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The older man pulled his car in the driveway, got out, and looked at the disaster, which was his lawn: the last time he had done any work on it was three months ago, and it showed. The grass was knee deep, leaves were strewn everywhere, white flowers stood out like satellite dishes; the weeds had taken up residency under the dishes creating multiple homes; five condos, and two high rises. Walking around the house, he opened the gate to the backyard, glanced over at his pine tree, and saw it had shed pine-cones that established a hundred satellite offices occupying the entire yard. Working in the yard was one thing he hated, almost as much as getting out of bed in the morning, as he was a night person. It had finally got to the point that he could no longer put it off, so he went into the house, changed his clothes, put his tie shoes on (the older man preferred sandals), got his heavy-duty work gloves, and went over to the lawnmower. It was as old as the older man was, and he wondered if it would start this year. Last year it had to get a tune up in order to continue its job, and he wished it would only cost a hundred dollars to tune him up for a year. He should not complain, he was able to swim a mile, did not have great lapses in memory, and probably would be able to complete the yard work. After filling the lawnmower, he brought it outside, primed it three times with the red button, pulled the rope, and bingo she was roaring to go.

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