I knew that if we put off mowing the lawn long enough, some enterprising young man would come knocking on the door asking to do it for us.
And I was right!
For the record, I actually like mowing the lawn. Well, I like it as long as we have the type of tiny lawn we’ve always had. “Mowing the lawn” growing up involved a John Deere, a bushhog trailer, and ALL DAY LONG. Oh, and no pay. Different story. However, we sold the lawn mower before the move to Iowa, and we hadn’t needed one again until now. Lawnmower shopping hadn’t made it to the top of the to-do list, what with all the ugly dresser painting and the not thinking about it.
So this sweet preteen boy knocked on the door and gave the most polite salespitch I’ve ever heard. He had a clipboard and flyers and a SPREADSHEET, for the love. A boy after my own heart, he is. He scheduled a time, called the day before to confirm (leaving a voicemail that also showcased some stellar telephone manners, I might add), and showed up right on time today to get started.
It’s just refreshing to see a kid with great manners, speaking well and making the connection between WORK and MONEY. Maybe I’m romanticizing, but whatever. He may quit tomorrow or run the mower into the side of the house. I was mucking out stalls at his age, so I can relate and plan to pass that same work-money correlation down to Baby Girl (poor thing). Novel concept. As I remember it, I announced to my parents that I wanted a horse, so they marched my happy little 12-year-old self down to the neighbors’ horse boarding facility, made arrangements for me to clean out stalls and run horses for as long as it would take to earn enough money for a horse (turns out, that’s a LOT–though I’m sure they kicked in more than I ever knew into my little bank account), and put in so many hours riding a borrowed horse so I could prove I was serious (and also that little detail of learning how to ride, which I did not in fact know how to do when I announced a wanted a horse). So that’s pretty much how that went. I went every day before and after school, eventually got my own horse (and continued to work there to help pay for the board/care–I can still tell you how much the feed and shoes cost and how often), and was quite the little cowgirl for about four years–up until I discovered boys and decided to take a break from horses that turned into a permanent one. I also got slammed into a fence and messed up my shoulder something good right around that time, and that might have been part of my dumb decision to not stick with it.
Anyway, I’m getting old because I’m all misty-eyed over this little boy going out and earning some money in the summer. And apparently that makes me tell horse stories. Her name was Sierra. I still have dreams about that barn.
Good grief, random stories.
You’re very welcome. Have a good evening!
I wonder if he knows about the 13 year cicadas. As he appears to be about 13, I’d say no. He may very well quit.
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