30
December 2000
Subject:
The Green, Green Grass of Home
Dear
Ones,
It's
Saturday and time to take another marble out of the jar.
A
few short years after Erma Bombeck wrote the story below, we were living in
Hawaii. Our son, Christian, was about 8 years old. We converted our back yard
into a ball field complete with bases, etc. for all the neighborhood kids. When
a neighbor complained about the ball going into his yard and flowerbed, my
response was, "We're raising kids here, not grass." Later, when I
first read Erma's piece, I thought to myself, "Boy, I sure like that
lady.... she got it absolutely right!"
Oh,
by the way, our son, Christian, came back... as he does every chance he
gets!! He just spent the Christmas Holidays with us and we had a marvelous time
together.
Have
a GREAT day and may all your Saturdays be special!!
Don
P.
S. Happy New Year and may you walk in God's light, love and peace!!
The
Green, Green Grass of Home
by Erma Bombeck, written November 1971
When Mike was 2, he wanted a sandbox, and his father said: "There goes the
yard. We'll have kids over here day and night, and they'll throw sand into the
flower beds, and cats will make a mess in it, and it'll kill the grass for
sure."
And Mike's mother said, "It'll come back."
When Mike was 5, he wanted a jungle gym set with swings that would take his
breath away and bars to take him to the summit, and his father said: "Good
grief, I've seen those things in back yards, and do you know what they look
like? Mud holes in a pasture. Kids digging their gym shoes in the ground. It'll
kill the grass."
And Mike's mother said, "It'll come back."
Between breaths, when Daddy was blowing up the plastic swimming pool, he
warned: "You know what they're going to do to this place? They're going to
condemn it and use it for a missile site. I hope you know what you're doing.
They'll track water everywhere and have a million water fights, and you won't be
able to take out the garbage without stepping in mud up to your neck. When we
take this down, we'll have the only brown lawn on the block."
"It'll come back," Mike's mother said.
When Mike was 12, he volunteered his yard for a campout. As they hoisted
the tents and drove in the spikes, his father stood at the window and observed,
"Why don't I just put the grass seed out in cereal bowls for the birds and
save myself the trouble of spreading it around? You know for a fact that those
tents and all those big feet are going to trample down every single blade of
grass, don't you. Don't bother to answer. I know what you're going to say.
'It'll come back.'"
The basketball hoop on the side of the garage attracted more crowds than
the Olympics. And a small patch of lawn that started out with a barren spot the
size of a garbage can lid soon drew to encompass the entire side yard.
Just when it looked as if the new seed might take root, the winter came and the
sled runners beat it into ridges. Mike's father shook his head and said, "I
never asked for much in this life - only a patch of grass."
And his wife smiled and said, "It'll come back."
The lawn this fall was beautiful. It was green and alive and rolled out like a
sponge carpet along the drive where gym shoes had trod ... along the garage
where bicycles used to fall ... and around the flowerbeds where little boys used
to dig with iced-tea spoons.
But Mike's father never saw it. He anxiously looked beyond the yard and asked
with a catch in his voice, "He will come back, won't he?"