Gasoline in the Grass

When I was going into first grade at St. Anthony's catholic elementary school, my parents built a home on an acre in the middle of High Ridge, MO. The land that they decided to build on was this beautiful old orchard. The construction workers tore down all the trees in sight and began erecting our home. Our beautiful, 3 bedroom, 2.5 bath ranch home that would eventually become my dream home. The home that I would always remember as a haven, a sanctuary, a place to lock myself away and be... me. Whoever I wanted to be. I spent hours looking out my bedroom window, across a large, plush, dark green lawn - luxurious from years and years of fruit tree fertilization. Dreaming of who I might become, who I might love, who might love me. That expansive front yard was my place for playing, dreaming, learning, growing.

My little sister, Becky, and I loved to run around, play Frisbee, dance, sing at the top of our voices in that front yard. We were constantly learning something new, it seemed. Throw the ball this way, catch it like that, this is how ballerinas dance, be careful when you wear a skirt. We loved to entertain ourselves by seeing who could run faster, jump higher, twirl the longest. My father would sit in the garage on a lawn chair and watch us. Beer in hand he looked proud, always... of his girls AND his beautiful envy-evoking lawn.

One sunny Saturday, in the summer of 1987, when I was about 7 years old, we developed a game. We had a long stick and each of us had an end of the yard. The goal was to get to the other person's side and thrust the stick into the yard before they could touch you. It's how I developed my evasive soccer skills, no doubt. On my first successful attempt at Becky's side, I saw a hole in the yard and pushed that stick into it with all my strength. While Becky leaned over and panted, I did a little victory jig. (Looks something like: hands up in tiny fists above my head, moving up and down, butt sticking slightly out, hips shaking side to side, "uh huh, uh huh, you can't stop me, you can't stop me"). Becky rolled her eyes and went to pull the stick out of the hole, but it was really stuck in there. I walked over and wrapped my hands around the stick too. We both pulled up with little grunts. What happened next surprised the hell out of us, and, in some ways, changed my life.

As the stick came out of the ground, it was followed by a solid stream of yellowjackets. We didn't know that they were yellowjackets at the time, but just started screaming "bees! bees!". I looked at Becky and told her to run to the house. As the stinging insects covered us, we ran and swung our arms around and screamed. It was almost slow motion as we simultaneously ran and tried to keep the 'bees' out of our mouths. By the time we reached the front door of our home, my mom and dad were meeting us there. My mother's eyes were huge when she saw her little girls covered in buzzing, stinging bugs. They were all over us, head to toe. They were in our socks, shorts, shirts, tangled in our hair. We were spitting them out of our mouths, we were completely covered. I looked at my dad, and while his forehead was furrowed and concern filled his eyes, there was something else there too... Pain? As my mom frantically began waving the yellowjackets off, she also began stripping us down. Our clothes were off before we knew what she was doing. She threw our clothes into the front yard rushed us into the house. My dad had been running a cold bath full of baking soda and threw us into it despite our shrieks. Becky cried a little, but less than I expected her to. It all happened so fast.

Sitting in the cold, milky white tub water, shivering, mom picking bees out of our hair, Becky whimpering, listening to my parents debate whether or not we should be taken to the hospital, I wondered what it was I saw in my dad out there on the porch. I was worried he was angry with us for getting into the bees' nest. Fortunately, neither of us were allergic to the stings and while we each had little red welts all over our bodies, our faces, in places that made wearing panties uncomfortable, we were lucky.

That night, my parents tucked us in as usual. I covered my eyes as my dad twisted the little metal bow tie on the bottom of one of my many music boxes. As was our routine, I listened for a few seconds and then guessed which one it was. Sometimes I would get it wrong just so he wouldn't lose interest in our bedtime game. When he came over to my bed and leaned over to give me a kiss, I turned to face him and asked, "Dad? Are you mad at us about the bees?" He looked at me for a split second before answering, "No. I am not mad at you about the bees. I am mad at the bees." Relieved, and content with his answer, I squirmed down into my twin bed covered in stuffed animals, and drifted off to sleep.

My father worked nights when we were little, and so during the week we didn't get to see him much. Sunday afternoons were his Monday mornings. He left about 5:00 pm and would get home around 2am. So the day following "the bee incident", I overheard him talking to my mom as he put his work boots on. "Just keep them inside. I'll take care of it." My mom didn't ask any questions. Underground insects seemed like just the thing my dad could handle.

Monday morning, my mom woke me up with her usual little song and dance, "rise and shine sleepy head!" I opened my eyes and rolled out of bed. I could hear my dad snoring across the hall. We had a babysitter that would come over during the day and keep an eye on us until my dad got up to get ready for work. I wasn't a huge fan, but she let us play outside, so that was cool. I walked over to the window to see if it was sunny. I was shocked to see a giant scorched, black area of the yard. My perfect, soft, beautiful grass was completely ruined! I ran to my mom, "Mom! What happened to the yard?!" She looked at me, a little confused, and then walked to my bedroom window. I heard her let out a little gasp before putting her hand on my shoulder and telling me not to worry about it. "I'm sure your dad just wanted to make sure those bees wouldn't come back."

I stood there at my window staring at the blackened area of the yard. Sure, it's where the bees were... but there had to be a better way! Oh well, what's done is done. At least it's only a section of the yard... and the grass would grow back, right?

I could hear my mother's hushed tone in their bedroom, and my father's sleepy mumbled responses. Then she came out and said, "your dad wants you to stay inside today until he can make sure all the bees are gone, ok?" I reluctantly agreed. I hated the idea of spending a beautiful summer day inside, but it was better than facing my father's wrath, so I just sat there staring out the window, coloring, listened to my sister and our babysitter playing barbies in the living room... until I heard my dad starting to stir. It was earlier than he usually got up. I met him at his door. He wasn't dressed for work yet, but was instead wearing a pair of shorts and a white t-shirt. "Dad, can we go see if the bees are gone?!"

He looked down at me, smiled, and said, "Yep. Let's go see". I put on my care bear flip flops and ran to the front door. He and I walked out into the sunshine and carefully out onto the lawn. I kicked my shoes off at the grass as I always did, and let the soft blades caress my feet. I loved that feeling. My dad was a few steps ahead of me and I heard him say, "You have GOT to be kidding me. Son of a bitch!" Hearing my dad swear was not new to me... but I didn't really understand what he was upset about. As I walked over to him and followed his gaze down to the lawn, I quickly understood. There between us in the ground was a hole, just like the one Becky and I had pulled the stick from... but we were at the opposite end of the yard. It didn't make sense to me. I followed my dad around, and as we walked z shaped lines across our beautiful lawn, we found hole after hole. Some with bees sitting on the edges of them, slowly crawling in and out of them, then taking off and buzzing around us. "They're in the entire fucking yard..." he said... to no one in particular. I looked up at my dad. The look on his face clearly displaying how furious he was. "Holly, go back inside please. The bees aren't gone."

I didn't even argue. I walked back into the house, closed the door behind me, glanced at my little sister playing barbies on the floor, and headed straight for my room.

That night, when I went to bed, I was fairly certain that my dad would kill the bees and I would be able to play outside again. I was hopeful that it would happen that week. I smiled as I thought of the new games Becky and I could create before the summer ended.

I awoke to my parent's bedroom light snapping on and my mom running down the hall. As my eyes adjusted to the light streaming into my room from the hallway, I noticed that there was an equally bright light coming from my window. I threw my covers off and jumped out of bed. I pressed my hands against the window and stood in disbelief as I watched my *entire* front yard burn. There were 7 foot high flames bursting from every hole in the yard that my dad and I had found earlier that day. My dad was standing in the driveway, hands on hips, garden hose at his feet... surrounded by big red plastic gas cans. I saw my mom run over to him, she was yelling something over the roar of the fire, but from inside the house it was just a muffled, urgent tone.

I felt my eyes well up with tears and I pressed my forehead against the window. The glass was warm from the flames outside despite the air vent blowing my pink nightgown around at my knees. I was shocked, sad, and then angry. I heard my mom come back in the house, and I met her in the hallway.

"Why is he doing this?! Why would he ruin it like that?!"

My mom wrapped her arms around me. "It's ok. There were too many bees. He's just doing what he has to so that you can safely play outside again."

She put me back in bed, covered me up, and said... "Don't worry, it will grow back soon enough."

The lights clicked off and I laid there in bed for what seemed like hours... staring at my ceiling and watching the shadows dance in the flickering light from the flames outside. The hot fire devouring my favorite place in the world.

When I woke up the next morning, I didn't walk to the window. I didn't want to know what it would look like. I sat in my room, in the still of the house, and tried to wish it away. I heard my parents in their room. My dad didn't sound sleepy, so I know he must have been awake for awhile. I heard my mom ask, "How much, Tom?" "Ten Gallons." was the reply. "Ten GALLONS?!? You poured ten gallons of gas into your family's front yard?! You could have killed us! There had to be a better way! Don't they make some spray or smoke or something?!" I walked to the front door, opened it, and stepped out onto the porch. What lay in front of me was devastating.

Black, charred earth. Complete barren wasteland where my beautiful soft green wonderland had been. I felt the anger again. I slammed the door and stomped down the hallway to my parent's bedroom. I pounded on the door and demanded to speak to my father.

He opened the door. I looked up at him with what must have been the saddest eyes he'd ever seen. He said, "C'mon. Let's talk."

He explained to me that he was sorry that in order to kill the bees he had to destroy the yard. He said, "Even though we loved our yard, we had to do what was necessary to make sure we were safe, to do what was best for us. So, yeah.... We have to start over, and it will be a lot of hard work. We will have to fill in those deep holes that the bees made with fresh soil so that new life can grow there. We will have to plant new grass seed and water it, and care for it daily. But in time, we will have a new, fresh, green yard... and it will be better than ever. You can lay in it and dance in it, do everything you did before... but this time it will be even more fun because you will know that you helped grow the grass. And there is nothing in there that will hurt you ever again."

I was so angry with my father that morning, but what he taught me I've never forgotten. Sometimes you have just blow shit up and start over in order to achieve what's best for you. It's hot and uncomfortable and dangerous. You have to watch something you once loved burn and die... but at the end of the day, it's usually worth it. I've blown more shit up in my life than I care to admit. Relationships, specifically. They start to become hard to deal with. The bees start coming out of the ground... swarming, making it hard to breathe. The holes that are left behind are vast, leaving me feeling hollow and unloved. When the emptiness overtakes the green facade, I blow it up.

It's a delicate balance though. If you're not careful, you can end up dumping gasoline and lighting a match when really you could just use "spray or smoke or something". Work things out, fill in the holes, make the lawn stronger than before without destroying it.

I've never tried the latter... maybe it's time. Or maybe I'll just blow it up again.