\o7I\f7 LEARNED what was funny about the world mostly by watching television with my father, who roared at Archie Bunker and Hawkeye Pierce, Ted Baxter and the Smothers Brothers. Dad seemed particularly amused by blowhards like Baxter. Jackie Gleason and Art Carney were other favorites, victims of their own crazy dreams.
Were he still around, I'm sure Dad would be entertained by my do-it-myself backyard makeover, which is in its second year and shows no sign of ever ending. It is now, according to experts, the biggest American engineering project since Joan Rivers' last neck tuck.
"What's he building, Las Vegas?" the boy asked one day.
"It's sure taken longer," said his mother.
Hey, Rome wasn't built in 14 months. This project has required 200 linear feet of pipe, 30 bags of concrete mix and 4,000 cubic feet of I-don't-know-what-I'm-doing. The other day, I went by Home Depot for a little help, and 200 day laborers fled back to Mexico. \o7No mas! No mas!\f7
Still, I plow on, with the assistance of the little guy, who accompanies me with his toy wheelbarrow. As I work, the 4-year-old sits nearby, digging for worms as if sifting for gold. He accidentally pounds my toe with my good hammer. Without him, I don't know where I'd be.
"You know, you're my No. 1 man," I told him one day.
"I am?"
"You're definitely my No. 1 man," I said.
Basically, that makes him foreman of himself. His big brother, a strapping lad, helps now and then, but life is just too short and his girlfriend's legs are just too long.
The little red-haired girl? She pitched in a little, helping me drag branches out of the ravine that borders our backyard like a moat.
"You know, you're my No. 1 man," I told her one day.
"I thought \o7he \f7was your No. 1 man," she said, gesturing toward her baby brother.
"You're both my No. 1 man," I said.
Haven't seen her since.
And early on, I had high hopes for the lovely and patient older daughter, who was on a workout kick that coincided with my backyard project. As any gardener knows, there are few better workouts than bending, scooping and shoveling. The psychic rewards can be epic as well. The sun on your shoulders, the dirt on your skin. A thousand gnats landing on your tongue and up your nostrils.
"Most people," I told her, "go weeks without direct contact with the earth."
"So?" she asked.
"So I never thought of you as 'most people,' " I said.
