Getting back to Pops in the yard, he could have weeded the entire neighborhood and still be whistling some long forgotten song.
Here’s another cartoon I did of him, after he retired, and before he got an epiphany of what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. He had worked 30 years for Table Talk Pies and when he retired, he didn’t quite know what to do. He was driving my Mum nuts, whistling in the house, getting in the way when she cooked dinner, and just plain restless.
So he spent a lot of time outdoors.
If it wasn’t one of his two-hour walks, or playing golf at the now defunct Royal Oaks in Southbridge (the place had potential, and had some great holes, but the owner sank too much money in the back nine), you could always find him on his haunches, content as can be, weeding the garden, the yard, and all up and down the driveway. Just weeding. And whistling.
He’d come in well past dusk with cuts and scrapes and scads of poison ivy all up and down his arms. He’d just chuckle and scratch monster mosquito bites that plagued his limbs. He was as happy as a crow with roadkill.
That was my Dad. A peculiar fellow, but a fine father. May he be weeding right now in some vast and endless field of dandelions, somewhere on the other side.
“Hey Dad, I think you missed one there, ’bout a quarter mile back…”
Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2012, All Rights Reserved.