The Model Mower

     It's 7:24 am.  I'm standing at the bedroom window, watching the wakening world.  Jack drives past in his black truck.  Jack is our neighbor.  Our retired neighbor.  All winter he's up early, headed off to work in a factory, or sales, or mail order.  I'm not sure exactly what they do there.  All summer we see Jack mowing lawns.  We see him all over town, and the kids and I talk about how many he must cut each week.  We see him all over the neighborhood, mowers on the black truck.  Some days his grandkids mow along beside him, usually he's alone, behind a push mower.  I don't know if he works from necessity, or if he just can't sit still, or maybe some of both.
     It's 7:25 and I'm standing at the window feeling sorry for Jack.  I feel bad that a man would work so long, that life would be so hard.  Bryan comes in behind me, wraps his arms around me, asks me what I'm thinking there beside the window.  I tell him I feel sorry for Jack.
     Bryan?  He's wise and grounded.  He says there's nothing wrong with working hard. 
     "When we get old I hope we're just like him."

Bryan and Arden mowing our grass this spring.