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0 of 3 Premium Clicks used this month SUBSCRIBE Print + Online Subscriber Activation | Register x Forgot Password | Need an Account? e-edition | subscribe | newsletter | deals Classifieds Jobs Autos Real Estate FEATURED » NEWS NOW Another wolf makes its way into Southern Oregon ... Our View: Let Medford voters decide on marijuana sales ... Reopening of the Siskiyou Line means trucking companies will take a hit ... Another wolf makes its way into Southern Oregon ... Our View: Let Medford voters decide on marijuana sales ... Reopening of the Siskiyou Line means trucking companies will take a hit ... SOUTHERN OREGON JOURNAL Southern Oregon Journal: Dad and small remembrances Comment By Peggy Dover for the Mail Tribune MailTribune.com By Peggy Dover for the Mail Tribune Posted Jun. 14, 2015 at 12:01 AM By Peggy Dover for the Mail Tribune Posted Jun. 14, 2015 at 12:01 AM » Social News What a shame about sweet June. She must have incurred some terrible injustice to move her from warm and blushing to a screaming inferno. And how quaint of me to think I would cheat summer’s heat by going coastal in July. I was determined to postpone my first heat rant of the season until then at least, unless, of course, I’m reduced to nothing more than a pool of sweat and printer’s ink. One thing I will say for the heat, which is not to be misconstrued as any type of compliment, it does make of me an early riser, which is further justification for throwing cold water all over the blast. I had no choice but to tackle the outdoor chores. Early the other morning during 17 minutes when the air was a bracing 65 degrees, you might have found me knees down on my regulation 1-by-1-foot square, foam-rubber gardener’s pad grubbing out weeds by hand and hoe. They were my own square and hoe, not borrowed. My plan was to sow the front bed with a dusting of fairy-like wildflower seeds — to watch them break through against the odds and rival a blooming English garden, one posy at a time. Freshly turned earth had that familiar smell of comfort and home, though I didn’t know how to treat it properly for growing things. My hands and fingernails knew how to wear dirt well. It felt cool and authentic. As I fought roots of stubborn varieties and loosed others without complaint, a picture of my dad came to me, on his knees, working and weeding through our early nomadic years, clearing lawns that wrapped our temporary homes of interloping weeds. Dad returned home after a grueling office day, changed into casual pants, never jeans, and took up his therapy in the yard. He said words like sphagnum peat moss and manure, and knew how to use them. Our lawns were beautiful. There’s a photo among those in the big box collection of Dad in his undershirt and tan trousers, bent over the grass doing hand-to-weed battle with a small dark-haired child clinging to his back. That was only one of the times when I made his job harder. He didn’t complain or toss me off. He may have understood that I was astride an elephant lurching over grass plains, and holding on for life. Daddy got fancy for work and church. He wore white dress shirts and ties and Old English after-shave on his neck. I can still hear the double-stroke rhythm of the brush technique he used when polishing his shoes. I watched throughout the process. He hated onions and garlic, loved simple food, including pie, and thought Gilligan was too stupid to be funny. He golfed and bowled well all his life while patiently trying to teach me. Of the five of us, Dad was the only athlete in the family, but we tried, just to be with him and receive his encouragement, which was forthcoming because he wanted us with him. Dad faithfully strung colored Christmas lights around the roofline and on the tree, and taught us the fine art of proper ball and tinsel placement. He loved Laurel and Hardy. He loved to laugh. The more I thought, the more details surfaced. Before I knew it, the bed was weed-free and ready for sphagnum peat moss and manure, or maybe just a good raking up. I cut corners in a garden, and that could be my problem. Despite my efforts to scoot the square along, my knees were caked with black sticky because I was impatient to be done. Dad was patient. Three cheers for the fathers, who shoulder their responsibilities and carry little girls (boys, too) over dangerous terrain in trustworthy fashion. Peggy Dover is a freelance writer in Eagle Point. Reach her at [email protected] and her Facebook page at Peggy Dover-writer. By Peggy Dover for the Mail Tribune MailTribune.com By Peggy Dover for the Mail Tribune Posted Jun. 14, 2015 at 12:01 AM » Comment or view comments Reader Reaction » STAY INFORMED Email NewsLetter Sign Up Today Sign up for our newsletter and have the top headlines from your community delivered right to your inbox. Southern Oregon Directory Featured Businesses Loading... 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