Once Again God Notices Me

I know of at least two times that God has taken an interest in my life. Once was at a baseball game and the other was in a vegetable garden. My first three years after high school were about as fun as taking a hit of acid at a funeral. Most of my time was spent running away from things: my father, work, school, and the future. I use to have a 1973 bottle green Camaro that spent so much time on the road that the wheel bearings on the drivers-side right wheel literally melted one day while rolling down the Union Hill (now Windward Parkway) exit ramp. My uncle Tony banged in a new set of bearings into the wheel on several occasions but one or two trips after the new part was installed, they popped out again like too much dick in too little pussy. In the end, my trusty steed was put to rest under a pine tree in my father’s back yard. It quickly became victim to pine resin, bird shit and mildew from rainwater creeping in through the cracked window seals. I can still remember the funky way it smelled and scavenging cassette tapes out of pools of rainwater and fast food trash.

The sudden death of my beloved left me with four choices: borrow a car, mooch a ride from a friend, ride the MARTA, or walk. My pride never prevented me from pursuing any one of these options, although my preferred choice was to borrow a car. There were only two people in my family that I could ask to participate in such a risky venture: my Aunt Becky and my grandfather (mother’s side), whom I called Paw-Paw. Becky had a 1976 baby blue Ford Granada. In case you are not familiar with that particular car, it is a real old ladies-mobile. My aunt had bought it for thirteen thousand dollars cash money when it was brand new and she loved it. Sometimes when she saw me feeling down about my lack of wheels, she would say, “Doodle, when I die I am going to leave you my car.” “Awww Becky, by the time you die that ole thing won’t even roll”, I would always say back to her and we both would smile. Little did we both know that she was leaving this world allot sooner than either one of us thought. But while she was alive, my aunt was fairly protective about her Ford. Although she did let me drive it on occasion, the begging that I had to do to use it and the pain and worry it caused her, was not worth the effort.

Now the only reason my grandfather had a car was because my Uncle Richard bought him one for emergencies and to get groceries. I don’t remember the make and model, but it was a big boxy golden boat. There was something wrong with the power-steering and when you turned the wheel sharply to the left or right a piercing screech would come from beneath the hood. “God damn it Doodle, don’t do that”, he would holler at me as I cut the wheel hard to leave his little gravel driveway. I hated to borrow my grandfather’s car even more than my aunt’s, although I am sure he never minded.

Mostly I needed the car to go see my girlfriend Pam. She was the only thing keeping me smiling in those days. I was only allowed to see her one day a week, and I tried to make that day last forever. She did not have a car either, so if I did not make arrangements for transportation our plans could be seriously compromised. One Saturday, like every other Saturday that summer, I wanted the freedom a car supplied for my weekly date. Lacking the energy to beg and plead with my aunt, my choice of vehicles pointed easily in my grandfather’s direction. I hopped on the MARTA and headed to my grandmother’s house in Roswell.
“Paw-Paw, are you here?” I yelled through the torn screen door. “Come on in Doodle, my grandmother yelled back.” I entered the little yellow house and saw my Aunt Arnell and grandmother fixing lunch in the kitchen.

“Paw-Paw’s in the shed out back working on a lawn mower, what do you need him for?”
“I was going to see if I could borrow the car this afternoon”, I said timidly.
“Paw-Paw don’t mind if you use the car honey but you need to help pull those weeds in the garden before you go”, my grandmother said as she took a bite of cornbread.

“Shit”, I said to myself.
“I hate working in the fucking garden”
“It is hot a hell and I am going to get all dirty and itchy”
“Stupid fucking garden, why can’t they just give me the car?” my selfish nature lamented.

“Okay”, I said not hiding my disappointment, and went out to sink my sneakers into the soft earth. “Fucking stupid, stinking weeds”, I said under my breath with every plant I pulled. I pulled off my shirt and laid it across the chain link fence. “Just do it fast and it will be over with”, I thought trying to comfort myself. I stepped up my pace and started flinging weeds over my head frantically, large dirt clods were still clinging to the roots. “Don’t pull up my ‘maters!”, my grandmother hollered from the back porch. I kept working at my ridiculous pace until I screamed in exhaustion.

“I can’t do this anymore”
“It’s too hot”
“I can’t breath”

Paw-Paw walked around the corner.

“It’s alright boy, I’ll finish up”
“Go in the house and get cleaned up”
“I’ll make sure there is oil in the car”

I walked in the house with a skip in my step, knowing air-conditioning and girlfriend were just minutes away. My aunt gave me a look that was both disgusted and disappointed at the same time. I wiped myself off with a cool washrag, put my shirt back on and walked out into the yard. My grandfather was waiting on me, and handed me a five dollar bill for gas. “Watch that power steering boy”, he said to me and put his hand on my shoulder. As I pulled away, I looked back at my grandfather through the rear view mirror. He was bending over in the garden, gently pushing aside tomato plants looking for weeds.

I am thirty eight years old now and it has been over twenty years since that day at my grandmother's. Some would say that it is poetic justice that I spent the next twelve years of my life working in other people’s gardens. But I know in my heart that it was more than coincidence or poetry that guided my fate. God had to teach me the value of a garden.