“I can say one thing, boy,” the old Marine muttered as he surveyed my assigned task. “You ain’t scared of work. You’ll lay down beside it and go right to sleep!”
Somewhere in the range of when a boy’s voice starts changing, and sap rises, new strength allows him to become an asset in accomplishing physical labor. But, also in this transformation, his very mind is taken over by aliens, and something he once craved and enjoyed, bumping about his father’s knees, getting in the way, and trying to get credit for being a little man, takes a turn for the worst. Those very tools he once willfully retrieved now caused a phenomenon called sweat. Oh, the very terror of it all!
The old Marine accepted no excuses, could smell a dodge three miles away, and never ever failed to add colorful and descriptive language that this boy would suffer the life of a slacker and be the ruination of the family name. If this grandfather were to apply the same motivating techniques in today’s world, a host of do-gooders and handwringers would be camped outside my door. And calling for the removal of the large appendage attached to my shoulders.
It wasn’t that many years ago the oldest grandson showed up at our lake home with a few buddies in tow. I guess he thought there was safety in numbers. After a couple of hours, about the time the Jet-Ski was empty and minutes from a request of dollars to purchase more gas, the catcalls to any girl that happened by started. Then the loud, boisterous talk that comes at that age began to grate on my nerves. I decided it was time to use a method from the old Marine’s playbook.
Peeps came chugging down the hill pushing a wheelbarrow. Four very suspicious looks were given to me as if I was a skinhead with a sharp sword on my shoulder.
“It won’t take very long,” I said. “If each of you will just move five loads of sand, I can level the whole front yard.” This group of hormone-laced young men started uttering more excuses than a husband who had just been commanded to take his wife shopping.
“Oh my God,” one said, his face laced in mock shock. “We’re late for summer workouts!”
“We’ll have to run an extra ten miles if we’re not on time,” another frightfully added.
“Sorry, Peeps,” Grandson said over his shoulder while racing up the hill. “Maybe some other time.” Harry Houdini had nothing on these cats when it came to a disappearing act.
History does repeat itself, and now two of my grandsons are making the transition at the same time. It’s hard to believe they were once my little happy and cheerful helpers.
“Yea, son, I’ll let you help me paint, caulk, spread the mulch…no it’s ok that you’ve driven nails into my floor. I’ll fix it in a jiffy.” Somehow, I must have become delusional, thinking that the alien was going to skip these two. But somewhere along the line, the higher authority, their Nana, decided to join forces with them. She declares that any child labor is cruel and unusual punishment. In her world, I guess she aspires for the boys to do nothing harder than model pajamas.
The younger of the two has begun to avoid me all together during warm weather. I’ve got to give the boy credit; he’s figured out Peep’s disdain of the cold makes it unlikely he’ll start a project with the wind howling off the water.
But the older one, he’s slicker than a greased eel. If that boy doesn’t become President one day, skinny guys don’t make good pallbearers. By being mobile, having his own four-wheeler, and not living but a mile away, this boy has learned how to fight a two-front war.
At the beginning of spring, I noticed that his weekend visits began to increase in hourly increments. He’d arrive suddenly, sliding sideways into our drive and survey the territory.
“Get the brush out of the tool room,” I said one afternoon. “And we’ll clean the boat and get it ready.”
“Nana’s fixing me a sandwich,” he quickly said, knowing that she truly believes grandchildren can starve to death in an hour. “We’ve been so busy at home; I hadn’t had time for lunch.”
Either she cooked him a seven-course meal, or that ham sandwich and chips were consumed one slow nibble at a time. About two hours later, about the minute the boat was clean, he came ambling down the hill.
“I was trying to hurry,” he lied, convinced, as Better Half is, that I’m not very smart. “But I see that you’re finished.”
“Not really,” Peeps replied, throwing a nasty slider. “We still have to clean your uncle’s boat.”
“Shoot,” grandson said after whipping out his iPhone and checking the time. “I told Dad I’d be back in a couple of hours to help him. See you later Peeps,” he finished now hustling up the hill like a Navy Seal running to the sound of battle.
The timing became routine the next few Saturdays. He’d come whipping down the drive, disembark, cock his ear toward any sound that might resemble power tools, and then amble into the house. If Peeps was working on something, this was a fine time to have a little snack and give his Nana the one-on-one attention she so richly deserves. But if this grandfather wasn’t busy, he’d quickly suggest a couple of hours of fishing was just what the two of us needed. His precise working of the plan gave a new meaning to the word diligent.
It gave me pause and contemplation for a trip to the hearing doctor to have the boy checked and confirm my suspicions. Grandson had the ears of Superman and could tell the very second his father finished mowing and weed-eating their yard. As the tools were put away at his own house, it was now safe to return. Being a grandfather doesn’t give one license to become Deputy Dog and rat the boy out. In some ways, pride sprung forth. I myself had always envied pool hustlers and con men.
The next few Saturdays began to remind me of the movie Groundhog Day. His arrival had become so predictable it was hard to understand how his own father hadn’t caught on. But late that afternoon, as our large family sat on the patio, smelling the wonderful aroma of grilling beef, grandson’s elaborate plan began to fall apart.
“He sure has been at your house a lot lately,” son-in-law stated.
“Yep,” I replied, staying with the short answer.
“Hmm…” he murmured as grandson suddenly decided that someone needed him elsewhere. “Sit back down!” My son-in-law commanded. “Every Saturday,” he said to me, “About the time I rattle the door of the tool shed, I hear that four-wheeler fire up and the words shouted, ‘Peeps needs me to help him this afternoon.’ Has he been helping you with anything?”
Rating out a grandchild on purpose is one thing; no honorable grandparent would do that, but lying for one is another.
“Yeah, helping to eat my food,” I replied dryly. “Wondered when you were gonna catch on.”
Oh, it brought back memories of the days of old. It was as if my son-in-law was channeling the old Marine with his description of how grandson was going to be walking awkwardly until a trip to the emergency room was made to remove a foot from his rear.
This grandfather would guess the desire to do nothing harder than become a pajama boy would just have to wait. The summer was still young!
Click here to read more of Stephen’s columns.
Stephen’s first book is a novel, “Where the Cotton Once Grew.” Among the stellar reviews, one reader perhaps said it best, “This is a fabulous read and extremely powerful story. It managed to surpass my expectations. Once I started, I could not put it down. It will make you smile and then in an instance bring you to tears.” Click here to purchase.
