One spring, not long after we had moved to the country house, my dad had the grand idea to plant a forest of pine trees along our quarter-mile driveway. That way, the house would have more privacy from the road, and visitors could drive through a lush forest before coming upon the splendor of our house set up on a hill.
He had heard about a good deal on pine trees from the Oklahoma State University agriculture department, and one day he and my grandfather took to the yard with the backhoe, digging up holes for the incoming saplings. I think they got a bit overzealous – or underestimated the cost of pine trees – because we ended up with way more holes than trees.
Somehow the only trees that ended up planted were along the driveway and road, and the rest were spread out across our twoacre plot of land, never to be filled. My mother was constantly after Dad to go out and fix the yard.
“Someone is going to fall into one and break their foot,” she would complain.
“I’ll get to it,” Dad would always respond.
Well, he never did get around to it. And eventually the grass would grow up and conceal most of the holes, turning our yard into a booby-trapped lair.
We discovered this one day when Mom was out in the yard with our Labrador, Lucy.
I’m not sure if they were playing or if Mom was just walking through the yard, but the next thing anyone knew, Mom was down and shouting. She was on one knee with her other leg disappearing into one of the aforementioned hidden holes.
“I told Pete to fill in these holes!” she shouted as she pulled herself out.
I attempted to hold in my laughter, fearing Mom would get the paddle after me. She limped her way back up to the house with Lucy happily scurrying around her.That night, once again, she told Dad to fill in the holes, and he said he would.
But again, he didn’t. Not long after this, I held a party at our house -- I can’t recall if it was an endof- year or back-to-school party. Mom had prepared a bevy of food and snacks, while also setting up a stereo on the deck. Dad created a volleyball court in the front yard with clearly visible boundaries thanks to his riding mower.
Everyone was having a good time. We would have a dance circle on the deck, eat, play games and then run over to play volleyball, then run back for more food and drinks. I think we went back and forth so many times I lost count.
And, of course, everyone forgot about the holes.
Until my mother’s prediction came true.
Aswewererunningfrom the volleyball court to the deck, I heard a shriek. I stopped and turned, seeing one of the girls from my class down on the ground. A bunch of us went over to help her up and make sure she was okay, all the while asking what happened.
“I fell into a hole!” she shouted, trying to get up. “I didn’t even see it!”
It took everything in me not to look at my parents, who I knew heard every wordfromwheretheywere on the deck. We helped her out of the hole, and when she put some weight on the foot, she screamed in pain yet again. I looked at Mom for help, but she was too busy glaring at my dad.
“Pete, I told you to fill those holes! She’s gone and broke her foot,” I could hear her hiss, though I could tell she was attempting to keep her voice down. “Go bring her to the deck!”
So Dad went out and picked up the girl, carrying her to a chaise lounge on the deckwherewecouldiceher foot until her parents came to get her.
“I’m sure it’s not broken,” he said, looking at it. “We’ll ice it, and I’m sure you’ll be fine by the time your mom gets here.”
Now, this is the part of the story where memories diverge. I clearly remember that she did actually break her foot. Dad clearly remembers that it was just a sprain.
Either way, Mom was madder than a wet hen.
Silver lining -- Dad finally went out and filled in the holes.