Saplings, shovels and sanity (Mine or his?)

TEXT to Savannah, Tuesday, April 19th

So...Daddy asked me to look at something with him yesterday. We walk over to his mountain of kayaks and he says, "We have too many ______." 

"Boats," I answer for him.

"No," he looks annoyed at me, "too many saplings." 

He points out five saplings growing at various heights around the Mosiman homestead. Now begins the laborious plan on where to plant them. They should, of course, be equidistant to one another and pre-existing trees. I am ordered to stand in a spot marked off by your father while he strides away, muttering number counts to himself. He makes it to the tree located on the corner by our mailbox and spins around to face me, waving his arm impatiently to indicate that he would, please, like me to move over to a more-perfect alignment with said tree. I am immediately reminded of the episode from M*A*S*H where Frank Burns lines up the condiments in order of likability versus height. Your dad then strides across the yard several more times, doing complicated algorithms in his head before he realizes that I am laughing hysterically at him. I am sent indoors where Sydney and I watch him walk back and forth across the front yard thousands of times, counting. I cannot decide if he is more like your grandfather methodically hanging pictures on his symmetrical portrait wall or Frank Burns. 

Excess saplings were decided (Apparently he'd forgiven me or just wanted to torture me some more: "Would you come outside with me, please?") to be transplanted across the road, between us and the neighbors. The saw jaw was set up with a mile-long extension cord. "I should probably be out there with you..." I said without enthusiasm. Daddy then uprooted trees, untangled vines, and chopped down 1,000 pound branches for me to drag across the road...from our neighbor's property onto MY property. There was a short in one of the extension cords interrupting power to the mighty saw jaw and I was instructed, calmly and politely, to SUBTLY adjust the short. WHAT?!?!? Then...despite the fact that I have a HUGE truck AND a 4-wheeler, we then dragged a million giant trees and branches over the hill. 

Later that day...AFTER I had folded laundry, done dishes, made the chicken mandarin salad, baked banana bread, and swept...I got up out of the captain's chair...a bit stiff. "Why are you stiff," he asked.  AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!! 

Heart,
      Mom

TEXT to Mom, Tuesday, April 19th

He showed me his trees the last time I was out there. This has been long in the waiting. Good thing I worked yesterday; I have a feeling that seven hours isn't far enough away to keep me from that fun! 

Regards, 
         Savannah 

TEXT to Savannah, Monday, April 25

So, after a week of having a screwdriver as a sapling placeholder in my lawn..."Has it taken root," I asked sweetly as your father finally removed it to mow the lawn...Operation Tear Out and Transplant has been altered to accommodate your dad's broken shovel that lost the wrestling match with a particularly tenacious tree. "Did you just laugh," he asked. "I didn't know that cracking sound was your shovel," I admitted, "I thought it was the tree." I had been unable to hold back my joy that there would be one less plant to plant. 

We regarded the wounded shovel solemnly. "Jeff gave me this," your father said sadly, showing off his sensitive side. As part of the eulogy, we remarked upon its narrow spade-like features capable of cutting through (practically) anything. "It was a fine, long-handled shovel," he lamented before entering into another stage of grief; resurrection. "You know, I think I can fix this," he said ("Yeah...sometime in the next decade maybe," I thought to myself.) before we engaged in a fierce wrestling match in the driveway. 

Heart,
      Mom

TEXT to Mom, Monday, April 25

You wouldn't even let him save the handle? Mom...life is about compromise. If Daddy hadn't saved all those broom and mop handles over the years, you wouldn't be able to unwrap your wind-blown flag everyday or herd Chlo out of the field.

Regards, 
         Savannah 

TEXT to Savannah, Monday, April 25

Yeah...yeah...yeah...whatever. I'm not Bo Peep, Savannah. THEN...your father proceeded to plant his teeny-tiny trees along the hedgerow (See passage on 1,000 pound branches). At one point, he lost one of his precious saplings because it blended in perfectly with all the other sticks that littered the ground. "Don't worry," he assured me, holding it triumphantly aloft, "I found it." I wasn't worried. Well...not about the lost sapling. Your father's lost sanity...? Please come home...he's talking about his "three" gardens now. "What three gardens?" I (foolishly) asked, looking at our two raised beds. He proudly pointed out an expanse of grass that has clear gardening potential. Please come home.

Heart,

      Mom

TEXT to Mom, Monday, April 25

No.

Regards,

         Savannah