let the machine idle again for a moment. He winced and thought again about what Bernadette had said when he bought the leaf blower.

“It’s noise pollution, that’s what it is. Not to mention the gas fumes. And you’re too old to be lugging it back and forth. Why can’t you just use a rake and a broom?”

He didn’t understand why Bernadette had listened to all those people in the magazines telling her she was somehow at fault for driving her Lincoln, and so when the time came to trade it in, she had insisted on a fuel-efficient Honda. A Japanese car! He couldn’t believe his own wife was driving a car made in Japan.

At least she hadn’t started in about fossil fuels like the hippy writer. Exactly what business was it of his if Gordon wanted to use a gas-powered machine? It’s his property. It’s his money to spend the way he wants to spend it. It’s his choice if he wants to clean up his yard with a leaf blower, or a herd of sheep, or half a dozen illegal aliens, for God’s sake.

With a few more blasts from the blower, he finished gathering the mess into a neat pile on the driveway. Then he walked back to the garage. With a satisfied groan, he heaved the machine back up onto its hook on the wall. Then he picked up a rake and a broom to finish the job.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick