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My dad lived in the same house for thirty years, and at least five days a week for those thirty years he spent time in his yard. That's almost eight thousand times he put on whatever passed for his yard clothes at the time and ventured out to tend to the various chores that made the yard what it was. It was never one of those showcase yards you would see in Better Homes & Gardens, but it was our yard it was where I grew up.

My first memory of this house is the back yard. It was about a half-acre with grass and some trees close to the house, the back three-quarters wooded and wild. Weekends when we first moved in my Dad, Grandfather, and some uncles and cousins spent all their time clearing this lot and turning it into a yard.' My mother and grandmother were in charge of refreshments. My twin brother and I were mostly kept out of trouble with us approaching our sixth birthday, this wasn't easy.

My brother and I weren't allowed past the edge of the house while the clearing work was going on. Trees were falling, underbrush burned, and machetes flailed through the bushes. I don't know how much time was spent on this project it may have been weeks or months. I remember the woods were there, and then they were gone. In their place was a huge expanse of fescue grass, broken only by a bed of Irises in the middle and a bed of roses to one side. The only trees left were a tall sycamore in the middle, a huge shady water oak in one corner, a wild cherry close to the house, and two hickories on the other side.

When my brother and I were five, we moved into this, our first house. We had lived in an apartment as infants and a rented duplex after that. Our family lived together there for the next thirteen years and every day, it was always the same. My father came home from his office in downtown Atlanta as an insurance underwriter. First, in a 57 Chevrolet, then in a 63 Volkswagen beetle, and finally in a 68 Volkswagen square-back. He got home, found out how much time before dinner, changed into his work clothes', and went out to Work In the Yard.

There were hundreds of activities over the years. There were hedges to plant and then trim, grass to seed and then mow, ditches to dig and maintain, and flowers to pot and transplant. He tackled each task with a seriousness and focus, as if this way, and no other, was the right way to accomplish the mission.

And accomplish them he did, whether it took an hour or months an hour at a time.

And heaven help the boy that slowed or reversed

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