Humor by John Christmann
Taking Control
Where’s the remote?
Watching television in our house is like playing Russian Roulette, especially when nothing good is on. There are usually five or more remotes sitting on the coffee table and only one of them works.
Over the years the number of electronic gadgets that are plugged into our television set in the name of entertainment has grown to the point where I don’t even know what our TV is capable of displaying.
One of the remotes says USAF on it. I am afraid to use it for fear I will find myself piloting a drone.
I try each remote and nothing happens. Annoyed, I ask my kids for help.
Soon indecipherable hieroglyphics and acronyms appear on the TV screen. “You need this one too,” my son says, handing me another remote.
I don’t know which button to push and in total frustration, I give up watching TV and leave my son to solve the remote problem. He does and starts playing a video game on my departure.
My kids go through life believing complexity must be managed. I go through life believing complexity must be eliminated. It is an age thing.
This is why I like shovels. They don’t have to be charged, don’t have buttons to push, and don’t require a username or password. When I feel overwhelmed I go out in the yard with my shovel and eliminate some complexity.
I usually take my frustration out on overgrown flowerbeds. I am not much of a gardener, but I am particularly good at removing weeds. And where weeds go, I am not all that discriminate. If it comes out from the ground easily it is a weed. If it is ugly, it is a weed. If I don’t like the way it looks it is a weed.
I especially like removing overgrown tangles of ivy vines which, while they look mature and stoic, take over the beds and creep insidiously into the masonry fabric of my house compromising the very foundation of my life.
With a satisfying crunch I force my sturdy shovel through the dense leaves and thick vines that cover the earth, and grabbing a hank of the newly cut ends, pull with all my might. Long ropes of suffocating ivy spring free with satisfying pops as the roots along the strands release their desperate hold one by one from the earth.
As I pull the long ropes come free leaving a rewarding path of simplicity in their wake.
Satisfied, I grab and pull another. And another.
In the end I have a clean, simple patch of earth. I survey my handiwork and it is good. There used to be a flowering plant there, but now it is gone too. It doesn’t matter: my selfish need to control my environment in this moment far outweighs any beauty it extends.
At my feet are long, hopelessly tangled cords of cleared ivy waiting to be hauled to the dump. One of the strands is wound around my ankle. As I try to step free of the tangle I trip and lunge forward to prevent myself from falling into some rose bushes in front of me.
I am partially successful.
I miss the rose bushes, but instead step on the scoop end of the shovel, which lies unseen under the coils of ivy. The handle end swings up and hits me hard in the chest, knocking me backward.
The ivy vine is still wrapped around my foot.
And now I hit the rose bushes that are behind me. I understand why professional gardeners wear gloves and coveralls.
I don’t know which stings more, the thorns on the bush or the ground bees whose home I am sitting on. I immediately identify the piercing rose thorns. The bee stings come a minute later as I run in an uncontrollable panic around the yard trying to yank my T-shirt over my head in order to free the two or three tiny bees that are still trapped against my sweaty skin.
In retrospect, I probably should have stopped running when the stinging stopped because the damp T shirt was now rolled up hopelessly over my head covering my eyes.
That’s when I passed through the roses again. And ran through the coiled vines a second time. And stepped once more on the shovel.
It wasn’t until the next day, amid bruises and itching welts and long bloody scratches, that the red rash presented itself too. You see, after years of cathartic weeding, I have developed a serious allergic reaction to poison ivy.
But it was Sunday and despite my burning skin, I finally felt like I accomplished something at my own hands. And now it was a day of rest, and a time to nurse my mangled body back to health by watching football.
I sat gingerly on the couch and reached for one of the devices atop the coffee table.
Where’s the remote?
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