And now to sound like a horrible, awful, no-good son who says things like this: I should have bought my mother a Christmas present instead of agreeing to build her flower boxes.
Yep, I said it. I’m a lout. An ungrateful sack of rotting kidney beans.
I should have bought her socks or ear muffs or a gift certificate for plants. Something … anything! It would have been over and done with. Delivered on Christmas morning. Unwrapped, fawned over and forgotten.
She wanted flower boxes to sit beneath her windowsills. Said that was all she wanted for Christmas. That would be easier and cheaper on me. (My mother thinks I’m poor and that a recession on the scale of what killed the dinosaurs is coming. Flower boxes will help her survive the apocalypse.)
Dutiful son that I am, I signed on knowing it would not be easier, and certainly not cheaper.
But now it’s May and I have only completed a prototype. The court records in the criminal trial will refer to it as “Exhibit A.” It was a quick build — designed to her specifications and wood thickness. It was quickly dispatched to the scrap heap.
It failed on two fronts: 1) I built it to the wrong dimensions (idiot carpenter that I am, I used the interior size for the exterior), and 2) she didn’t like the wood thickness. (Because I am a good son, I WILL NOT bring up the fact that she specified the wood thickness. That would be reprehensible! Rotten!)
Why has it taken so long? It’s not that I’m lazy or dragging my feet. I mean, I am lazy and dragging my feet. But that’s not the only reason. There have been numerous demands and requests placed upon the project. In the construction business they’re called “change orders.” In the construction business you also bill the client for them, but I’m not so lucky.
She wanted unusual things, like to wait until after my brother finished his Christmas present — some outdoor stairs for her. Why wait until after my brother? Simple … so I could reuse the scraps of wood leftover from his project.
Why reuse scraps? Shoot, why does the sun set in the west and rise in the east? These are questions for astrophysicists or celestial beings. Not little rhubarbs like me.
So I waited until my (also) lazy, foot-dragging brother finished his project … only to find that he’s terribly efficient. The single scrap of wood left was a 3-inch stub with a mangled nail sticking out of it. Time to buy lumber.
About a month ago I was given the green light and we started the design phase. This involved looking at other people’s window boxes. Strolling across their yards at odd times of the day for close examinations. We looked like we were peeking inside their windows, and we startled a large number of people. Why the police weren’t called is anyone’s guess.
I now have plans drawn on scraps of paper, dimensions and wood sizes. These only change on the quarter hour every other day.
“I don’t want you using screws!” came the demand one day. (My family speaks in exclamation points … sometimes several to a sentence.)
“Why! not!” came my reply.
“Because! your father!!!! used screws! — SCREWS! — for a project once! The wood rotted! around the screw holes! Just use glue! It’ll hold!”
“Fine!”
Somewhere in me, deep down in a corner of my gizzard that I don’t like to admit exists, a part of me is enjoying this wild endeavor. It’s like being back in grade school when we used to make Christmas presents in art class. They were as awful as they were heartfelt. Pottery that looked like the shriveled livers of career alcoholics. Paintings of “Star Wars” or jungle cats with only three legs. Dangling things made from macaroni that attracted roaches like a bird feeder.
I started feeling that way when I realized my first flower box — the “prototype” — was a bust.
“Merry Christmas, mom. It’s a lop-sided, non-square flower box. And the best part is the flower pots you want to put in there won’t fit. I hope you like it!”
I’ve got to get this right. I’ve got to invest more energy. More time. More design. More attention to detail. More tender-loving care. This is what sons do for their mothers.
In the end they’ll be great. I’m sure of it. And she’ll be thrilled. Just like when we were young and she got the diseased liver vase.
Now I just need to get them done before Christmas. Why? She’s already drawing up plans for a settee we’re supposed to build next.