Mr. Allen's Garden

When I was about 10, the Allen family built the house across the street from my parents. It's the house Nick and Jane live in now. 

The Allens moved from Buffalo, NY. Mr. Allen always reminded me of Woody Allen. He was taller, I think, but had that funny hair that kind of squiggled out on the sides of his head. Sort of like Bozo.  He was a builder, or so he said ... it always seemed a little suspect to us. Mrs. Allen was the recipient of much neighborhood scrutiny. Why? She was hot. Long, lean, and she liked to sunbathe on the deck off the master bedroom, that hung just above the garage door. Her bikini was crocheted and there was much speculation that perhaps the top didn't stay on while she was laying there. 

The oldest daughter was my age. The youngest was my little sister's age. They seemed like a great fit for the neighborhood. 

In those days, my dad had a huge garden. It easily covered a 1/2 acre. He grew peas, green beans, tomatoes, sweet corn (planted in two-week intervals so we had sweet corn for a long time), green peppers, cucumbers, radishes, carrots, gourds, pumpkins, three kinds of squash, potatoes, and gladiolus. Always gladiolus. 

There was a week or so in the spring where he'd rototill, get his seeds and seedlings ready, and then come home from work one day and tell the two of us to get ready to help him plant. Strings and scrap wood kept the rows straight. Mounds were built for the cukes (as he called them), potatoes, squash and gourds. 

We didn't love the work, but we didn't have a choice. 

Then, as the spring turned into summer and the seeds sprouted and grew, we had to weed. He'd tell us what needed to be done before he left from work and would expect it to be done when he returned at 5 p.m.

Eventually, all of that stuff bore fruit, which meant my sister and I were on the hook for picking. Again, he'd let us know what needed to be done before he left the house and we'd wait until the very last possible moment in the afternoon before heading down there. 

We hated it. 

The beans and cuke plants were fuzzy and itchy. There were bugs. It was hot. And we always had way too much, way more than we could eat. Don't get me started on the gourds. Bushel baskets full of gourds and how many do you need to decorate for Thanksgiving? 

He'd hook up his little trailer behind his garden tractor and make a trip around the block, delivering organic and home grown produce before anyone knew to call it that. 

I always thought it was such a waste of energy. Why spend all that time to plant, weed, grow, and pick just to have to spend more time giving it away? 

But he loved it. Loved it. His garden was a source of pride for him and it was important. 

So that first year of the Allens in residence, Mr. Allen decided to grow his own garden. One day, we were all playing outside and he came looking for his girls because he needed some help. We just tagged along because we were there. We pitched in and helped him. 

We worked for a while and it was late in the afternoon. My dad made his trek home from the radio station and as he turned into our driveway, spotted us working diligently in the Allen's garden. 

That night at the dinner table, he said something like this: 

"I see you didn't get the beans picked today in OUR garden, but you had plenty of time to work in the Allen's garden. Must be more fun to do someone else's work instead of your own."

I remember the statement landing on me with a thud.

I had betrayed him ... put someone else ahead of our family. 

And I remember wondering why someone else's work felt like less of a burden than my own, even though it was the same work.

I think about this story when I think about your new situation. 

We had lots of conversations when you were "on the road" about how you felt overburdened. Someone always wanted something from you. Kati only called when she needed something ... help wrangling the concrete contractor, installing insulation or whatever. My mom was in frequent need of help pulling out shrubs or powerwashing the siding. Karla needed help moving out of the house. Our own place had a to-do list that was long and just about all of it fell on you. 

I think you felt that it wasn't fair that all of us looked to you for help. "What about me? Who is helping me?" you asked. 

And, yet here you are. Doing her bidding. Playing her secretary, shuffling her email, doing her fix-it work, moving her households, arranging the inspections, lining up the garbage contractor and satellite guys. 

She's put you to work.

And the benefit is only hers. You have disapperared with no job, no money, no identity, no pride.

Is her work more fun than our work?