Most days Santiago would ride the mower through the cemetery with a cooler of Buds. He’d average a beer an hour over the course of the day. He claimed it helped him navigate in and out of the headstones.
He told me once, “your Pap wouldn’t let me do any of the riding mowing the first five or six years I worked for him. He claimed I was a drunk and couldn’t be trusted. Of course, he wasn’t wrong.
“Well, one summer, about ten years back, Pap was sick around Memorial Day Weekend, which is big time here at Mt. Hope. Nothing kept Pap out of work, but he couldn’t keep any food down. Your gram tried to get him to stay home, but he wouldn’t listen to reason.
“He was so feverish I’m not sure he knew what day of the week it was, or that by Thursday he hadn’t mowed any of the lawn. I’d mowed the parts you do by hand and trimmed most of the stones, but he hadn’t done one inch of the place except the back field, where he always started. That part was empty and straight, so he was able to zigzag across it without doing any damage.
“Anyway, he came in that Thursday in worse shape than any of the other days. Sweat was pouring off of him. I knew he wasn’t doing any work. I tricked him in to heading back to the cottage, telling him your gram needed something or other. Once there, I laid him out on the couch, and let your gram tend to him. At that point, he was too weak to fight me.
“You’ve never in your life heard so many compliments about a lawn. People were ecstatic about the patterns I’d cut through the grass, and how neat and trim everything looked. Keep in mind many of the folks coming in were from military families, so they knew a thing or two about order. I’d overhear them telling Pap they’d never seen the place looking so good.
“Of course Pap got the credit, and that was okay. I knew the job I’d done. I did the whole place: mowing, trimming, and two burials all by myself. I was used to the shaft at that point.
“Well, Pap got better, and that was the end of my riding. I was back doing your work, pushing that heavy mower around the hill and trimming all the headstones.
“Now, we also weren’t getting compliments about the lawn anymore. Your pap likes to stick his nose into it a bit, and play the rebel, but when it comes to that lawn, it’s all up and down in simple rows.
“And that’s fine, but people began to ask about getting some fresh patterns in the lawn. They wanted to know why it didn’t look more like Memorial Day weekend. They were bored with the same ol’ same ol’. Pap did his usual and told them to screw and that this was a cemetery, not a hair salon. You know how he is.
“But I could see it bugged him, and I thought I might be able to help him out. I was tired of the mowing and trimming. Do you know how difficult it is to get the trimming done with a case of Buds on your back? No, I suppose you don’t. Well, they get warm, and that is no way to enjoy a Bud.
“Anyway, I asked Pap why he wouldn’t ever let me do the riding. I told him maybe I could cut some fresh patterns and make the families a little happier.
“I had the good sense not to tell him I had cut the Memorial Day patterns people were talking so much about. He’d been so sick; he didn’t even realize I had cut the whole place myself.
“Pap said if I could give up the sauce, he might let me ride. That was his constant refrain. At that point I’d been thinking of trying to kick it anyway, so I thought I’d show him. I took a week off to let the shakes run their course, they I spent a week working without a sip during the day.
“Pap was as good as his word, and when I’d proved to him I was sober, he let me do the riding.
“You ask him today, and I bet he’d tell you it was the worst decision he ever made. I got the mower stuck on a water spigot and ripped it out of the ground. The lower third of the cemetery was flooded before we could get it turned off.
“The next morning, I knocked a granite headstone off its base. I figured Pap would fire me on the spot. I could see the rage in his eyes. He didn’t accept much in the way of screw-ups and isn’t one to be crossed.
“He’s a good man your pap. Once we got the stone back on its base, he took me up to the garage for lunch. He took two ice cold Buds out of the fridge and set them in front of me. He looked me in the eye, and I know he could see the desperation, the need sitting in there.
“But I wouldn’t touch them. Pap pulled back the tab on his beer, the pop running through my entire body. My mouth watered with the hunger, but I still wouldn’t touch the two in front of me.
“Pap took a long pull off the can, smacked his lips and said, ‘that’s a damn fine thing.’ Then he looked me in the eye and said, ‘Santiago, you can’t cut grass worth a damn sober. You better get yourself in the right frame of mind to cut it after lunch.’
“He drained the rest of his beer and went over to the cottage for his lunch. I’ve been doing the riding mowing ever since.”
