You can't substitute for Dad

There is just no replacing Dad.
Pat had instructed the boys to pick up the tree trimmings from the yard. He had called from work with the orders and felt it was a chore that could be completed in his absence.
In theory, he was correct. In reality, the children needed the guidance -- and saving grace -- of "foreman" Dad. I, playing the role this particular afternoon, was neither of these things.
The plan was simple. Phillip and Andrew would take turns driving the tractor, pulling the wagon filled with trimmings down to the brush pile. Robert would follow behind on the motor scooter to help with unloading at the pile.
After arguing for the length of time it would have taken to complete one full load, Phillip pulled the tractor up to the first pile -- and passed the pile.
There was yelling and hollering as the boys tried to tell him what to do over the drone of the tractor motor.
He made a circle in the yard and approached the pile again. While looking behind him to discern when he should stop, he headed straight into a pine tree.
There was more yelling. I was convinced that the neighbors thought we were having a brawl.
Disgusted, Andrew hopped on the tractor to make yet another pass around the pile. He pulled up close and turned off the engine.
"That's not close enough," Robert informed him.
Hastily, Andrew turned on the motor again and a huge blast sounded from the motor as the engine backfired. I was certain the neighbors were now calling 911 to report a homicide.
Taking charge
Frustrated by the way things were going and wishing Pat were here with his commanding voice, I informed the boys there would be no more yelling. We would pick up this pile and dump it in a quiet fashion.
They obeyed my foreman's command and loaded the trailer quickly and quietly. Proud that we had turned the corner on our project, I watched as Phillip headed down the yard toward the brush pile.
He successfully avoided a wet spot in the yard. Unfortunately, he steered into a wetter spot.
"No! No! No!" his brothers bellowed. It was too late. The tractor wheel was 6 inches deep in mud.
Once the yelling stopped once again, I resumed my foreman's position and told the boys to wait as I grabbed a few pine tree branches to give traction under the wheel.
While I was getting the branches, they pushed the tractor out of the mud. So much for a foreman's guidance.
For the second trip, Andrew was at the wheel. Moving to a new brush pile, he decided to back the tractor up along the fence. The problem was the trailer would not cooperate.
He backed up 2 feet, and the trailer went left. Robert straightened it out. Another 2 feet, and the trailer was close to hitting the fence. Robert fixed it again. After a third attempt at backing, with 25 feet still to go, Robert lost patience.
"Just pull it up and turn it around!" he yelled.
Taking offense to his tone, Andrew put the tractor in sixth gear. I watched in horror and amazement as the front wheels left the ground when he took off.
Meanwhile, David, who had been holding the motor scooter upright, dropped it. The engine flooded with gas and would not start.
That's when I knew I was in over my head as the foreman of this crew.
Confirmation
As if to confirm that I am no foreman and should not be around these machines -- let alone in charge of people using them -- I hopped on the motor scooter when the gas settled, and headed down the yard.
This time, the neighbors should have called 911 -- to report a suicide.
Before I knew what was happening, a tree appeared before me. I swerved to miss it and ran straight into the fence.
Knuckles bloody, a gash on my leg and covered in grease, everything suddenly became crystal clear. I am no substitute for Dad.
Guided into the house, thanks to the saving grace of my workers, I knew my foreman days were over.
To all the irreplaceable Dad's out there, Happy Father's Day!
gwhite@vindy.com