To work in the yard, I wear similar clothing fondly referred to as ‘yard clothes’. A pair of lightweight Capri pants, a white, V-neck, men’s undershirt, ankle socks and yard shoes which resemble last year’s sneakers.

Daddy was a gardener and could grow anything. I think he had more than a green thumb, Daddy had green hands. He built greenhouses in our backyard using bowed metal poles, covered in thick plastic. There were industrial fans installed in the endcap of the structure and instead of blowing air in, they were run in reverse to suck hot air out. The fans were loud, but the country music from his little radio would rise above the noise. This outlet helped Daddy stay sober.

I was young, but still recall stepping into his greenhouse just to watch him. He’d be so intent on what he was watering he wouldn’t see me, or even realize he was covered in sweat. His brow glistened as the sweat rolled down the bridge of his nose to the very tip and dripped off. He wasn’t fazed as he strolled from station to station using the watering wand to give everything a drenching drink.

The month of June jumped out at us with 100-degree temps and high humidity, but I couldn’t stay indoors. These high temps don’t usually hit Texas until late July, but with time, trial and error, it didn’t take long to find my sweet spot.

The watering wand I’ve used for years started leaking at the connector, but that day I immediately drove to the garden center and bought a new one of better quality. The next morning, I was so excited to use it that I watered everything in the yard, including the lawn itself! As I was standing over the Bougainvillea, watering wand in hand, t-shirt damp with sweat, is when I felt it. The sweat from my brow rolled down the bridge of my nose to the very tip and I watched as it dripped off.

In that moment I remembered who I really am. I am my father’s daughter.