It was a warm, spring day. The days were warm, but not too warm. The air had not yet taken on the heavy, wet blanket feel reserved for summer. It was about five o'clock in the afternoon. I was still wearing the clothes I had worn to school, green shorts and a t-shirt, Converse tennis shoes. I followed my Dad out to the storage shed, still feeling the anticipation that had been building throughout the day. Today was the day I would mow the yard for the first time- the day I finally get to drive that shiny, new lawn tractor.

I was turning a corner of the yard on our Cub Cadet and thinking how much I liked driving this thing, but it really was hard to tell where the grass needed mowing. Dad was walking about five or six steps in front of me. He pointed in a straight line in front of me, then made a wide, sweeping arc with his right arm and pointed back the other way. Confused because I could not tell where the grass had or had not been cut, I apparently missed a spot before I got to the turnaround point. I will never forget what happened next. My father rolled his eyes skyward, threw his hands in the air and walked away. He did not say anything; he did not have to. I had seen this look before, too many times. I knew what it meant. Something like, "Why, out of all the sons in the world I could have had, did I wind up with this one?" It was just one more thing I did not do perfectly. And perfect was the only way to be if you were ever going to get anywhere with my dad.

Reflecting on those times now I see a lot that was not obvious at the time. I wondered from time to time why was it that everything I did met with such resistance. Perhaps, it was not so much resistance as it was a reluctance to give credit where credit was due. Compliments were in order in my opinion. There were quite a few things I did well among them were athletics and I also played the guitar in several smalltime bands and was beginning to perform solo on occasion as well. Dad always took care to listen closely to what I was playing and was quick to point out missed notes. I can remember being told not to get on stage unless I played "something pretty." One time, I can remember being told not to get on stage at all, period. This reinforced the lesson I had been taught all along: don't attempt this or that if you can't do it right. I wondered how was someone supposed to learn to do anything if you did not teach or give him or her some freedom to fail?

I know now it was just the continuation of a cycle that began long ago. It began with my Dad's father and probably his father before him, too. Nothing was ever good enough for grandpa either. He was always looking for the slightest reason to write you off for good. I believe now it all came from feelings of being inadequate. Grandpa's own sense of worth was damaged somehow and he passed that on to my dad, and dad passed it on to me.

Dad did not spend a lot of time around grandpa when I was growing up. I remember hearing him say once, "I decided long ago, whenever I left home I was going to be my own man." In the end, leaving home turned out to be building a house next door. The other siblings had trouble breaking out of the mold as well. Dad's brother was valedictorian of his high school and had a full scholarship to attend NC State, but ultimately turned it down to stay on the family farm. I believe it was fear that held them back. They were afraid of not doing everything perfectly. It became easier to not try at all.

It's funny, I find myself sometimes thinking just like my dad would about something. Judging everything in the world in a split second. Labeling it all good or bad, right or wrong, sometimes without knowing half the facts.

My dad mows his yard twice a week. Not once a week or when it needs mowing, but twice a week. Wet weather or dry, it makes no difference. And do you know what? I can watch him going around and around that yard and even today all these years later, I can't tell where the grass needs mowing and where it doesn't. The grass is always so short; you could lay down in it with a magnifying glass and maybe tell there were two blades out of alignment. Dad is still going round and round that yard, trying to get it just right. Chasing after the perfection that would have gotten approval from his father, never getting it, never quite measuring up.

Things are much different between us now. I have moved back to the land I grew up on and we spend a lot of time doing projects around the farm. The land was one thing we had that bound us together in a positive way. When he talks to me, I listen for what is being said behind the words: trying to discern the real meaning. Trying to understand him has helped me understand myself more fully. It has not been easy. It continues to be a learning process, but I feel a great sense of peace about it now. It has taken a lot of time to arrive at this point. It was worth the effort. I no longer doubt his love for me.

It was sometime later I finally added up all the pieces and had my moment of insight. I don't remember exactly where I was when I put it all together, but I do remember the revelation. I realized that dad was just being who he was because of how his father had treated him. I finally realized it wasn't me. It was nothing personal. It was just these patterns of life that are just so entrenched in us we don't know where they come from. At times we are not even aware of them. I finally realized I wasn't crazy: that God couldn't mow my father's yard, either.