My dad liked to water the lawn. No matter where the Army stationed him in his 20-year career, the post would have a Yard-of-the-Month contest. The winner would get to display a sign for 30 days; it was like a trophy. Daddy would mow, water, seed, fertilise, and put new topsoil on the yard.

He would have us kids pull weeds and rake clippings. Sometimes he’d ask us to hand water the spots the sprinkler didn’t reach. In no time, we would be playing “Zorro,” creating “Z” shapes with the water hose.

There was never any litter or dog droppings in Sergeant Mathis’ yard. That lawn would look as neat and trim as the crew cuts he gave us. Daddy never won the coveted sign, but he never gave up trying.

Lifelong Dedication

Even after he retired, Daddy would trim, edge, and water his lawn – especially water. In his old age, he used a leaf blower to gather leaves. Sometimes he would ‘rake’ leaves with a stream of water from the hose – even in the rain!

I think he knew how to have fun. He would wear a raincoat and rubber boots and wash the leaves downhill in the pouring rain. He didn’t care what the neighbours would think.

When he died, I asked the folks at the Fort Sam Houston graveyard to install a water sprinkler near his grave. It would be a fitting memorial for the old man, a compensation for the Yard-of-the-Month Award that he never won. But I guess that was too much to ask of a National Cemetery.

Sometimes when it rains, I kick off my shoes and go outside. I watch the rivulets run across the lawn. I walk in the squishy mud and rinse my feet in the torrent by the curb. I marvel at the forces of nature. I thank God for watering my lawn.

And I think of my dad.