The Terror of Marker Flags

Leave a comment
Special Events, Uncategorized

To understand my anxiety you must first understand my father.  To my dad, your front yard was a billboard to who you were.  A well kept lawn meant integrity, honesty, hard worker.  You could trust someone with a great front yard.  Thus, my father was the only man I knew that had a Zoysia lawn.  Nobody in there right mind planted Zoysia.  It was the last to turn green in the spring and the first to turn yellow in the fall.  It was as thick as southern molasses.  But when Zoysia was on – you couldn’t touch it.  It’s literally what’s used for putting greens on golf courses.  When that Zoysia was green, my father could not be more proud.  You could trust whoever lived in this home.

This family trait was passed down in the gene pool.  My brother and I forever competed in the front lawn arena.  We shared photos back and forth, compared lawn sprinkling programs, what fertilizer have you used lately…it was personal.

So imagine my anxiety when marker flags suddenly appeared in MY FRONT YARD.  No note, no explanation.  Just a sign that danger is coming.  And, at 8:00am yesterday the forces of destruction arrived.  Gas Service needed to repair a pipe.

I hid in the house trying not to listen to the sounds of the backhoe digging up my family heritage.  But in the end, Kansas Gas Service could not have been any nicer.  The supervisor quickly identified my anxiety and explained how they would minimize the dig and then took me by the hand and showed me how nicely everything would be returned back to normal.  Now they are gone  – – and I can remove my marker flags.




Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s