Keep off the grass

During the summer, it is my job to cut the grass and take care of the landscaping while my father is on vacation. Once a week, the 20-year-old lawnmower comes out of the garage, gets pumped with gas, throttled and wakes to a loud and throaty whine as it’s pushed around the yard.

I take some pride in having a mowed, green lawn, and nicely maintained flowers – even if they’re not mine.

After spending some time in the outdoors, pushing around the ancient machine (with no clippings bag), squatting to cut away the stray blade of grass or dead flower-head, having beads of perspiration rolling down my chest and back and resting at the waistband of my shorts, I look around and admire my good work.

On the lawn should be a sign that reads Keep off the grass.

When it’s time to start on the trimming with the hedge clippers, I see my mother on the back patio, her hands on her hips.

“Uh, Steven?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I look at up her and wipe the sweat off my brow.

“When you’re cutting the grass,” she pauses, “can you not get it all over the place?”

What?

“It’s grass,” I say.

“I know, but can you not get it, you know, all over the place?” She makes a sweeping gesture with her arm.

“Ma, it’s grass. It gets all over the place because it’s grass.” I wave my left hand around for effect. “The exhaust blows it one way and the wind blows it another. I can’t do anything about the that.”

“I know, but can you try?”

She's getting on my nerves. “Is there anything else you want?” I say quickly, clippers in hand, pointing at her.

“No.”

I turn around and continue with the trimming. By the time I look up at the patio, she’s gone.

Can I not get grass all over the place? Now, that’s original. Next, she’ll ask me if I can make it less green. No, wait, I better not give her any ideas.