The only outlier is a jungle of a front lawn. I’m not exaggerating. Not only is the grass about a half-foot long but that half-foot of grass is buried in another foot and a half of weeds. The grass is struggling to survive. Here and there are also tree sized weeds that will take a hatchet to take down. And it looks like this every year when I get home from school.
Not once is the lawn cut or landscaped from the time it starts growing in spring. It’ll take me at least a full day to fix this mess.
Obviously I can’t lead on that I take pride in the work that I do; I love maintaining the lawn. It doesn’t matter that I don’t get paid. There is a certain satisfaction in maintaining something so meticulously, seeing your hard work pay off. Never is life so black and white with a clear sense of organization.
It’s no wonder they don’t hire someone else – they get it for free.
We exit the car and the garage, walking around to the front of the house. I avert my eyes from the lawn.
“Looking forward to getting at the lawn?” chimes my father.
“Are you kidding? Another whole summer of being your lawn slave?”
“Nevermind,” he mumbles.
I would get to the lawn. But I’d save it for tomorrow.