A year ago my dad passed. Went on. Died. 14 months have passed and I must say I feel better. I am used to his absence. Its interesting how a person is here – brush hogging one minute then a mere 45 days later – he is gone. Brush hogging. I used to call it “bush hogging” until this moment when I looked it up and its “Brush Hogging”

The online dictionary defines this type of activity as..

A brush hog is a type of rotary mower. Typically these mowers attach to the back of a farm tractor using the three-point hitch and are driven via the Power take-off (PTO). It has blades that are not rigidly attached to the drive like a lawnmower blade, but are on hinges so if the blade hits a rock or stump, it bounces backward and inward, and then inertia makes it go outwards again.

The rotary blades are not sharpened in the same way as a conventional mower blade. They are usually quite dull so they whack through dense plant growth, whereas a sharp blade often gets stuck or slowed down. The blades are very heavy, up to an inch thick, so the momentum pulling out is stronger than the forces of the vegetation bouncing in. They are made of heat treated high carbon steel that can withstand strikes with hard objects such as rocks and stones.”

What a manly thing to be doing as your last big activity…. whacking things with high carbon steel that withstands rocks and stones.  No wonder my dad love to brush hog things. Imagine just tearing into a bunch of brush and whacking it down. Like the jungle explorers looking for Tarzan- whacking vines with machetes or the French/Spanish explorers looking for the Fountain of Youth. I think these men lost themselves in the search and destruction of things in their path. Dad did.

Loud machine kicking up dirt and dust, extremely hot temperature, unknown things under your mower blades of steel…. bouncing along and enjoying the hot wind in his face, doing one of his favorite things… then bam! Extreme pain in the gut and his brush hogging days are over. 45 days later, its all over.

Its the little things I hang onto. His voice is still on my answering machine. Its a wobbly old man voice calling to tell me that he called. “This is your dad”, he said. I can’t erase it. I changed my phone code to his birthdate. I bought some expensive aviator sunglasses that remind me of him. I bought them in a fancy store at a ski village on top of an alpine mountain in Austria. He hated mountains, skiing, fancy stores and Austria. My final act of rebellion. I think I said goodbye on that mountain.

I hope he found his Fountain Of Youth.