Obstacles.

When I was a child, I wanted to do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted to do it. Like most children mistaking freedom for license, I assumed that, once I was an adult, I could do whatever I wanted. This idea would occasionally be reinforced when my parents used the expression: “when you're older you can do what you want, but right now you have to do what we say.” The reality is that life has obstacles, things we don't plan on that get in our way. Perhaps they make life more interesting, though. If there were cheats in life as there are in some video games, I think we'd get bored.

A few weeks ago I learned my dad had already mowed the lawn at his lot once this year, while I was at work. He casually asked me to help him with the garage door there the next chance I had, because he had difficultly lifting it and he suspected the springs may have worn out. While it rained throughout last weekend, today offered far better conditions. And so we set out early to tackle what should have been a simple job.

I wanted to stop at the post office first, to return When Harry Met Sally... to Netflix, and my dad wanted to swing by the local gas station. With nearly a full tank, he was still concerned about running out tomorrow on our way to a feast in Brooklyn. He also wanted to get some to put in the lawnmower over at the lot. Unfortunately for both of us an obstacle, in the form of a little league parade, barred the road to both the post office and the gas station. Life has obstacles, things we don't plan on that get in our way.


We decided to get gas on the way home for the car, and take a chance that there was enough in the mower should the grass need to be cut again. My dad suggested a post office on the way in a neighboring town, and I knew precisely where it was. As he asked where I was going and if I had passed it, I was confused. He went on to explain that it had moved recently, and we had definitely missed it. My stubbornness is my greatest obstacle, and I continued on to show him the post office. When I saw it was now a florist, I had to concede. Fortunately, there would be another one on our route. My dad ran in for me and mailed it, and after he returned I checked to make sure no one was alongside me before pulling away from the curb. An SUV passed me and then I accelerated, braking immediately as the driver decided to park in front of me, cutting sharply to the right. He came to a halt leaving the way clear to proceed, but opened his door in to traffic. As he stood fumbling with his keys, his door still wide open, I veered into oncoming traffic and returned to my lane, noting in the rearview mirror that cars behind me were forced to do the same. The man, an obstacle no one planned on, remained oblivious to his nature.

We arrived at the lot without further incident. Even with both of us working together, the garage door proved extremely stubborn. I saw stars once it was up, and rebuked my dad for going there by himself. He doesn't carry a cell phone and should he have had a heart attack, my mother and I would not have known until we went looking for him after he didn't come back. He waved it aside, pointing out that he has to go some time and he figures he's got about five years left anyway. The obstacle of stubbornness is a family trait on my dad's side, rivaled only by the inability to part with anything that I inherited from my mother. Indeed, I surveyed the items in the garage, the racks of books, shoes, old clothing and other junk that, rather than donate or discard, she had gradually placed there for Summer garage sales. For the last five years she volunteered weekends at an arboretum however, and so these items sat idle, the playthings of rats and spiders. Before we could fix the springs, we had to get past tables of breakable glass items, more obstacles.

We adjusted one side of the garage, and I pulled the cable and spring to give my dad the slack he needed to hook it a little further. When we moved to the opposite side, my dad asked a scary question. “Is that some kind of animal up there?!” Cautiously, I moved through the shadows to see what he was referring to. In the corner recesses above the door, something round, white and flaky, a little larger than a basketball loomed. It was a nest, hornets by my uneducated guess. “What should we do? Knock it down?” I couldn't disagree more, but he decided if he used a long hooked garden tool he'd be fine. He couldn't be dissuaded, so I moved about thirty feet away and readied my cell phone to call 911. As he pulled away the flakes of the nest, he observed that it seemed to be bits of leaves and newspaper, more likely put there by a mouse or a rat than any kind of stinging insect. We didn't encounter any inhabitants and, with that obstacle out of the way, adjusted that side of the door as well. “That should do it.”, said my dad with inexplicable certainty.

He remained inside while I pulled the door down. At first there was resistance, then it fell quickly. About five inches from the ground it came to a halt, and even standing on the handle with my full 193 pounds did little to budge it. Inside, my dad poured motor oil on the track, and asked me to try it again. It moved more freely, and I worked it back and forth a few times to get the wheels oiled, but when I lowered it, some unseen obstacle held it in place inches from the ground. I opened the door again, noting that motor oil was now dripping from the track on to some of my mom's things, including a cylindrical Quaker Oatmeal container which she had labeled “classic”. I'm not sure how much an old cardboard package might be worth but since she was only charging a dollar for it, I'm sure it wasn't that classic. Again, my mom hates to part with things.

We decided to disconnect one spring entirely. If the door closed, we knew it was that side that was the problem. If it didn't close all the way, then the problem would be on the other side. The heavy door fell so swiftly, it nearly crushed my feet. Through my work gloves, my fingers screamed at the strain the handle put on each individual joint. The door closed, and inside I heard my dad ask me to lift it back up. I strained to no avail, and this time he asked if I was still there, a hint of panic in his voice. I told him to wait a minute as I looked around, finding a piece of wood to use as a lever. I tried again, moving it barely an inch when I saw gloved fingers appear from within. Working together, we moved the door enough to slide the makeshift lever in place, and ultimately get the door open. As the twelve o'clock whistle sounded in the distance, my dad expressed concern at how late it was, and finally revealed that one of his friends was bringing a car over to work on at one o'clock. He decided to put the spring and cables back the way they were for today, and we'd tackle the problem next week, perhaps trying sturdier springs from the original garage door. I couldn't believe the rusted springs with very little tension were only a few years old, and that the old ones he had saved, while a little rusted, were much heavier and stronger.

Driving home, my dad wondered aloud about selling the property. While it had been in our family for years, it was becoming too much for him to handle. He considered giving the money to me as a gift, to put toward the purchase of my uncle's house, should my uncle ever fully move into his new apartment, a process he now estimates will take a year. I'd hate to lose something that was my grandfather's, that once meant so much to my dad, and I also didn't like the idea of my parents helping me buy a house. They've done everything for me my whole life, and as an adult I should be able to stand on my own two feet with something. He shrugged and said I was going to inherit it sooner or later anyway, and taxes would be better if he presented it to me as a gift rather than left it to me in his will. I can't imagine such a tremendous gift though. When I graduated high school, they presented me with a sum of cash that, at the time, I found far too generous to accept. After paying my tuition for four years, there was no need to give me more money, especially since they were about to pay my college tuition, whatever my scholarships didn't cover. I got mad and gave it back to them, but I suspect my mom only invested the money and slowly gave it to me on subsequent holidays over the years. Parental generosity is an obstacle pride cannot overcome, and I don't know how I'm going to pay my parents back for everything they've done already. Perhaps that's one of life's great ironies. They've often regretted not doing more for their parents, and if they couldn't pay them back then they're paying it forward with me. Someday after they're gone, if I have children, I'll have to make the same sacrifices for my kids that my parents made for me, my grandparents made for them, and so on. I still want to buy a house with money I earned, and I don't want my dad to give up his family legacy, but I do at the very least understand the greater pattern in his reasoning. If we have insight into the thought processes of the people we love, we have one less obstacle to overcome.