I have a customer, a couple, Bob and Sara, who’re elderly; in their eighties. Their backyard is an oasis of green vitality, and of fruit trees and bushes, flowering shrubs, and garden flowers and vegetables. Birds are at home. There's a birdhouse subdivision, and many bird feeders. This backyard is orderly, each shrub or fruit tree is squared off with cedar timber, and the vegetable and flower garden plot is too.
Corn, sown along plumbed string, is now 8’ tall, and it grows in a straight line, and it’s a deep green, and tasselling down on its' silk. There's okra, tomato, green pepper, zucchini, yellow-squash, onion, garlic, green beans, beets, carrots, and broccoli; no potato. There're gladiolas, zinnias, and coreopsis, and their colors splash out from within the green. This plot is joyous, and I’m certain takes time, talent, and attention to detail. There're no weeds, and if there are they’re small, and waiting to be plucked. The whispy white haired husband and beauty- shopped dyed-hair-helmeted wife, smoke like chimneys, but are vital. So vital a part of me can’t figure why they called me to mow; in past I’ve seen both do it themselves.
The honor of mowing, trimming, and blowing their little eden is given to me to work. Well, of a time, it’s hot, humid, and I’m tired out, and I’m ready to put myself up wet. I’m at the front curb, laying out, the sunlight filtering down through the dogwood green leaves, and a breeze cooling me and tree leaves shading me, and their rustling sound of what I cannot see in my ears, recovering my strength.
Bob’s voice sounds in my ear.
“I’m going to Buddy’s for sandwich for Sara and me. Would you like one too?” I’m tired, and I wheeze, “Yes, thank you.”
“Now, you stay there and rest; I’ll be right back!”
“Yes, sir,” I say, “thank you.”
I stay there, and rest, and I see the green dogwood leaves, and the sunlight through them, and I hear the breeze of what I cannot see in the leaves, and I lay in shade, and I rest on grass Sara and Bob called me to mow.