Before my then-husband left for a deployment to the Middle East, he fully briefed me about all the things he did outside while I was in the house watching A&E or Bravo marathons and pretending to do laundry. The only indoor item I needed to worry about was the humidor. Apparently, it needed watering not unlike my thirsty houseplants. One spring day, he spent what seemed like four hours or so giving me detailed instructions on the use and/or maintenance of: the riding lawnmower, the gas-powered Weed-Eater, the leaf blower, the septic tank, the water softener, the sprinkler system (which I incidentally had theretofore been unaware that we even had), the propane tank, the soaker hoses, the Miracle Gro plant feeder, the weed killer, various insect killers, and, of course, the humidor. He checked me out on all of these as I took notes in hopes of remembering what should be done twice a week as opposed to what should be done every two weeks.
After I tried out the leaf blower, he kindly took it out of my hand and offered, “A smart person would do it like this…” Apparently, one should get behind the blower’s targets rather than mill about aimlessly in the middle of it all. (His remark reminded me of what my brother told me they say in Minnesota when someone displays lower-than-average intelligence. According to him, certain mild-mannered Midwestern pasty yet somewhat redneck Lutherans will say, in that charming Minnesota accent, “Y’know, a lotta guys’d done it this way…” But I digress.) When my husband was training me on how to feed the plants in the garden, he must have picked up on my anxiety about the whole thing. He said, “Don’t worry; this will be a lot less stressful after I leave.” (No shit, I thought.) So then I just had to make sure I kept everything alive and in working order so I wouldn’t have to pull some Lucy Ricardo stunt and go out and replace all of our landscaping and the entire garden before he came home. And God forbid I let those Cuban cigars dry out. As I like to have a contingency plan in the event that I do fail (because I like to remain cautiously pessimistic about my ability and care level) I wondered if he’d notice if I were to put the Cuban labels on some Dominican Republic replacements.
So my husband went off to war. I was less worried about his well-being than I was about that of our lawn and garden. And the cigars. He sensed my anxiety as we said goodbye. As he hugged me, he said, “Don’t worry. You took some good notes. Everything will be fine. Oh, and I’ll be OK, too.” The truth is, I never minded being on my own and I never felt helpless when he was gone. I had a full calendar, a full Netflix queue, and a full wine cabinet. No worries.
I mowed the lawn all on my own for the first time. Our Craftsman riding mower had an amazing turning radius. And the horsepower (whatever that is) was impressive as well. Here’s a tip: You can cut the grass better if you engage and lower the blades. I covered half of our small front yard before I realized I wasn’t cutting anything. Also, fill up the tank while the mower is still near the gas, so you don’t have to lug the gas can across an acre and slosh it all over yourself on the way. Here’s the mower casualty list from Day One: one sprinkler head (that I’m aware of), one large rock that I turned into gravel, a garden hose, an Otter Pop wrapper, a small frog, my right thumbnail, and my left cornea.
While mowing was a learning experience, weed-eating really stirred my soul. Aside from the fact that one should never use a big Weed-Eater in a small garden, here is a list of things you should not weed-eat and why:
(1) big fat honking dandelion or dollar weeds, because they are juicy and will splatter all over your bare and probably already itchy shins,
(2) any size pile of dog crap (especially fresh), because it tends to spray (again, all over your shins, but also an errant speck can hit you in the face at which time, you will be literally shitfaced),
(3) any small oak saplings or recently-planted (unbeknownst to you) petunias your husband may have wanted you to spare,
(4) the black foam air-conditioner-compressor hose cover, because you might inhale and choke on the particles or get a piece stuck in your eye (so I’ve heard),
(5) deer (or other vermin) pellets (especially the hardened ones), because they can smack you in the kneecaps, and
(6) ant beds, spiders, or small salamanders, for the obvious reason that you will either get stung, scared, or simply grossed out to the point of dry heaving at the sight of chopped lizard.
Some additional gardening tips:
(1) You may want to keep your headphone cords at a safe distance if you choose to leave the Weed-Eater running while you squat down to pick up your sunglasses if they fall off while you try to rub gasoline out of your eyes.
(2) Don’t forget to use bug repellent and sunscreen. I discovered, after spending some time outside, that outside is where most bugs and UV rays hang out and tend to conspire against those of us who try to interfere with the natural order of things while we would rather be in the air conditioning sipping tequila and watching reality TV.
(3) Leaf blower caveats:
(a) If you have allergies, be sure to take your medicine first. Snot and tears make for a sure-fire way to get all manner of clippings stuck to your sunburned face.
(b) Keep your shorts from getting sucked up into the air intake, otherwise it can give you an inconvenient and embarrassing (even though you are alone) frontal wedgie, and
(c) If the wind is blowing, it is futile to work against it.
As for the septic tank, I found out that it has its own sprinkler system. Apparently, at random intervals, it will spray sewage water in a somewhat circular pattern in your back yard. Sometimes while you are in its radius and bent over to pull stickers out of your shoelaces. You will then wonder why you smell like a latrine the rest of the day.
The water softener and propane tank gave me very little trouble. One needed salt poured into it periodically, while the other just needed a check placed under the lid to pay the gas delivery guy. I hope I didn’t get them mixed up.
I managed to maintain the grounds fairly well without having to hire a team of illegals who would have done a much better job in exchange for some Taco Bell. I only had to replace one squash plant, one water hose, and one set of earphones.
It seems that all my outdoor efforts left a little to be desired inside the house. While laundry and dishes piled up, houseplants died, and toilets grew mildew, the humidor was, not surprisingly, neglected (actually ignored completely) and several irreplaceable and/or expensive cigars found themselves dried out beyond recognition. Soon after my husband’s return, I tried to suggest that the humidor was defective or that the cigars were expired or that the water I used was not wet enough, but he didn’t buy it. He took off to the cigar store for replacements before he even unpacked. I was so relieved to have him home from the war that I planted myself back in front of the TV and pretended to do laundry again.
