“Bill’s doing a great job mowing our lawn. But I have to tell you one thing.” Grandma made no attempt to keep this secret as she spoke with Mom one summer evening.
My grandparents had sold their store when they retired and moved into a house with a full acre of land, just a few blocks away from our home. Before long, we settled into a comfortable routine with Grandma and Grandpa closely involved in our lives. By the summer before my ninth grade year, Grandpa needed some help, and Mom volunteered me to mow their lawn.
No stranger to cutting grass, I didn’t look forward to this, except for one thing. Grandpa had a riding mower. At that age, it was the closest I could come to driving, so I jumped at the chance and kept their yard at a reasonable height without complaint.
At first. After the newness wore off, it became a routine chore, anticipated with distaste.
Lacking the earbuds of today, I looked for ways to occupy my mind while I made long grass short, 30 inches at a pass. I cast about for ways to ease the drudgery and settled on singing. Confident the mower noise kept others from hearing, I poured out my heart in song, belting out my favorites of Top 40 radio, time after time.
Until Grandma spoke to Mom. “He sings while he mows. It’s so cute!”
My cheeks flamed. Cute was for 4-year-olds, and I was already 14, way too old for that nonsense. I almost resigned out of sheer humiliation, but Grandpa’s physical condition wouldn’t let me. My embarrassment passed, and I resumed my weekly chore, determined not to sing.
Boredom won out, though, and I sang again. But I made sure I kept it at a lower volume.
William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.