It's part of the community garden agreement that each gardener must work two clean-up days over the course of the season. They are scheduled by plot number, and our first one was today. It was with apprehension that I unlocked the gate at a little after nine this morning in search of Alison, the head gardener. It was silly to be nervous, but I wasn't sure what to expect, and vagabond butterflies fluttered in my stomach. My assigned duty turned out to be mowing the common areas and grassy strips in between the gardens.
It's been over eleven years since I last mowed; at our place the landscaping is included in the residents fee. Before that, mowing was my job, and I always liked it, so with the first tug on the engine rope, I began to relax. Back and forth in the neatest of rows I pushed the roaring machine, the results of my labor fair and clear to all who passed. The grass was pretty overgrown in some places, but that only made it more gratifying to walk in the emerald path, newly-shorn. Forty-five minutes later I returned the mower to the shed, my obligation gladly fulfilled.
I still remember the day I asked my dad to teach me how to mow the grass. From then on it was my job as well. I loved that job, so much more than loading and unloading the dishwasher.
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