As a kid, I remember begging my father to let me mow the lawn.
It was a chore that girl children didn’t usually pull from the roster of odd jobs via the blind selection of various length straws.
My father initially resisted, not because he had any hardwired thoughts about women doing men’s work but because I was small and the machine was heavy and cumbersome. He didn’t want to risk an accident.
A part of me also suspected he enjoyed his weekly routine of swearing at the mower until it started; following it around the yard for the better part of an hour before the sunset on Friday evenings; and finally, celebrating his achievement with the silent company of our dog as he relaxed in a folding chair, drinking in a beer along with the fresh scent of cut grass.
The........