April 19, 2007
The Smell of a Man
I remember when I was little, my dad spent a lot of time outside. A lot of his Saturdays were spent working in the yard, and after we moved when I was 8 years old, he spent a lot more time than normal, because our yard went from small to huge. He would be out early, just as soon as the dew burnt off the grass, firing up the riding mower or weedeater. He would always be dressed the same: a pair of dark navy pants or old worn out khakis, some worn down tennis shoes, and an old workshirt. He topped off the outfit with a ragged looking straw hat. The outfit got so familiar that you always knew what he was doing if he had it on.
Many a Saturday in my teenage years I would wake to the sound of the mower, and since I was so used to, it quickly became a comforting sound to me. Even today, the sound of a mower outside will start to put me to sleep, due to all the times I heard it. When the mower stopped, I would go out to the porch and carry Dad his favorite refreshment: a big glass of iced tea and a couple of paper towels. He’d hang them out of his back pocket and take a long swig of his tea while he sat on the porch for a few minutes, then he would go back to work. Often, when he was over, or if he needed gas while he was mowing, he would load me up in the truck, roll down the windows, and we’d drive to the gas station, where he would return with a cheeseburger and two Yoo-hoo chocolate drinks, one for me and one for him. There were a lot of times the Yoo-hoo helped wash down the setting sun as we drove around in the summer twilight.
But, through all of this, all those visual memories, there is one thing I remember more than all those: how he smelled. You might think this is a bit crazy, admiring the smell of a man who worked all day long in the hot sun, but on the contrary, there was something about that smell that spoke volumes. To me, it commanded respect. It told a story of a man who was proud of his work, and who didn’t mind getting dirty. It was sweat, gas, oil, and grass. It was the legacy that a man left to his son without knowing it. Just the other day I mowed my yard for the second time this season. Fighting carpenter bees (our shed is overrun with them) I manuevered the mower out of the shed and into the tall grass, carrying the gas can with me. I started to mow just as the breeze hit, and for the entire time I pushed, the sky stayed overcast, giving me just enough light to get a glisten of sweat, but not burn.
Our yard only takes about an hour to mow, but for some reason that day it took me a bit longer. Maybe I was tired, or maybe I was just thinking, but by the time I was done, I was sweaty. I’d spilled gas on myself because I had to go get some in the middle of the job and I hadn’t gotten the top on exactly right. I’d tried to look for the place where the oil went, so my hands were greasy. But finally, after all the work, the yard was done. And it looked great. I put the mower away, locked the gas in the shed, and started toward the house. The sun broke through the leaves overhead and glittered a path toward the backdoor, and that’s when it hit me. That familiar smell of sweat, gas, oil, and grass. It drifted toward me on the wind and got stuck in my nostrils. I stopped, half expecting to see him standing in front of me, wiping his brow with a paper towel as he held his straw hat in his hand, his face cluttered with dirt and bits of grass. But, when I looked around, he wasn’t there. His car wasn’t in the driveway, and the realization that he was over 2 hours away, probably just getting home from work, began to sink in.
I shrugged it off as a trick of my imagination and made my way into the house, kicking off my work shoes by the door, careful not to track grass into the house. I made my way to the fridge, pouring myself a glass of Kool-aid and grabbing a piece of cheese before making my way to the kitchen. I set the food down on the table and turned, heading back toward our bedroom in order to get rid of my sweaty clothes. As I pulled the hem of my t-shirt up and over my shoulders, it was there again, that same smell, and this time, it didn’t fool me. This time, I knew where it was coming from.
It was coming from me.
That familiar scent of hard work and pride was now all over me, and I couldn’t help but smile. I dropped my shirt into our laundry hamper and the smile wouldn’t leave. Now I was sure of something, something that I’d been feeling for awhile now. Something that told me that it was impossible to escape the inevitable: I was becoming just like him.
But, what I’d once fought for so long now gave way to sweet relief, that maybe someday I could be just like him, a loving, caring, giving man that put others before himself ALWAYS, that sacrificed countless, numerous dreams and material possessions and desires to see the little boy that he loved so much become the man he is now. And I realized that for every time I’d said I’d never be like him that I’d only cursed myself as well, because I was destined for this. I was destined for that smell and the realization that there is great joy that comes from a son becoming like his father, from finally coming full circle and seeing exactly who he is and what makes him tick.
I used to hate mowing the grass, but now I love it because I reminds me of what I really am.
