Lawn the Mow...

He's just a little tyke, only four. He has to look up to see three fourths of the world. He tiptoes to see more.

And, while he's always looking up to see the grownup world, he makes adults stand on their heads to see his. Why must one read from left to right to make sense of the words? It's just as easy to print right to left. Why can't cows be purple and jump over the moon? Why can't you lawn the mow?

Sure, for parents, mowing the lawn is work. And, too soon, that little tyke will grow up and learn that spending money can be made by mowing the lawn.

Even the words, "mow the lawn" sound harsh and commanding. Pick up the sticks and rocks to clean the yard of debris. Cut in even rows, back and forth, back and forth. Rake. Trim the flower beds. Edge the walks. Sweep, Clean. And when it rains a lot, repeat it all again next week.

And for those physically unable to tackle the job, it's a chore to find someone willing to spend the necessary time to manicure the yard just so.

From start to finish, even atop a motorized, riding machine, it's work...anyway you look at it.

However, our little fellow's "lawn the mow" has a poetic cadence to the words. It brings a smile to the lips. The charm of youthful innocence is contagious.

For him, gathering rocks and sticks is just an out-of-season Easter egg hunt...made special because Daddy works by his side.

And if perchance, the grass cutter offers him a ride on the riding machine, it's magic. Hugging the driver tight, the miniature hitchhiker rides it like a magic carpet. First, he's the workman. But soon, he envisions himself riding a motorcycle, piloting a plane, manipulating a crane, sailing a ship to the stars.

Over the droning hum of engine, he tries to question the driver. Dissatisfied with the lack of answers, he settles down into a private silence. For him, the riding up and down the length of the yard ends much too soon.

"Why rake?" he asks, as he, now free of shoes and socks, scoots through the freshly cut blades. They stick to his feet. He likes the cool, wet feel of soft grass cuttings beneath his bare feet. Why rake up and discard such tickling pleasures, indeed?

He watches a bee dart in and out of an opening bud while his folks look down to trim the runners off evenly. For them, there's not time to appreciate the aesthetics.

"Work, work, work," he chants as he tries to imitate their actions. "Work, work, work," he continues as he retraces, now atop his tricycle, the paths made by the powerful, big, riding machine.

The well trimmed yard now harmonizes with the musical upside down phrase "lawn the mow." Will his parents stop long enough to see the beauty of both?

If so, then, why are they surprised the the very next day he's ready to "lawn the mow," again?

1975