|Patty was in elementary school when her daddy let her help with the weekly yard chores. Sometimes Patty got hot and sweaty, and the mowed glass stuck to her and made her itch. She was allergic to grass because her mother said so.
Every weekend, Daddy would get out the bright green lawnmower, fill it with gas, and pull the crank cord until it started. I wasn't allowed that challenge until I was sixteen. The more difficult areas, requiring turning the lawnmower, and maintaining control of it, were done by Daddy. He always wore his golf cap, khaki knee shorts, and a short sleeve cotton shirt, with an undershirt underneath. He wore sensible shoes and socks. Patty didn't think she'd ever seen him in sneakers, but she knew he wore his clickey golf shoes. Mom yelled if her wore them in the house, so he had to clean them outside. He let me watch.
I had charge of a few straight rows in the front yard. I think I remember the 1960-odd Lawn Boy was somewhat self-propelled, but I'm sure not as technologically as the lawn mowers of today. Sometimes I missed my straight line. Daddy never got mad. I just had to mow a tiny row. I learned to do it without him telling me to. I learned to be a good helper in the yard. Saturday afternoon was ours to spend together, making the yard look nice. They both took pride in the yard. Patty liked to lay on the carpet of St. Augustine grass when she played with her friends.
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