Mowing The Lawn

When I got home on Saturday, I noticed the lawn was long.  We’ve had a lot of rain and the grass just keeps on growing.  I asked my father if he would like me to mow the lawn; after all, I used to have a lawn mowing business when I was in high school.


OK.  My mother assured me that my father would mow the lawn on Sunday afternoon.  But then the phone rang and they were invited to a cook-out on Sunday afternoon.  On Sunday morning, I again asked my father if he would like me to mow the lawn.  Again, he game the same adamant response.


I worked in my garden on Sunday morning and then I went to The Farm for a walk.  It was a beautiful day, with a gentle mosquito-stalling breeze.  I was thinking about one of my classmates from high school who had lost her father this weekend and how difficult these losses are even when a person is mentally prepared for them.  I was sad for my friend and knew that the beauty of the day would not be the same for her.

When I got home, my parents were still at the cook-out and the lawn was still looking shabby.  I had never actually mowed my parent’s lawn; I was always busy mowing other people’s lawns for profit.  I thought about my friend and how she would probably like to have one more chance to mow the lawn for her dad.  I went out to the shed, pulled out the mower, and stoked it up.

My parents came home when I was halfway through and my father gave me a few tips and pointers.  Then he went out in the back yard and started moving the lawn furniture out of my way.

I mowed the lawn.

Not too shabby!

Hey, Daddy-oh, you can do the clipping!

Memento vivere!

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