Last week I expounded on the virtues of the invasive and thick grass my father called The Zoysia. In his quest to become the first person in our hometown to have bragging rights to a zoysia lawn, he had gone out of his way to sew a magnificent crop that was spreading across the neighborhood like no tomorrow.
It was mid-November, and my father had given my brother and I a box of matches and directed us to our front lawn to set fire to the grass to aid in its germination come Spring. Dad considering himself a towering figure in grass experimentation, and around our dinner table, we heard his name mentioned in the same sentence with other great agrarians like Ben Franklin and Thomas Jefferson, both of whom apparently signed the lesser-known Declaration of Agricultural Independence, a document neither my brother nor I could find in our World Book Encyclopedia. In the front lawn, however, we knew him as just Dad, that guy who knew how to develop a dependable grass fire.
My brother, being five years older, was always the first out the door with his box of matches to get first dibs on the most visible spots in the yard. He favored the areas closest to the street where he could proudly show off his pyro-skills and propensity for controlling brush fires to his girlfriend Nancy in the event she walked by. His logic, I now believe, was the bigger the fire, the more likely Nancy would see our yard from a distance and waltz over to fan the flames of flirtation. Looking back on it now, it was a beautiful allegory for the picture of true passion, one built with intensity, heat and a deep love for all things that remind us of teen-age fires.
In the meantime, while chaperoning Gary’s love and our circles of flaming zoysia, my Dad used his time productively by practicing his golf swing, crushing line drives across our front yard as if he was the legendary Sam Sneed. His chip shots were equally effective, and planting a pitchfork topped with a dishtowel, he took aim for the pin on some imaginary 9th Hole green.
“Fire in the hole!” Dad yelled as another wiffle ball flew off his club. “Hey, watch it there, boys! Looks like you got a creeper going up the fence post!” And just to make his point, he adjusted his swing and pulled a shot slightly to the left that curve around my brother’s head and hit the burning fence post. Aided by the Santa Anna winds from California and his left-handed swing, wiffle balls were flying everywhere as our zoysia bonfires moved a little quicker than anticipated.
“Dad, can I try a shot?” I yelled across the smoke.
“No, you can’t,” Gary interrupted, “I’m older and if anyone gets…”
“Boys, that’s enough! Watch your fires! Let’s keep the heat on! Gary, get that post under control please,” and taking out another whiffle ball chunked it another across the yard. “Maybe when the lawn is done, we can take some practice swings! Watch it, Jeff. Looks like your foot is smoking.”
Up and down our street other curb fires of raked leaves were popping up like apples in a barrel reducing our street to a one lane corridor of greyish-purple smoke confusion. Miss Crenshaw had made some progress with the Council on Civil Defense, helping to pass an ordinance that allowed even-numbered houses to burn on even days and odd-numbered houses on the odd. Unfortunately, the new law went largely unnoticed by the men who were unwilling to acknowledge that their leaf-burning powers had been usurped by a woman. Along our street, as the sound of crips leaves and sticks ignited, men stood stoic with their rakes, like a living painting of American Gothic. It was emblematic of the stalwart character of the American male who would not abandon his post and not give quarter until the last leaf pile was burned to the ground.
And so it was, normal law-abiding citizens became proud pyromaniacs competing to see who could build the tallest inferno. Smoking leaves turned our street into one long tunnel of smoke, Cars and delivery trucks coming through had to weave in and out or back up and go another way as fathers waved them off with rakes and shovels. Our lawn, of course, was slowly baking into a blackened crisp, and our family seemed united as a team, burning towards one common goal.
Neighbors had noticed that even Miss Crenshaw seemed happier, and one Saturday, in a kind of celebration of her even-odd day ordinance, she invited the thirty-plus member of the Civil Defense Committee to her house for herbal tea, decorated her sitting porch out front with swirling black crape paper, and set the folding tables out with ashtrays and matching paper plates. As members weaved their Cadillacs up our street in an out of curb fires, they found their way to Miss Crenshaw’s decorated house, got out and strode like proud peacocks up to the front porch, where they stopped momentarily to put out their Pall Mall cigarettes.
All across town the sound of sirens could be heard, as firetrucks raced to put out spreading leaf fires or hose down a child that felt too warm. Through our smoky yard, we looked up to see Engine 99 round the corner to our street. The fire chief was a recent patient of my dad’s and called down to him as the truck slowed.
“Hey Doc! How ya doing?” Sgt. Brooks said, leaning out from his cab perch.
“Mr. Brooks! What brings you over this way?” Dad answered as he walked over.
“Nothing much, just another fire in the line of duty. Like I always say, ‘One man’s leaf fire is another man’s hot dog stand!’” rearing back in laughter. “Say, Doc! Whatever plumbing of mine you fixed in your office the other day sure helped! I’m almost back to normal.”
“Oh good! Keep drinking the water!” Dad urged.
“Ohhhh yea,” Brooks yelled down, “Plenty of that right back here in Engine 99!” A large billow of smoke suddenly rolled past, and their relaxed conversation drifted towards urgency and urinary incontinence.
On Gary’s side of the yard, a smoke screen had given him the chance to grab dad’s driver, a club my dad had named Big Bertha and sneak in a couple of drives. He had spotted Nancy walking pretty as a picture up the sidewalk, coughing and occasionally hacking, giving Gary a perfect chance to score a few points.
Teeing up his first ball, his first hit was a complete whiff, sending only a few sparks in the air. On his second ball, he smacked a ball that gained altitude through the neighbor’s carport and rolled gingerly up to Nancy’s feet with a bit of underspin to spare. His tactic had worked.
Nancy looked up and their eyes locked. If adolescence could be bottled, this is what it would have look like. They both froze, sending each other a series of flirtatious waves that appeared as if they were trying to scratch their heads instead. Inspired by her affirmation and skirt blowing in the smoky Santa Anna winds, Gary picked up another whiffle ball, held it straight out like an offering it to Nancy, and teed it up like a pro.
Gary’s drive launched as if shot from a Howitzer. For a moment he and Big Bertha had bonded in pure athleticism. What came off his club however was not a whiffle ball, but a chunk of flaming zoysia the size of a small welcome mat. The look on Nancy’s face changed in slow motion from pure and wholesome in-loveness to outright terror as the flaming chunk of zoysia flew overhead onto Miss Crenshaw’s porch and every mouth of every fireman, including my dad, who had climbed on board to chat, fell wide open.