Creation

The morning was bright and crisp when I started laying sod in the backyard. My friends were yet to arrive and Tracy was feeding Shea on the sofa and I had the dark plain of smooth dirt spreading out before me. I had half a row laid down by the time people began to arrive and the morning unfurled in the muddy commotion of sod rolls, rakes, wheelbarrows, and I'm reluctant to admit, more than a couple of beers.

My forearms burned by the time we rounded out the second hour but it was time to power through. With my buddies surrounding me, I wasn't about to admit my fatigue. Although Shea had woke an hour after I went to bed and had been fussy through the early morning hours, I wasn't about to concede my defeat a morning of hard labor provided. In the end, the lawn was covered with a smooth plain of green grass and my friends were feasting on a meal of barbecue ribs and the beers were disappearing with a greater zest.

My mother and mother-in-law jockeyed for position in holding the baby, being gracious about spreading out her attention. The next morning was spent sculpting flower beds, hauling debris, cleaning up the workspace and this evening ended with me sitting on my porch and surveying the labor in the glow of a lone streetlight.

The satisfaction is the same. Whether it is a particularly engaging story, a well turned line of dialogue or a new lawn shining moist in dim light I'm proud of the effort, the struggle necessary to complete a task worth doing. I'm tired. I'm sore. And I know that it was all worth it.

Tomorrow I go to the library after work and I hope to dedicate the same unfaltering dedication to the task of laying the words on the page like I spent the weekend laying sod on the bare canvas of my own backyard.