Sheepishly, I had to admit that I kept a stash of my favorite junk food hidden deep in my bedroom closet, partaking of the delicacies only after they were all asleep or at friends’ houses. I thought the girls would be mad, but they just laughed.
“Is this supper?” Callie asked after a long swig on her drink.
“Sure. Why not?”
She looked at me oddly, then smiled. “Cool.”
“And what do we do after this?” Bethany asked.
“That’s the best part. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
Amber beamed. “Boy, Bethany, I like your homework a whole lot. I can’t wait until I’m a fourth grader.”
Without caring about the clock, we lay on our blanket, heads on our pillows, watching the sun filter through green tree leaves, sparkling and dancing as it sank in the western sky. Yellows turned to golds, turned to blues turned to purples, and soon we were counting fire flies in the dark. We talked about our dreams, about fairies and leprechauns, whether trees can feel pain, what life would be like if we never grew up, and if it was really true that cats and dogs only see in black and white.
We held hands, rubbed backs and took turns braiding each other’s hair. I learned that Bethany had a crush on Max Higgins, Callie thought her Japanese teacher was “kind of cute” and very smart, and Amber thought boys were “icky.” The girls admitted that they all hated ballet, but Bethany thought singing lessons would be fun. We told stupid knock, knock jokes and laughed so hard that soda came out our noses.
If the phone rang, we never heard it.
If the Department of Homeland Security raised the terrorist threat level, we didn’t know. We didn’t care.
Life was good. Hulk was long gone.
And when Bethany turned in her homework assignment, she had only one answer to one survey question: “My mom’s idea of the perfect day is eating cheese balls in our backyard until the sun goes down.”
The very next day I called our old, less famous pediatrician who gladly gave us a timely appointment. Then I called Elite Academy of Dance and told them we wouldn’t be returning for any more ballet classes. The fact that they wouldn’t issue a refund didn’t even register on my Richter scale. I had a long and calm talk with my husband, who agreed to less work and more family time. And that oddly neglected backyard – we spend hours out there now.
In retrospect, I realized something important. The antidote to a Hulk attack wasn’t the cheese balls at all. It was what the cheese balls represented: love and fun. Simple ingredients, really.
After all, what is life if love isn’t fun?
Just ask the Hulk.
“Top Lawn”
A Barbara Marr Life-of-a-Mother Short
By Karen Cantwell
“Top Lawn”
The lawn was easily six inches high, we were expecting four straight days of rain, and my husband, Howard, had another twelve-hour day of work ahead of him. If someone didn’t mow that grass soon, the town of Rustic Woods would be sending out a search and rescue team to find the missing Marr family, last seen in the jungle that was once their yard.
Howard was grabbing his keys while downing the last of his cold coffee.
“I think I saw a cheetah in our yard yesterday.”
“What?”
“A cheetah. It was stalking a wildebeest. Can’t be sure though, with the grass so tall.”
“I’ll try to get to it tonight.”
“The cheetah?”
“You’re so funny. The lawn.”
“You said you’d be at the office late again.”
“Yeah.”
“Teach me.”
“What?”
“Teach me to start the mower. I’ll do it.”
Howard slid me his typical I-don’t-wanna-go-down-this-road look, but I pressed on. I was ready to tackle the bigger things in life. Truth be told, I’d never mowed a lawn in my life, and I felt rather unfulfilled. A bit unaccomplished.
I rubbed my hands together, anxious for some excitement. “I feel the need, the need for speed.”
Howard wasn’t amused. “Barb, it’s a lawn mower. Is this really the time for a Top Gun quote?”
He’d crossed the line. I shook a finger in his face. “Any time is the right time for a Top Gun quote, Mister Man. Don’t rain on my parade.”
Howard rolled his eyes. “Now you’re mixing your movie quotes. Go do what you do best – write a movie review and leave the lawn to a man.”
Of course, that was the WRONG thing to say and he knew it. Five minutes later we were in our driveway with Howard giving me the one-minute course on starting a ten-year-old push lawn mower.
“Okay,” I said, repeating the procedure out loud. “You push here a few times, pull there once or twice, flip this, snap that and push. Right? What’s so hard about that?”
“You sure you don’t want to wait for me to do it?”
“Howard. Four days of rain. By the time you get to this you’ll need three machetes and a wilderness guide.”
“Fine. You should wait a couple hours though. Let the sun dry it out a little more first.”
Waiting was good. I sipped on a steamy cup of java, looked at the movie lineup on The Classic Movie Channel, fed the cat, threw in a load of laundry, and scraped up dried cereal goo off three different spots on my kitchen floor. Looking at my watch and draining my coffee cup, I decided the time was right. If I waited much longer, I would be late for my volunteer hour in Amber’s kindergarten class. Couldn’t do that – I’d be reprimanded. Not by the teacher. By Amber.
I slipped into my junkie sneaks and with the intention of Moses to part the Red Sea, stepped outside to confront and tame the great wild way. This was my day to show I was a real woman – that I was made of The Right Stuff.
The mower sat at the ready. I thought over the procedure once in my mind before committing the true act. Push a few times, pull once or twice, flip, snap and push. No problem.
So I pushed that button five or six times, thought better of it and pushed two more times just for good measure. Then I pulled. Didn’t catch. That’s okay. Howard said it could take a couple of times before I’d get the engine running. Pulled again. Hmm. That was twice. Again. Nothing. Maybe I wasn’t pulling hard enough. I took a deep breath and yanked the cord with so much force, my shoulder nearly dislocated. Close, but it died before catching. I pulled four more times in succession, while screaming foul expletives only heard on HBO. Still, the trusty lawnmower was not cooperating with its new operator. I stood there, considering my options when I saw Mr. MacMillan headed my way. He had that poor-little-lady-doesn’t-know-what-she’s-doing look on his face.
“Barb! You need help with that thing?” he hollered from the end of my driveway.
That was all I needed. Pity from a man ignited the necessary spark within me. I would win this battle. With one long, swift, beautiful pull, that lawn mower engine caught like a catfish on a tasty worm.
“Nope, got it! Thanks, though!” I smiled and waved. So proud was I.
With a snap and a push, I was on my way. Moving the mower seemed a little harder than I had thought it would be. A lot harder, actually. I reasoned that it was due to the unusually tall grass. Yes, that had to be it. I pressed on.
After just two or three minutes, my hands felt like jelly and my arms screamed for mercy. This lawn mowing stuff was not the easy job I thought it would be. For years I watched Howard breeze through in no time, practically whistling while he worked. I mean, Howard does work out some, but he’s certainly not the buffest stud around. How did he make this look so easy?
But I wasn’t giving up. Women do this all of the time. Come on, Barb, I urged myself. Be a REAL woman.
Another five minutes later, sweat was blurring my vision and I felt like I’d just done ten hours bench pressing two-hundred-pound weights. And the tall grass was causing me more problems than just exhaustion. It kept stalling the mower. After four or five stalls, I finally figured out that I could prevent the stall by pushing
down on the handle and lifting the mower up off the grass just as the engine started to choke. Problem was this often set me off course. Consequently, my lines weren’t exactly . . . straight. No problem, I said to myself – I’ll go back around and clean those up later.
Or not.
The exertion was just getting to be too much. I probably should have taken up body building before tackling lawn mowing. I ascertained that possibly changing my direction of mowing would alleviate the extreme pain I was experiencing. Instead of going up and down the lawn, I’d start going across. Couldn’t hurt. Right?
What seemed like two days later, the lawn was only half-way mowed and I was ready for an ambulance ride to the ER. Not ready to give up, I opted for a brief break. I’d been sweating so profusely, I was in desperate need of some water and possibly a saline infusion.
The air conditioning inside was so nice. And the gallon of ice-cold water helped as well. Maybe, I thought, I should leave the rest to Howard. Of course, that would be admitting defeat. I looked at my watch. If I went back out right away, I could finish the job then pop in for a quick shower, dry off and dress, jump into the car and still be at Amber’s class in time for my volunteer hour.
Deep breaths. You can do this Barb. Get out there. Tackle that Green Mile.
I threw my last glass of water on my face and trudged outside determined to slay this dragon. Back in front of the mower, I went through the routine again. I pushed here a few times, pulled there once or twice, the engine caught, and . . . hmmm. What was that? Flip. There was something to flip. Howard had mentioned it before, but I suddenly remembered missing that step on my own run. I looked closer at the lever I had forgotten to flip. It read, “Automatic Drive.” Oops. Bet that automatic function would have made my first attempt a tad easier. I flipped. Then I snapped. And that darned lawn mower practically took off on its own. I probably could have pushed the thing with my thoughts, and certainly using my hands and arms felt like a breeze.
Yee-haw! I’d found the magic to lawn moving. “Automatic Drive.” Wouldn’t miss that step again. Now my only decision was, which way to mow? I’d done part of the lawn in one direction, and the other part perpendicular to that. Well, sort of perpendicular. I opted for a different angle altogether, reasoning that I could do the whole darned thing in that one direction now that it was so easy and Howard would never know I’d had a problem. Off I went, singing a little song and dancing a little dance. Baby animals sat and watched me with smiles on their baby animal faces and happy birds flew around me. It was a scene right out of a Disney movie. But somewhere along the way, I lost track of my lines. They were all mixed up now – going every which way. I was stumped. Then I looked at my watch.
Damn! Amber’s class. I couldn’t be late. I shut off the mower and pushed it into the garage.
I took one more look at my work before heading out to the school. It didn’t look SO bad. Not really. Probably no one would even notice.
Since my volunteer hour was at the end of the school day, I drove both Amber and Bethany home with me. As we pulled into the driveway, Bethany spoke up.
“Uh, Mom,” she said slowly. “WHO mowed the lawn?”
“Me,” the pride obvious in my voice. “What do you think?”
“It looks all chopped up,” Amber declared. “Did you use the lawn mower or a weed whacker?”
My daughter. The kindergarten comedienne.
“Does it look that bad?” I asked.
“It looks like a gorilla did it,” Bethany decided. “A sick gorilla.”
“Thanks.”
“A sick gorilla with only one arm!” laughed Amber. The two of them were on a roll in the back seat, laughing away at their own jokes.
“Fine! I get it.”
The three of us piled out of the car, the girls still giggling, and we stared at the monstrosity. Yikes. It looked worse than bad. What was I going to do? Howard would take one look at this and the next thing I knew, he’d be doing his Ricky Ricardo imitation.
I took off to the gardening shed. “Come on girls,” I said. “We gotta fix this fast.”
“We?” they groaned.
“I’ll buy you ice cream after.”
They’d do just about anything for ice cream. I had me two helpers.
“We only have a couple of hours before Daddy gets home, so started clipping.” I handed them each a pair of small hand clippers. “Don’t point them at each other.”
Down on my knees, I started with my own set, clipping away at the grass. The girls followed suit, but seemed confused.
“What exactly are we supposed to be doing?” asked Bethany.
“Evening it up. Clip . . . clip where it looks uneven.”
She didn’t look convinced, but started clipping anyway.
So there we were, a half-hour later, crawling around on our grass snipping at errant blades of grass. My hands were cramping and my knees ached.
“I want my ice cream now!” whined Amber, as she fell back on her poor little bottom.
I was ready to give up and accept my fate. I’d failed, and Howard would freak. That’s when Callie walked up with an angel. His name was Brandon.
“Mom. What are you doing?” Callie had that annoyed tone in her voice that only a teenager can have. Her friend, Brandon stood next to her. He looked amused.
“Fixing the lawn.”
“Mommy mowed it,” said Amber, “but as you can see, there were problems.”
“You want me to fix that for you, Mrs. Marr?” Brandon offered.
“You can fix this?”
“Sure. Mow lawns every weekend in my neighborhood. I usually charge thirty dollars, but for you, I’ll do it for free. You look like you need it.”
I did need it.
Even though he protested, I paid that wonderful Brandon forty-five dollars and bought everyone a round of ice cream.
When Howard came home, he smiled and said, “Wow. Great job. Better than me. I think you should mow the lawn from now on.”
Uh oh. Didn’t see that coming.
Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I paid Brandon thirty dollars every week to come by and mow my lawn on the sly. Well, I’m sneaky, but I have my pride too. So, no. That’s not exactly what I did.
I paid him, alright. Paid him to be my instructor. My Top Lawn instructor. We had our own TopLawnSchool. He showed me the quickest and easiest way to start the mower, how to navigate a smooth and clean landing onto the lawn, steering the machine just right to cut in perfect, seamless lines. In no time, I was at the top of my class. Okay, I was the only one in my class, but I was getting all A’s, baby. All A’s. And one grand day, I graduated. I was on my own. Me. Marr-verick.
On graduation day, he gave me my official Top Lawn baseball cap.
“Gee, Viper, you shouldn’t have.”
Brandon acted his usual uncomfortable teen-boy self. “Um . . . I didn’t really. You made it, remember?”
“Let me have my fun.”
He shuffled his feet back and forth. “Mrs. Marr?”
“Yup.”
“Do you have to keep calling me that? Now that we’re done, I mean?”
“Viper?”
“Right.”
“It’s your call name. We all have call names in TopLawnSchool. You’re Viper and I’m Marr-verick. You don’t like it?”
“Not really.”
“Shoot.”
He was such a nice, polite boy. Nearly a man, really. He shuffled a little again, looking at his feet uncomfortably, then up at me. “Well, if it’s really important to you . . .”
I gave him a friendly punch. “I’m just teasing. Thanks for teaching me the ropes. Callie’s in the house if you want to see her.”
He turned to walk away.
“Hey, Brandon.”
Turning back, he looked worried.
“You can be my wingman any day.”
He smiled.
I stood, admiring my work. Fresh-cut, clean lines. Only a golf course could l
ook better. I had become a pro. It was my turn to smile. And as I did so, Howard’s Camry pulled into the driveway. As he climbed out and walked my way, I wondered if I should tell him the truth about my whole lawn mowing experience.
As he stood next to me, he took a look at the lawn, then at my hat.
“Top Lawn? What’s that about?”
I hesitated. Should I?
Naw.
“It's classified. I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.”
He rolled his eyes. “Have your fun.” He stepped out onto the grass and surveyed my work. “Nice, I must say. And it’s a relief having one less thing to do around here.”
Now I HAD seen that coming.
I shook my head and turned toward the house. “Follow me, Mr. Man,” I said, an evil grin on my face. “I’m going to teach you how to use a washing machine.”
“The Road to Shangri-La”
A Barbara Marr Life-of-a-Mother Short
By Karen Cantwell
“The Road to Shangri-La”
Shangri-La. A harmonious valley; an earthly paradise; eternal happiness. Every mother has her Shangri-La.
Mine is like that commercial – you know the one. The kids are flying kites in the park on a crisp, sunny day while the parents lie back on a blanket with identical isn’t-life-perfect smiles on their faces. Then the kids drop their kites and come running to their Barbie and Ken parents, jumping on them while everyone laughs. Love is abundant and emotionally stirring music plays in the background. I never quite understood how all of that relates to the athlete’s foot cream they are advertising, but I don’t care. I want to be just like them. Happy.
My name is Barbara Marr, and I’m a hopelessly optimistic mother in search of her Shangri-La.
*****
“Howard, let’s do it,” I said that Friday night.
He smiled. “Sure. You get the girls to bed, I’ll pour two glasses of wine and meet you upstairs.”
“No, the Cherry Blossom Festival.”
The smile disappeared and Howard rolled his eyes. “Bar-arb,” he whined. “Why do you always do this to yourself?”
The Chronicles of Marr-nia (Short Stories Starring Barbara Marr) Page 2
