7th son of a 7th son
February 9, 2009
I grew up in a lovely little suburb of Minneapolis called Golden Valley (a name so quaint, when I told Kim that’s where I was from, she asked me if I was friends with the Keebler Elves). My parents had grown up as farmer types from Southern Alberta, Canada, and thus we had a garden in the backyard as big as West Texas.
I hated that garden. Hated hated hated it. I hated digging and roto-tilling the grass to make the garden. I hated roto-tilling in the spring to prep the garden each year. I hated planting seeds that I knew would eventually grow into plants I would have to tend. I hated weeding the garden. I hated watering the garden. I hated harvesting the carrots and lettuce and beans and corn and shit. Well, we didn’t harvest shit, but I did have to spread it. Literally. My dad arranged to get horse manure from a farmer friend of his, and I had to spread it in the garden.
I say I. I’m sure my brothers were involved. I don’t care. They can bitch on their own blogs.
As we kids aged, the garden went through a sort of boom and bust. It boomed in my middle years and busted as I left the house, leaving only my youngest brother at home to tend the thing. So instead my Mom planted raspberries. Rows and Rows of raspberries.
But my youngest brother was smarter than all of us. He took the mower out and cut the raspberries down.
“Whoops. I dunno, Mom. What raspberries? We had raspberries?”
How does he do this and not get disowned?
You know how parents get tired as they move through their kids? Super strict with the oldest, they experiment with the middle kids, and by the time they get to the youngest, they just don’t give a crap?
Especially if the youngest is the youngest by 5 years.
Dad–What’s Rob up to this weekend?
Mom–Do we still have kids at home?
Seriously. If I had mowed down the corn and the beans, I would have been dead. DEAD.
But Rob? I think it took my Mom a month to even notice she didn’t have raspberry bushes anymore.