Confidential grad party: Dad’s (lawn) job is never done – Duluth News Tribune

ROCHESTER, Minn. – I’m a dad.

I offer this mundane detail having recently completed the task of preparing our home for our firstborn’s high school graduation.

I have a feeling my editors want me to stay under the 850-word mark with this cautionary tale of what can happen to a father during the graduation season. That seems to be not enough space.

But brevity in writing is my friend these days, given the discomfort I now feel deep in my L3 after sitting too long in front of the old laptop, a little something I love call my grad party sciatica.

An injury that flares up my left buttock before rolling down my adjacent leg, my graduation sciatica feels like a river of fire, except I ride that river on an inner tube and the sky is raining hot lava.

As a health journalist, I can tell you that L3 is located at the lowest point of a person’s back. As a father, I can add that this is clearly the body storage locker for all of life’s lessons about putting off fixing your lawn until a month before high school graduation. of your daughter.

It seems I developed my high school sciatica from a bold decision to shovel a mountain of mulch that had been delivered to my driveway. This fragrant mound of groundcover had been called in at the eleventh hour after a landscaping expert walked around our yard and determined that we needed to carpet with shredded wood, and not be shy about it.

“Start with 6 yards,” she offered with a hundred-mile look at the beaten site where we hoped to impress neighbors with balloons and rented soft-serves. “Whatever you order, it will never be enough.”

We ordered 10. It was not enough.

Why does a dad – and a mom, of course – do this? Seems like a reasonable question, here on this occasion we have set aside to celebrate fathers.

Why do the proud parents of accomplished graduates start pulling weeds with such fever as their homes grow quieter and the days get longer?

I have known fathers who were aging and I have known fathers who were grizzled plumbers, lawyers and radiologists. To one man, they responded to their child’s impending departure with lawn food and a sprinkler.

We all must know, somewhere in our dusty daddy skulls, that you can only say goodbye to a childhood once, and when that happens, do you really want to stare at crabgrass? That being said, you ask a lot of this green space that provided the first 18 years of a child’s life.

If I’m forced to consider our little lawn and the punishment it took for this project, our bumpy back patch provided for a playhouse, a sandbox, a nervous house, and more than a few frenetic ghost games in the cemetery as parents talked late into the evening.

This space where we’ll soon be erecting a rented tent and funding not enough catering has bounced back from ice rinks, princess parties, finger-paint easels and tent-camping slumber parties. He survived kiddie pools, kickball games, water balloon fights, and being thrown while jumping off a swing into a pile of leaves.

Our little backyard saw the sad passing and burial of our beloved family dog, and it hosted high-level peace talks after badminton games that ended in sibling arguments. on the rear yard boundary.

And now, faced with a date on the calendar signaling the end of all of the above, we ask this expanse of chickweed and creeping charlie to become the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.

It was on my mind last fall when I called a free climbing lumberjack to get our two maple trees out, then called him for the name of a good stump grinder. I knew that in hat and dress season, our canopy of foliage would cover the place with helicopters.

I nodded to my foresight as I pulled out our checkbook, then watched those mighty trunks fall. The sound of this stump grinder was music to my ears. Who among us could have imagined that the trees would have the last word – that my little deforestation would be no match for our neighbors’ maple trees as they carpeted us with the same spring dump.

I wish I could say I pondered those life lessons on the dreary day as I packed the neighbor’s helicopters with an electric trimmer tuned to shave, but my eyes were too busy with a bumper crop of dandelions.

A Different Giving Season

They say $5.8 billion is expected to change hands upon graduation in 2022. That’s

according to a recent survey of nearly 8,300 consumers by the National Retail Federation


This same study indicates that 52% of these gifts will come in the form of cash and that the average graduation gift is $115 ($105 in the Midwest). But that’s according to a business group that wants you to spend money when you graduate. It is therefore normal to give less. I know I have.

A more important point goes unnoticed. No matter how big your gift, the grad party season is a timeless American classic in which well-wishers who have treated you with nothing but kindness are invited to see your new fescue, followed by a shakedown worthy of a dinner with a mafia boss.

You send them a cute picture of your child, and they arrive with cards full of checks. They can also get a brownie if they move fast, not to mention a pass in front of those childhood photos and, if they’re really lucky, a sweet minute with your 18-year-old.

Seems fair. What a privilege to spend even a moment with our children and those of our neighbors as they set off, triumphing over 18 years of near misses in the courtyard, some of which indoors.

Concrete example. When she was just a few days old, I held my toddler daughter down our U-shaped carpeted stairs in wool socks. My wife says the sound I made as we now graduated and walked up those stairs was like a train going around the mountain.

But I held her close to me, the whole ride, taking the hard ride on my L3, if I must guess. So now I have a back that doesn’t like shoveling mulch too much. I think he deserved that request.

Paul John Scott is health correspondent for Forum News Service. Her daughter’s high school graduation party recently went off without a hitch.

Joseph K. Bennett