Washing Gravel in the Pool

As many of you have no doubt noticed by now, I’m not what you’d call a “natural” when it comes to manly stuff like changing oil, replacing outlets, or watching Sons of Anarchy. Over time, I’ve learned to do a few basic things like use a fancy snow-blower or change the filter in the dehumidifier, but every new task – however humble – requires disproportionate focus, preparation, and YouTube videos.

Sometimes there’s also an unplanned trip to Menard’s to look for replacement parts for whatever I just broke.

And yet, as is so often the case with career educators, my optimism and enthusiasm constantly break free of the tethers of reality. This past week, this manifested itself in a burning desire to redo the landscaping around the house – some weeding, new weed guard, and a thousand or so tons of fresh mulch. Surely even I could manage such a task without total disaster or neighbors calling the authorities.

Take a moment, if you will, to admire my moxie, audacious hands on lumpy hips with the wind blowing through delusional hair as I stare nobly across a doomed horizon.

The weeding itself went OK, surprisingly. It had rained the day before, so the ground was soft. I even had the right gloves and cute little digging tools. In retrospect, I fear this early success facilitated over-confidence. At the time, however, it was merely a welcome relief that nothing horrible seemed to be happening.

Pulling up the old weed guard was a bit more of a challenge. I’d assumed there’d be holes accommodating the seemingly indestructible plants we’d inherited when we purchased the property several years ago, but clearly the vegetation utilized some sort of time-space rift to sprout forth with no discernible break in the material beneath it. In my efforts to tear out the existing mesh, I managed to pull two immense plants completely out of the ground. They’d survived flooding, droughts, and my efforts to control weeds using old gasoline (don’t ask). Now, it appeared, they’d finally been conquered by my efforts to pretty up the place.

Still optimistic, I stuck them back down into the dirt and piled stuff up around them as best I could. If they’re dead in a few days, I’ll blame the neighbors’ dog.

Somehow, I eventually managed to pull out the old weed guard, overuse the chemicals recommended by the stoner kid at the hardware store, and lay down new materials. I even managed to more-or-less evenly distribute the new mulch. Here’s to moxie!

The side of the house along the driveway was much trickier. See, people in Indiana don’t believe in attaching garages to homes. Why would you want to carry groceries or other purchases directly into the house when you could first navigate ten yards of oppressive rain, blinding snow, or apocalyptic winds instead? There aren’t many categories in which I’d suggest Oklahoma is ahead of anywhere else, but at least most garages there are part of the house – the way God intended.

Our property isn’t particularly extensive, but there’s a long stretch of non-concrete between home and driveway – roughly twenty inches deep for thirty feet or more. There’s enough soil for weeds and other plant life to thrive year-round, but enough gravel that it’s impossible to mow or weedeat. Finally, after all this time, I was going to “fix” it.

As I began shoveling up gravel, it became clear I was never going to get it all – not without digging down far deeper than I was comfortable with. I also wasn’t sure what to do with it once I’d dug it out. I mean, it doesn’t look like THAT much gravel just laying there, but the longer I dug, the more gravel remained. It was like the loaves and fishes of landscaping miracles, only far less convenient.

Remember all that moxie and optimism? Here’s where it kicked up to ten. I recalled yet another project slated for this summer – repairing cracks in the driveway. By cracks, I mean holes. And by holes, I mean huge, gaping craters.

But it’s concrete; how hard could it be? I knew from my repeated trips to Menard’s that several of the mixes – all of which contained warnings I’m certain I can ignore about the size of hole they’ll actually repair – suggest adding gravel to improve durability or something. Perfect! Now I’ve got plenty of gravel!

Only… there’s a LOT of dirt mixed in. I kept trying to separate them by hand, but it just wasn’t working. And I was hot. And tired. And old. And delusional.

Then my inspiration jumped to eleven.

Our back yard is a bit of an oddity. At some point long ago, there was an in-ground swimming pool. Someone decided in the distant past fill it in with dirt, leaving a nice little oval of concrete and a few holes where a diving board or something must have been anchored. The ground had sunk over the years, so we were always dumping extra dirt into the “pool.”

I needed clean gravel in one place and more dirt in another. Easy-peasy. All I needed to do was wash the dirt off the gravel while sitting in the middle of the “pool.”

Those of you with more of a practical streak are at this point probably noticing that this sounds like a LOT of effort to expend on something which would do nothing to improve the stretch of ground I was supposedly landscaping while making little if any difference for the sunken area in the backyard. To that, I can only reply that by this point I’d entered an altered state of consciousness, much like the holy men of old. You’ve probably read about the “flow” – an altered stream of time and focus one enters when reading or painting or otherwise engaging in an activity so deeply that all else falls away.

I was in the flow, my friends. It may not have been the right flow, or even a reasonable flow, but it was a FLOW.

I’d need plastic plant pots. The hose. An ice pick to punch drainage holes in the pots. A colander (not the same one we used to cook – I wasn’t THAT far gone). Lawn chair. Rocks to set the buckets on for better drainage. And enthusiasm. Don’t forget my optimism and enthusiasm! I poured. I shook. I rinsed. I propped. I believed.

An hour and a half later, my neighbor, Larry, who’d noticed I’d been out back for quite a while (and knew how unusual this was), walked over to check on me.

Larry and his wife are an older couple who live across the street. They are wonderful in many ways, not least of which is their encyclopedic awareness of everything happening everywhere in the neighborhood at all times. You’d think “nosy neighbors” would be a negative, but we generally find it comforting. They’re the folks you let know when you’re going out of town or who you ask what happened at that house on the corner the other night when the firetrucks showed up at 2 a.m.

They’re also kind. Rose brings over cookies and a card every Christmas and Larry mows my lawn when I’m sick or out of town (without being asked or ever mentioning it afterwards). I’m certain they’re far more conservative than we are, but we don’t talk politics because… well, you know why. They’ve never mentioned our antagonistic social justice signs in the yard (which are mostly for the benefit of the “F*** Biden” and “Don’t Tread On Me” folks who drive the VBS bus a few doors down) and we don’t phrase things in provocative ways when loaded topics come up.

That said, Larry does like to ask what I’m up to whenever I’m outside and often offers his own insights about whatever it is. I choose to take it in a neighborly spirit. He’s never critical; it’s often genuinely helpful. Plus, he really likes to talk. About anything.

As Larry came around the corner of the house, I had six buckets of gravel balanced on various rocks pulled up during my other landscaping efforts. I was soaked, muddy, and on the verge of heat stroke. The middle of the yard was flooded, water still pouring from the hose as I shook gravel in the colander. At some point I’d retrieved several buckets from the basement to better carry… something. (I no longer remembered exactly what was happening as time passed.) The ice pick lay at my feet like a murder weapon. I suspect my expression was growing increasingly manic as I strove to maintain my enthusiasm for what was beginning to feel like a bit of a ridiculous effort.

To his credit, Larry almost completely masked his shock and concern. Instead, after the briefest of pauses, he asked “So, whatcha doin’?”

I tried to explain, at first with enthusiasm but quickly deteriorating into a rattled defense of my initial thinking and goals. By the time I heard myself explaining why the buckets were propped up on rocks, it was no longer making sense even in my own mind. Were this a court of law, I doubt any reasonable observer would have felt right about holding me legally accountable for my actions at that point.

Larry looked around at the mess a bit, then said something truly good and wonderful.

“The mulch out front looks good. Did you replace the bricks around the edge?”

It took me a moment to grasp the nature of his question given my immediate surroundings.

“Oh, um… yeah. Whatever that stuff was that was there before was getting pretty nasty.”

“Yeah, I never much cared for that plastic stuff myself. I think brick just looks classier. Should keep your mulch in better, too.”

We chatted for a few more moments about, I dunno… mulch and stuff, then he told me he’d figured he should come see how it was going since I’d been outside so long and he knew that wasn’t really my thing. He looked around once more, but never said a word about the state of my backyard or my clothing. I couldn’t detect even a trace of judgement on his face regarding the surrealist nightmare around him.

There’s no doubt in my mind that in that split second after he first rounded the corner, Larry chose grace. Once certain I was in no danger (other than to my own pride), he opted to grant me dignity. He didn’t excuse or try to rationalize my poor choices, but he did focus on the positive – reminding me in the process that some of my efforts had gone quite well. Not this part, back here, of course… but some of them.

I couldn’t quite hear from across the way, but when Larry reached his own porch I’m pretty sure Rose asked him what I was up to. I am certain he didn’t respond – just shook his head a bit and sat down in the rocker where he likes to watch the neighborhood do its thing.

My wife was less amused with the results of my “enthusiasm,” but that’s a story for another time. It does confirm, however, that whatever my other gifts, this was not a great day for me in terms of exercising good judgement or unlocking the magic of creative thinking. If we truly learn from failure, this was a major “learning” day.

I’m also certain there’s a lesson in that afternoon about how we react to students whose energies occasionally trump their abilities or their wisdom. It’s never the wrong time for dignity and grace, even when some degree of correction may be required. That’s what I set out to write about, in any case – what with this being an education blog and all.

But at the risk of being too cheesy, there was also something bigger in the moment – something which has so far eluded my efforts to capture in mere words. It involves being a good “neighbor” (and all that implies) and the power of simple acts done in grace and without fanfare or expectations.

Maybe one day, when I’m a better writer, I’ll be able to do it justice. For now, I need to run to Menard’s. I’m feeling good about fixing the driveway. How hard could it be?