The Altercation

Only I could have an altercation with a grapefruit tree.

Okay, here’s the thing. I threw my back out for the umpteenth time and from the den window, I’m watching my ninety year old mother on her hands and knees sticking her hand in the pool’s filter.  She’s not really ninety.  

She’s eighty-nine, but for almost a year she has told everyone she’s ninety. Why? Well, for starters, ninety sounds so much better than eighty-nine.  But, the real reason is her crazy, but logical reasoning which goes something like this:  When we are born, we are nine months old, which means we are practically one.  So, we are all basically a year older than we state.

That being the case, I’m hunched over like the number seven, feeling more than a year older than I am, watching my ninety year old mother taking care of the pool, feeling like a horrible daughter whose mother is doing everything while I, the prima donna, do niente.  Of course, I wrenched my back, so how could I do anything anyway?  Not the point.  The point is I’m younger and I should be helping.

I grab my sunglasses and race out to the backyard ready to rescue her from all things responsible. 

“The Kreepy Krawly isn’t working,” she anguished.

Since my dad is gone (dead you know) I have assumed his role.  I hock and ka-nock with hammers, wrenches and screwdrivers.  Unfortunately, I inherited the one quality that I made fun of for years.  Poor dad, but now I get him:  I duct tape everything that I can’t fix. My shoe ripped?  Duct tape.  The handle on the sliding den door cracked off?  Duct tape. I also use WD-40 on anything that doesn’t move.  Maybe I should try it on my mother.  Better yet, my back.

I pull up my pant legs and slowly step into the pool up to my thighs, reach for the Kreepy, turn it upside down and discover the culprit that is agonizing my mother:  a tree branch-stuck inside.  I pull it out and raise it above my head like a proud Olympian.  Problem solved.

It was then that I noticed the pool was dirty.  Getting out of the pool, I pick up the brush with the long handle.  Now, when I say long, I mean longggggg.  The pole will not retract so it is now about 15 feet in length.  Even my macho gardeners couldn’t get that darn thing back.  It was stuck.  It was stucker than stuck.  So, I begin to gently sweep the pool being mindful of my wrenched back.  This isn’t too bad, I think.  I had been laid up for about 10 weeks and this was my first activity in two months. Moving around the pool like a graceful ballerina wasn’t in the cards, but I managed to get to the ladder on the other side where most of the schmootz had accumulated on the floor of the pool.

Unfortunately, when I moved the brush, the pole got stuck in the branches of my very mature, very stubborn grapefruit tree. 

We wrestled for minutes.  I turned around.  This was war.  I wanted to clean the pool, help my mother and retreat with a heating pad as quickly as possible.  But no, the tree had other things in mind.  This was fun-at my expense.  I turned this way and that, contorted my body like Houdini and ouchhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Back spasm back again.  Damn tree.

Shy of using an axe or buzz saw, I couldn’t help wonder:  What would dad do?  A smile formed on my face. That grapefruit tree was going down or I’d be in physical therapy forever.

I marched back to the house, rummaged through some cabinets and returned to the backyard with an armful of everything necessary.  

When the tree saw me returning, holding the tape~it duct!