Today was boat launching day and I fulfilled my role as trailer wife. Meaning no disrespect to the many women who are quite capable of launching a boat from a trailer, it seems that the preponderance of small boat launchings I’ve witnessed end with the wife getting into the car’s driver seat and pulling the empty trailer from the lake. This afternoon as we patiently waited to launch at the public boat launch, we witnessed this stereotype in action. Included in the couple’s car were two daughters who shouted words of encouragement like, “You’re going to hit the dock daddy!”
We were more fortunate, as not only has my husband perfected his boat launching since his impact with a large construction vehicle, but also we had no observers on hand beyond those in the car. True to form he easily manipulated the boat into the water and even avoided getting his feet wet as he floated the boat off of the trailer.
Like other trailer wives, I slid in behind the steering wheel to pull the empty trailer back up the ramp. My checklist was short— take off the emergency brake and pull forward. I pulled next to the curb, and waited a few moments to see if our boat was filling with water—a wait we’d neglected to include in our procedure last summer and which we’d regretted. Anyhow, this year no water poured into the boat, so I was waved on. I pulled onto the road for the drive home. The tension began creeping across my back as I attempted to accelerate nearly to the speed limit.
For me, driving the empty trailer home is like a trust fall. I trust my husband has securely attached the trailer to the hitch where it will stay until removed. Of course, unlike in a trust fall, if my trust is misplaced, there will be no one around to pick me up off the ground and see if I’m okay. Every bump seems to toss the trailer behind me—the rattles resonate through every nerve in my body. “This trailer rides so much quieter than our old one,” my husband had just commented on our drive to the launch—well that was before we unloaded 3500 pounds of ballast pushing down on it! The road is covered in frost heaves, oh, and joy, ahead I see a warning barrier where much of the roadway has been washed out—maybe I can accelerate and sneak through the middle before the on-coming car. Tension grips my whole midriff. Breathe; just breathe and relax, I remind myself.
I glance into my rearview mirror—a pickup truck is closing in. Drivers around here don’t like going 40 mph in a 50 mph zone—I accelerate up to 48, maybe I’ll make my turn off before he’s on my tail. I can feel the tension radiated from my spine embracing my rib cage. None of my relaxation techniques seem to be taking effect.
Finally, the turnoff for our road, I gracefully make a sweeping turn and I’m happy to note that the pickup doesn’t also turn. Now I can relax. I near our driveway. I spot our mailbox and breathe out the last bit of tension. I turn into our driveway—perhaps I should have held onto some of that tension— I take out a portion of the lilac bush.
Dandelion Memories
Carefully loosening 
the soil all around the stubborn dandelion, I slowly attempted to pry that tenacious root from its bed of soil. What could possibly be pulling against my efforts so resolutely? Was there a contingent of earthworms strung end to end through the dirt holding fast to the root? Perhaps the root had managed to curl itself around a large rock, plentiful in my New England yard. Whatever the cause, my efforts were futile; I pulled firmly and sure enough out popped the dandelion leaving its root behind to grow again into an even stronger nuisance.
Continuing to my next opponent, dirt pressed beneath my fingernails, my thoughts flitted to my childhood, where I sat watching a neighboring puttering across his lawn in pursuit of every last dandelion. His lawn was flat and green, free of dandelions and other minor inconveniences like prickly beechnuts. My friend and I would ring his doorbell many a sunny afternoon and ask if we could borrow his lawn for our gymnastics stunts. Every time he’d respond, “as long as you bring it back.”
When I’d wander across the street while he was weeding, he’d explain that is was critical to nab the entire root—that was the secret of his success for winning against the dandelions. At the time, that seemed a very straightforward process. So many years later as a homeowner, tackling my own dandelions, I was surprised by how difficult was the quest to remove dandelions. Were he my neighbor now, I’d walk over as he stooped with his trowel, and ask for the key to removing the root—should I take a clump of grass with it? Was my trowel the wrong size? Should I wait until after the rain?
Alas, he died some years ago, but yet each spring as I amble around my yard, trowel in hand, his memory comes to mind. What small task of mine will call up a memory of me in years hence? I can only hope that some action I do today or tomorrow or each spring or fall, will someday bring a smile to a future face, picturing an idyllic scene from a childhood afternoon. In the meantime, I think the rain’s slowing, maybe now is just the right time for dandelion pursuits.
the soil all around the stubborn dandelion, I slowly attempted to pry that tenacious root from its bed of soil. What could possibly be pulling against my efforts so resolutely? Was there a contingent of earthworms strung end to end through the dirt holding fast to the root? Perhaps the root had managed to curl itself around a large rock, plentiful in my New England yard. Whatever the cause, my efforts were futile; I pulled firmly and sure enough out popped the dandelion leaving its root behind to grow again into an even stronger nuisance.Continuing to my next opponent, dirt pressed beneath my fingernails, my thoughts flitted to my childhood, where I sat watching a neighboring puttering across his lawn in pursuit of every last dandelion. His lawn was flat and green, free of dandelions and other minor inconveniences like prickly beechnuts. My friend and I would ring his doorbell many a sunny afternoon and ask if we could borrow his lawn for our gymnastics stunts. Every time he’d respond, “as long as you bring it back.”
When I’d wander across the street while he was weeding, he’d explain that is was critical to nab the entire root—that was the secret of his success for winning against the dandelions. At the time, that seemed a very straightforward process. So many years later as a homeowner, tackling my own dandelions, I was surprised by how difficult was the quest to remove dandelions. Were he my neighbor now, I’d walk over as he stooped with his trowel, and ask for the key to removing the root—should I take a clump of grass with it? Was my trowel the wrong size? Should I wait until after the rain?
Alas, he died some years ago, but yet each spring as I amble around my yard, trowel in hand, his memory comes to mind. What small task of mine will call up a memory of me in years hence? I can only hope that some action I do today or tomorrow or each spring or fall, will someday bring a smile to a future face, picturing an idyllic scene from a childhood afternoon. In the meantime, I think the rain’s slowing, maybe now is just the right time for dandelion pursuits.
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