Gratuitous Domestic Posting (TM) - Outdoor Division

Well, we got the garden weeded this morning, just finishing up before the heat got too obnoxious. I had the Llama-ettes out to do the path. It's easy for them a) because the gravel doesn't hold root balls very well and b) because there's no chance of them yanking something I don't want pulled up.

I have to admit that I love the absurdly unequal negotiating power I have when I get them to do these jobs for me. Makes me feel like Bill Gates:

Me: "Okay, girls, I need you to weed the garden path. I'll pay you a penny a weed."

They: "A penny?"
"Daaaa-aaad!"
"How about a dime?"
"Or a quarter?"
"Or a dollar?"

Me: "How about you take the deal I offered? Because in a second, I'm going to make you do it for nothing."

Heh.

As a matter of fact, they did a pretty good job, especially the six year old, who earned herself a tip by being extra thorough.

You know, when I was a kid, things were a lot different. When I was nine, my parents bought a couple acres on the outskirts of San Antonio and built a new house. The place was nothing but flinty soil and scrub-brush, all of which had to be cleared out in order to establish a lawn, flower beds and so on. The work was never-ending - moving loads of rocks, hauling logs and brush, digging garden beds and building container walls. It seemed that my brother and I spent virtually every weekend slaving away in the yard. (My sister was excused yardwork duty on the grounds of "being too small". She was supposed to help with the housework instead. It struck my brother and me that her idea of "helping" consisted largely of staying in her room all day listening to Adam Ant records. Not that we were bitter or anything.)

Despite the amount of time and effort we put in, my father never paid us. Not a single plugged nickel. Except once.

There came the fateful weekend when we had to clear out the soil in the front yard in preparation for sodding it over. Dad rented a big tractor with a large scoop on the front. My brother and I put in two solid twelve-hour days working with him, mostly shovelling and hauling loads of rock. I don't even remember that we stopped for lunch either day.

Anyhoo, came late Sunday afternoon and the last load was cleared away. Even Mom and my sister came out to watch. My brother and I were utterly exhausted. As we went into the house, Dad said something like, "You boys did some good work. So here's something for you." Being the true Scotsman that he is, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a dollar bill for each of us.

I didn't actually throw the buck back in his face, but boy did I want to.

It's funny that these experiences never did put me off gardening. I always assumed that some day I'd be doing the same sort of outdoor work at my own house instead of at my parents. What kept me going during the worst of it was not the thought that some day it would be all over. Instead, I derived a certain grim satisfaction from the thought that some day I would also have kids, and I'd be in the position to make them toil away for me.

I expect loony doctors have a term for this.