Here’s why I detest having a hoe in my hands

Maybe it’s because the calendar tells us it’s time to kick off springtime gardening projects, but I prefer to read a good book and tell the calendar to shut up. My loathing of being in the yard is steeped in a tradition that my brother Matt and I find well-deserving of a chuckle.

Before providing insight on why I have never liked being in a garden or flowerbed, I should share I detest being in the dirt, am bugged by bugs and am weak in judgement when it comes to discerning weeds from good things.

Amazingly, snakes don’t frighten my as much as chiggers, skeeters, wasps or any other menace that bite or sting.

So how did this hate/more hate relationship begin?

My mom could do almost anything in a garden. She came by it honestly since her mom, my Grandma, had an amazing patch covering an entire backyard that was the envy of folks from miles around. Strangers and family would visit to be exposed to garden greatness.

I had plenty of friends that were quite adept at growing, harvesting, and selling their “crops,” but the fruits of their labors, especially back then, could have landed them in prison.

Not sure Mom’s rationale about having me and my two brothers spend time hoeing and weeding what, at that time seemed like an enormous task. It was actually a punishment for some transgression. The “huge” patch we were told to clean up was all of three feet by three feet.

It was hot in that Bakersfield summer. It was also nasty in a patch overrun with all different kinds of bugs and spiders.

In no particular order, here’s what occurred.

After a productive minute or two, someone noticed the abundance of dirt clods in our patch of hell, along with plenty of ammunition in other flowerbeds. Actually, I’ll take credit for all those available missiles. I took a stroll to get wet my whistle from the garden hose. After a drink, I unleashed shock and awe towards my siblings.

Naturally, an epic clod fight resulted in the weeding project being delayed as balls of soil filled the air. There were screams from both sides, resulting in a visit from a livid Mom. The result was a truce under threat of punishment. There were promises of no more clod tossing and we got back to cleaning up our patch.

As the oldest, I provided a good example to my younger brothers by swearing to no more dirt clods being fired.

Never promised not to throw handfuls of dirt, which we did with we did with awe-inspiring gusto. As shovel after shovel of grime filled the air, our eyes cleared enough to see Mom, our garden warden appear. She meant business and was ready to unleash that famous left hook of hers.

We’d barely made a dent in the weeds and after throwing bugs, worms and clumps of weeds at one another the entire day, it was time for the coup d’ grace. Youngest brother Marty was the perfect size for what I called

“The Ultimate Wedgie.”

Hoisting him up until his feet were off the ground and positioned a few feet above the branch protruding from a nearby tree, I executed punching a hole in Marty’s underwear and hanging his backside from the tree. Matt and I howled with laughter while Marty just howled.

Naturally, Mom found none of this amusing. We had tested her limits as a mother and it’s a safe bet she never dreamed she’d utter the words: “Get Marty unstuck from that branch and go in and clean up. It’s getting late and almost time for dinner.”

We were promised another crack at that flowerbed the next day. It took what seemed like forever to get the dirt off my face and out of my nose. I went to sleep that night reasoning that broom handles could be fashioned into spears and swords.

Mike Tasos has lived in Forsyth County for more than 30 years. He’s an American by birth and considers himself a Southerner by the grace of God. He can be reached at miketasos55@ gmail.com.