For a significant portion of my childhood, my family lived in Laguna Beach, California. In the summer, my sisters and I would leave our sunny California home and fly to Louisville, Kentucky. Our maternal grandparents would pick us up and bring us to their home in Hardin County, Kentucky.
Needless to say, it was different.
While my friends traveled to Florida or Europe, I helped my grandparents hammer tomato cages in their garden and watched old movies on their VHS player. After two weeks or so, we would pile into my grandparents’ 2009 Chrysler Town & Country van and drive to Corbin, Kentucky. There, my paternal grandparents picked us up and took us to Evansville, Indiana. We would spend another two weeks with them, shooting guns, riding four wheelers, and fishing. I quite liked that.
Hardin moved at a glacier’s pace; Evansville moved at the speed of a bullet. And a young boy would much rather sling lead than sing hymns (and don’t even get me started on Gone with the Wind). But young boys grow into immature men, and immature men, with the newfound freedom of turning eighteen, make stupid decisions. I’m ashamed to say one of mine was spending less and less time with my grandparents–maternal or paternal. Hardin was too neutral, Evansville was too rural.
In choosing a college I wanted: (1) an SEC school; (2) to be far enough away from home to truly go out on my own but close enough to family to have some back up for life’s “Oh Shit!” moments; and (3) affordability. I decided on the University of Kentucky. I loved it! It was two hours away from Hardin, affordable (comparatively), and chock-full of SEC fun. I pushed myself to make friends–rushing a fraternity and joining Kentucky’s Student Senate. Outside of winter break, I maybe visited Hardin once, and I certainly didn’t make the trek up to Evansville.
But while I did Keg Stands (Mom, if you’re reading this, this is a lie), my paternal grandmother succumbed to Alzheimer’s. And as I enjoyed SEC football, my maternal grandfather succumbed to Diabetes. It took only six months to turn frying chicken with my grandmother or spreading mulch with my grandfather from possibilities to impossibilities. I guess life has a funny way of teaching you lessons.
After their deaths, I made it a mission to visit more, especially Hardin. The least I could do was mow my grandmother’s yard and help her garden. To keep the property they were so proud of in good shape. Throughout the rest of undergrad, I went at least every other week. Life in Hardin had not changed–but I had. What was once monotonous was now peaceful: watching old VHS tapes was tasteful, not tedious; eating garden-farmed green beans was nurturing, not lifeless; and listening to hymnals was therapeutic, not punishment. I am happy to say I wasted many hours there.
After undergrad, came law school. I remained at the University of Kentucky. I wanted to stay close to family–this time for different reasons. Unfortunately, I got busy. Once again I visited less and less. Before I knew it, I had graduated. My eyes were fixed on my career, and specifically, money. But things changed when I arrived in Hardin for my Graduation Party. I saw my grandmother’s yard: unkempt and unmowed. She tried to play it off, stating my Uncle tries his best to take care of things and she’s alright. She wasn’t wrong, but she definitely wasn’t right, either.
Over the course of six months, I got a job as a prosecutor in Hardin County, took the Bar, passing with a “score high enough to practice in all UBE jurisdictions” (my legal readers will get that joke), and moved in with my grandmother. (It is not lost on me how lame living with your grandmother is. But it allowed me to pay off my student loans and buy the most beautiful girl in the world an engagement ring.) My Uncle was gracious enough to cover the yardwork for my grandmother’s property so I could study for the Bar and get on my feet in my new job. By the time I was up-and-running, it was too cold for yard work. Come spring, I had slightly larger issues to handle, like flying to Washington D.C. to propose and dealing with multiple high-profile cases–including a juvenile murder and a jury trial alleging multiple months of assaults, rapes, and sodomies.
I was overwhelmed and, as a result, not a good grandson. It was terrible–arguably the reason I moved to Hardin County was to help my grandmother. I’m sure she would disagree, but I felt like I was failing. As a result, my fiancée and I had a long talk: “What does success look like for us?” and “How do we get there?” We settled on two hard truths: First, Kentucky did not fit our future. Second, we were helping no one by staying in a place we ultimately did not see ourselves long term. Within six weeks we both had job offers in Dallas.
On June 30th, I gave my office notice that my last day would be July 31st. I went attorney-by-attorney after I broke the news to my superiors. They deserved to receive it from me–to hear the strain in my voice as I said how tough the decision was, and to see the look in my eye as I told them how much I respected and admired their work. Plus, there are no jury trials in July, so it was nice to know I would not be shoehorning my trials on another attorney without adequate preparation time. That left roughly four weeks to taper my dockets, box up my stuff, and move across the country. Oh! And did I mention we are planning a wedding, too?
With the idea of leaving things better than I found it in mind, I set aim at my grandmother’s property–starting with the lawn. I fired up my grandfather’s 2008 John Deere riding tractor. It started with huffs and puffs. I eventually got it to run smoothly…for twenty minutes. I changed the fuel, oil, filters, and the carburetor–nothing. I spent an entire day on it, working in the middle of the July heat and watching countless YouTube videos. Only after evening came–and I was terribly dehydrated–did I give up. The next morning, I worked on it some more. After a few hours, I was sufficiently pissed off and decided, “F*** it. I’ll push-mow the lawn.” I got out their older, even more neglected Toro push mower. It ran better–probably for two hours. In a brilliant flash of irony, it died with only five rows to cut. If I was pissed before, I was steaming now.
I got into my grandmother’s van — the same 2009 Chrysler Town & Country we used to pile into as kids — and drove to Home Depot for parts. Five miles from home, something sweet drifted out of the air conditioning and steam curled from under the hood. The thermostat needle buried itself in the red. I pulled over: the radiator hose was venting and the reservoir was bone dry. The dinosaur was leaking coolant — too far to risk the drive, too close to justify a $100 tow.
So I walked to a nearby Walmart, bought coolant and distilled water, and topped it off, hoping a slow leak would let me limp home. I got maybe two miles. I pulled over again and popped the hood again. But something was off. The reservoir was full? That led me to believe the pump had gone out. And I didn’t have an extra pump in my back pocket. I decided to call a tow. They said they would arrive in thirty minutes. After thirty, I grew expectant; after forty-five, I grew impatient; after an hour, I grew worried. I took out my phone to call but it was dead. I guess watching mower tutorials in the July heat drains your battery. (And I will let you guess whether my grandmother’s van had a phone charger.)
So I took what was left of my gallon of distilled water and walked home. I left around a quarter to noon and made it in around a quarter to five. My grandmother, parked in her La-Z-Boy, never knew I’d gone. In gasped breaths and gritted teeth I told her I’d broken both her mowers and her van in the span of two days. If you think I felt terrible before, imagine how I felt then.
We got in my car and drove to where I left her van. It had air-cooled by then and was a mile away from a mechanic. It had just enough life to make it there. When we got home, I showered and went straight to bed, receiving the thunderous lullaby of my neighbor’s fireworks. It was Fourth of July after all.
Using the parts I bought the day before, I got her John Deere to start, and I finished the yard. (Her push mower needed more parts, which delayed that project.) Despite the “win,” I was still pissed about the situation. And I stayed like that for multiple days. Looking back on my choices, I made many stupid decisions–mainly choosing to do the work myself. As an attorney, my time runs in the hundreds of dollars an hour. (Yes, I realize the glaring egotism in the sentence.) It would be “cheaper” to hire someone. They could do it better, faster, and with less headache. What was I thinking?
But that kind of thinking reminds me of something my father once said: “A man should cut his own lawn.” What struck me is that he said it just after hiring someone to mow his, and his voice carried shame as he did. He meant it literally, but I think the figurative undertone matters more: sometimes you do things because you would, not because you should. (To you rational actors out there — yes, I know this conflates logic with ethics. But this is a letter, not a dissertation. Give me a break.)
It’s not “worth” my time to fix my grandmother’s mowers–especially when I did not cause their neglect. And it’s certainly not “worth” my time to work as a rural county prosecutor. I could be making much more in New York or D.C. But what kind of man–let alone fiancé, friend, or grandson–would I be if I didn’t? Life is not a punch-card; it’s not a subscription service. Doing the worthless worthwhile thing is the goal. My time as a lowly rural prosecutor was invaluable, and I can’t help but think it will pay more in the long run, despite it not being the reason I joined.
And that’s the rub: The three days I spent working on those damn mowers S.U.C.K.E.D. It sucked just like those “boring” childhood summers. But if my mind changed then, why not now? Maybe one day I’ll look back with joy on that weekend. Maybe I’ll reminisce about my youthful optimism–or maybe just my youth, period. Or maybe I’ll appreciate that weekend for what it was–trying my damnedest to give back to someone I hold near and dear. Someone whom I get less time with day-after-day. Someone who, just like my paternal grandmother and maternal grandfather, will be gone much too soon.