When I was 14 years old, I became obsessed with gardening. Flowers, succulents, bushes, plus designing and building terrariums. If there was potting soil involved, I was ready to dig in.  

The previous summer, my grandmother introduced me to the joys of watching things grow. Dabbling in dirt was calming, and I’d inherited Grandma’s amazing green thumb. All I had to do was put a plant, a start or bulb in the ground and it would flourish. I spent my babysitting and lawn mowing money on colorful begonias, snapdragons, velvety pansies, sunny marigolds, house plants, terrariums, window boxes, potting soil, and just about anything else that I might need that would fit in the oversized basket on my bike.  

My girlfriends were obsessed with boys, clothes, pimple cream, clothes, boys, makeup, clothes, jewelry, boys, drugstore cologne, nail polish, boys and more clothes. A regular girly girl tornado. 

And most of them wouldn’t go near a flower bed unless they were posing for pictures in a homecoming gown. 

Unfortunately, I hadn’t caught the femininity bug yet. Fresh soil was my fragrance of choice. They wore “Charlie.” I wore dirt.

Yet, they loved me anyway, even though I preferred to shop for African violets rather than lip gloss and fashion magazines.

Dad gave me permission to use his lawn tools and cleared a long shelf in the garage for storing my supplies. Since I bought nearly everything with my money, I was extra careful about putting my stuff away.  

But one afternoon, I was working on a birthday gift terrarium for Aunt Marie and forgot about a swim date with my best friend Gail. 

She arrived sweaty and red in the face, looking forward to a cool dip in our pool, and understandably peeved that I wasn’t ready.

SO, as I rushed to put everything back on the shelf, I neglected to replace the tie wrap that sealed a huge economy-sized bag of sphagnum powdered peat moss.  

That night after dinner, Dad announced that he was going to clean out the garage.

“Can’t it wait? You’ll roast to death!” Mom protested. 

Late afternoon was the most miserable time of day to perform manual labor in an unconditioned, poorly ventilated place. August humidity in Florida settled on everything like a smothering wet blanket. Worse yet, there wasn’t a ripple of wind. 

However after declaring he was no sissy, Dad changed into his shorts and flip flops and went to work. 

I was on the patio by the pool with my silky gray kitty Stormy, who I affectionately referred to as my “gardening buddy.” He was such a fun little guy, always busy doing something like chasing chameleons, pouncing on dead leaves to hear them crunch and rolling around in the mulch. Stormy loved my flowerbeds as much as I did. While he played, I puttered, watering perennials and sweeping off the patio. 

A half hour passed with only an occasional bump, thud, or clang coming from the garage to drown out Dad’s slightly off-key whistling. 

Suddenly, the calm was shattered by a shriek of horror. 

 "YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING!”

Stormy growled, his tail twitching and ran up a tree. 

“Are you ok? I shouted. 

 A few seconds later a rusty brown figure stomped into the back yard resembling a smaller, skinnier version of Bigfoot.

Poor Dad was literally coated with sphagnum powdered peat moss from the top of his head to his flip flops.

The only parts of his face that weren’t doused were his eyes and the twin dots of his nostrils.  

He stood with his hands planted on his hips, bristling with fury. 

“WELL???????????” he demanded.

Stunned, I dropped the broom. 

Then I lost all control of myself, laughing so hard that I doubled over holding my stomach while tears poured down both cheeks. Of course, my lack of repentance only made things worse.

“I fail to see what’s so FUNNY!!!!!!!” he hollered, as his thick, fuzzy eyebrows wiggled up and down under the gook. 

I leaned against the back wall cackling, gasping for air, fumbled to open the patio door and collapsed on the couch.

I heard the hose running. 

His grouching was loud and illegible as his words were garbled by water shooting from the power nozzle. He was attempting to strip powdered peat moss from his sticky body and I gathered the process wasn’t going well. 

Meanwhile Mom wearily asked the question that parents have asked their children since the beginning of humanity.  

“Michelle Lynette Close, what did you do this time?”

By then I was too far gone to tell her anything, still hysterically laughing, clutching my belly struggling to breathe. 

Then, the hose stopped running.  

At that moment, I managed to get a gulp of air and made tracks. Stumbling down the hall to my room I shut the door, just as a sopping wet mess thumped into the bathroom and turned on the shower. 

He was still grumbling away as he washed off the remaining debris. I shoved a pillow up to my face to stifle my giggles.

To give everyone a chance to collect themselves, my mom called Gail’s mom and asked if I could spend the night at their house.

Which gave me the chance to tell my best friend and her mother what happened, although I could only get out a few sentences at a time before I started hiccuping with giggles again. Eventually, I crossed the finish line and watched them bust out laughing too. 

By then, I ached all over. 

Laughing could be hard work. 

When dad left for work the next morning, Mom called, and told me the coast was clear. 

“You can come home now. And when Dad gets home tonight, plan to apologize!”

 I knew what was coming and wasn’t looking forward to it. What if I started giggling again? Or worse yet lost it altogether? 

When I heard his car later that afternoon, I was at the door waiting. 

 Here we go. 

 Deep breath. 

“Dad, I am sorry about what happened. I never meant for the peat moss to fall on you. Please forgive me.”

To my surprise, he smiled. 

Not a big smile. 

But enough for me to know he’d eventually get over it. 

“Just so you know, if you want another bag of that wretched stuff, you’re paying for it,” he said. 

The next day or so Dad was still finding bits of brown debris in his hair comb and around his ears. Despite vigorous scrubbing the peat moss proved to be a formidable opponent. 

Years later, it’s a story that’s guaranteed have everyone breaking up. Especially if Dad, the victim told his version. 

In the early days following the incident I wished I had a camera handy to get a picture of Dad that night. That would have been something for our family to laugh over for generations to come. 

Yet as time passed, I realized that some of the funniest stories in life are better when we are left to use our imaginations. 

As long as Dad and I are both able to remember, we can spin a pretty good tale without visual aids. 

Michelle Close Mills ©