Eventually, I ran out of excuses to avoid the Saturday chores and announced to my internal colleagues that we were heading outside to repair the bricks around the flowerbeds, mow the lawn, pick up after Sally (what Bagman calls the brown Easter Egg Hunt), lay down pine straw, and clean and refill the bird feeder.
Pulling on an old sweater and work shoes, I watched Bagman grunt in disgust, escape to his room and shut the door. I expected to lose Bagman’s help since he hates yardwork, but just as I was about to go through the porch, I noticed Butler had stopped and turned back.
This worried me because I need Butler’s suggestion for efficiency. He’s the one who can map out the most efficient course for the lawnmower to take so I have the longest straights, the fewest turns, and no need to backtrack over what has already been mowed. He is the one who has worked out, over time, the most effective Sally poop-scoop which he modeled on a golfer’s technique for getting out of a sand trap, striking just behind the little round object so that it lifts up with a little backspin rather than being mashed deeper in the grass…or sand…depending on what object we are talking about.
In any case, I needed Butler. Starting back to get him, I heard his voice yelling through Bagman’s closed door, more pleading than angry.
BUTLER: “Come on, Baggie, just give it a chance for once! I know you think you hate yardwork but some people love it! If the protoplasm-we-call-Mark had you with us, he might notice things when he is outside. With your zest for passion, he would see catch the bongo beat of the woodpecker in the gum tree instead of just noticing the irritating spiny things that fall from it. He might enjoy the smell and feel of the rich soil around the flower beds and delight in patterns made by circling turkey vultures and wheeling crows. With your eye for beauty he might see the reflections of the sunlight clouds in the pond. He could live in the present and feel the edges and heft of each brick he replaces. Come out with us, Baggie, old chap. The yard can be just as creatively satisfying as any old photograph or poem!”
Then I heard the crash of some small piece of furniture as Bagman must have thrown it against the door, followed by a string of unrepeatable adjectives followed by the word “yardwork.” Then Butler turned, left Bagman to whatever fantasies he was going to indulge in behind his door, and returned to join me in the yard.
Together, Butler and I toiled all afternoon in the back yard. We picked up dog crap, slammed bricks into place in nasty dirt, sweated and complained about the cold at the same time. When my wife got home after staffing her booth at the teachers conference, she looked at yard and exclaimed, “Wow! It looks so much better!”
“Right,” I muttered. I hadn’t really noticed. It was work, it was done, and I never looked back at the results. Dragging my sore back inside to take a shower, I also did not notice the birds swooping down in graceful arcs to twitter their grateful, soprano chorus around the feeder.
