Pressure Washing, Crying, and The Dance

"How could I have known you'd ever say goodbye"- Garth Brooks, The Dance

Spring time weather in Texas is a mixed bag.  We can go from the 40's to the nineties in less than 24 hours. We have sunshine one day, and rains of Biblical proportions the next.  In fact, over the past few weeks, the weekend weather was less than ideal.  That's why a few weeks ago, on Good Friday, I was grateful to wake up to blues skies, sunshine, and pleasant temperatures.  I decided to take advantage of the beautiful day by pressure washing the driveway and sidewalk. I realize to many that this may not sound like fun, but for me,  your average suburban male, it was game on. 

I rolled out My Ryobi 3000 PSI pressure washer, connected it to the industrial hose left behind by a work crew, filled the tank, and pulled the starting cord.  The 5.5 horsepower sprung to life and the purr of the Honda GCV160 engine soothed my soul.  I hooked up the 15 inch surface cleaning attachment (for up to 3300 PSI), gripped the handle, pulled the trigger, and I was off.  As the surface cleaner magically glided over the drive way, several years' worth of dirt and grime began to run in rivulets down the drive way, into the gutter, and back to nature.  To help pass the time during this adventure, I made a play list on my phone to keep my excitement at peak level.  I took advantage of the noise of the engine to sing along at the top of my lungs with The Clash as we fought the law (the law won), answered The Ramones when asked if I wanted to dance, danced the night away with Van Halen, and [I] danced with The Hooters. 

After finishing the driveway, I moved onto the sidewalk, no easy task with a corner lot.  As I made my way down the final twenty feet or so, my muscles began to tighten, my arms ached, and the sub burn that had formed on my neck announced itself.  However, pride would not let me take a short cut, and I soldiered on.  Suddenly, my music took a turn, I went from Sammy Hagar explaining why he was unable to drive 55 to Garth Brooks' The Dance.  It's not that The Dance is a slower song, I have plenty of songs on my play list that slow down the tempo from Johnny Cash's Ain't No Grave, Toto's Africa, and Aerosmith's Don't Want To Miss A Thing.  Hell, I even have the  1970's novelty song, and tribute to the CB radio, Convoy by CW McCall on there. No, The Dance  (along with The Beatles' Golden Slumbers and James Taylor's Sweet Baby James) was one of the songs we played at my son Peyton's funeral. 

Peyton was only 13 when he took his life, and even though almost five years have passed, there are still triggers that will bring me to tears.  As my family and I walked up the aisle to our seats at his funeral, The Dance was playing along with a slide show.  I was transfixed on the images of Peyton's  smiling, happy face as the haunting lyrics and melody of the song played.  In the years since Peyton's death, I can't hear the song without picturing my son.  I see the happy-go-lucky kid that just wanted to entertain and make people happy.  I see his ever present smile, his read hair, his freckles, and the small scar near his left eye.  I hear his voice as he asks a never-ending series of questions, summarizes the latest season of Dr. Who, or his laughter as he rolls on the floor with Earl the Corgi.  I feel his weight against me as I carry him to bed, or get the good-bye hug as he returned to his mom's after a weekend visit. According to Tony Arata, the song's writer, “It hit me that you don’t get to pick and choose your memories in life. You have to go with things as they play out. You don’t get to alter them.”  Had I been clairvoyant and known what would happen to Peyton, perhaps I would have done things in life differently, but I wouldn't trade the memories (good and bad) of the time I had with Peyton.  

So there I stood on the beautiful good Friday, squeezing the trigger of pressure washer, not to make it run, but to keep from screaming in anguish, the purr of the motor drowned out my sobs, the red of my face could be mistaken for sunburn, and the tears that streamed down my face could just have easily been sweat.  I listened to the song to the end, and then for good measure, listened to it again.  I let my emotions run the gambit out there on the sidewalk that day.  I could have skipped the song, I could have missed the pain, but I'd have had to miss the dance.