Mom Taught Me To Weed!

This post is nothing new - just a walk down memory lane. But for those of you who were lucky enough to be on the lane with me when these memories occurred, you may smile as you read.

Oh, and all these pictures came from google...and a little bit of me.

Memory #1: Weeding the Building on State Street.

Years ago Mom and Dad owned a nice little building on State Street in Orem. The building was fun, but maintaining the outside of the building was quite the task. Not only was there lots of grass to cut, but there was also something that demands respect seeing how it is the subject of this post: Weeds

This is not that building, but sometimes it seemed like the weeds were this tall. Every week (at the very least), mom and dad would make us go pull weeds. Once or twice the weeds out back got this tall, but we weeded enough in the front that they never got this tall. Now to be fair, I probably did not weed as much as I think I did, but at the time, I was certain that Mom and Dad were sneaking out at night to plant weed seeds along the side of the building. The more weeds there were, the busier we would be. Is that true? Of course not; but at the time the conspiracy theory seems pretty spot on... What on earth did I ever hope to gain from this never-ending task?! I will return to that in a moment.

Memory 2: Digging Holes.

Of all the holes I have dug during my life, there is one hole in particular that comes to mind - the one that was 2 feet deep and 1 foot in diameter; dug next to the patio behind the house. I think I was around 12 years old at the time and I labored for what felt like hours on that hole. The dimensions were not that great, but getting through all the rocks that hid directly under the grass was incredibly hard. I can personally testify that I grew up in the rocky mountains (sorry for the play on words Jari, but I'm sure you have heard worse puns come out of me).

What happened to that hole you ask? Mom told me to fill it up - she had changed her mind on where the basketball stand would go. "What?! Are you serious?!" I thought. And the answer is... yes, she was. The little immature boy in me still thinks she was just trying to keep me busy. However, truth be known, after learning to use a shovel while working with my Dad all those summers (digging one square meter holes, 1 cm deep at a time), I enjoy digging holes. There is something gratifying about using a shovel to move and sculpt terrain. Maybe it's because it reminds me of good times working with Dad. Most of the time I would trash talk about how old he was and how he had to take breaks. Then he'd get even and laugh at me when my skinny, meatless bones could barely move the stumps we were digging out or buckets of dirt we were hauling to the screens for processing. Whatever the reason, for some reason I love digging holes. I think this book (a personal childhood favorite) sums this up.

So why am I thinking about this? Consider the following experience. This last Saturday I was asked to serve at the Bishop's Storehouse here in Washington DC. Upon arrival, one of the sisters in charge said, "We don't start for 15 minutes, would you mind weeding for a bit?"

"Boy, oh boy!" I thought "Of course I can weed." And so I began to weed.

About 5 minutes later a young man named Carlos showed up with his family. He is starting 10th grade this year so that makes him 15 years old. He had long hair, tight jeans, a baseball cap on, and a look on his face that said "My Mom and Dad made me come. I'd rather be home asleep right now." The sister invited him to weed and I enthusiastically invited him to join in on the fun. He looked confused but stooped down to begin helping. Not knowing what else to say I asked him if he had ever weeded before. A silly question I know - after all, I grew up digging holes and weeding so clearly everyone knows how to weed. To my shock and amazement he said "No, I've never weeded before..." Turns out he has lived in an apartment his entire life and never once engaged in outside yard work. My heart broke for this young man. I began to teach him how to pull dandy lions, orchard grass, clover, etc. I showed him how each required a slightly different digging about and pulling to get the root out.

In the end, I thought about how when I was young, I was sure my parents were out to make my life harder. Turns out, I have come to cherish those simple two skills my parents have taught me. So next time you curse the ground for having weeds, think of all the poor big city people who have never felt the joy of cleaning a patch of ground or moving dirt. Never have they had to dig out dirt from under their nails because they were pulling out weeds and rocks.

So as you go to bed tonight be grateful if your mother and father taught you to weed.