When I saw this week's Hubmob topic, my stomach sank. I got physically ill, just reading the thread, but I didn't know why. Was it a fear of plants? Maybe it was my utter lack of gardening skills (even weeds won't grow in my yard). I didn't think that was it.

After thinking about it for a while, it all started to come back to me. Repressed memories. Trauma. Psychological torture that would eventually lead to night terrors. You see, it all started...

"Today is the day! Today, you become a man!" My dad was entirely too happy about this, for it to end well for me. I suspected there was far more in it for him, than for me.

He wheeled out the the ancient lawn mower. There was so much grass crusted to the underside, that you could barely see the blade. Of course, the blade was also ancient. It had been sharpened so many times, it was a mere suggestion of something that  might once have resembled a blade.

"First, you need to clean it out", he explained. I was pretty sure it had never been cleaned out. I was equally sure that he had been saving it for me.

"But dad, why can't I use the new lawn mower?"

"You have to work up to that one, son. It's not for beginners. And it's not a toy." Oh, he was having fun, now.

For forty five minutes, I toiled in the blazing sun. Chipping, and scraping, and chipping some more (seriously, they could build bridges out of that stuff). He came out of the house a couple of times, to check my progress. Of course, checking my progress meant pointing out whatever tiny specks I had missed. And was he suppressing a smile? I couldn't be sure. I vowed never to treat my own children this way.

All this, because I had asked for an allowance. All of my friends were getting an allowance. I was an upwardly mobile ten year old. Why shouldn't I get a few bucks a week, to live on? Of course, they claimed that I was getting an allowance. They were quick to point out that they generously allowed me to live in their house. They also allowed me to use their electricity, bathe in their water, and eat their food.

I countered with the fact that beef stroganoff was not legal tender. I couldn't offer a piece of meatloaf to the cashier, in exchange for my Clark Bar.

"Oh, so what you're asking for, is money", they said. "Well around here, nobody is just going to give you money. If you want money, you have to earn money."

"Just another attempt to keep us kids down", I was thinking. "These people aren't going to be happy, until I'm a hermit; living in a cave somewhere, being ridiculed by my friends". And while I was thinking this, their expressions changed, noticeably. Uh-oh. Did I say all that, out loud?

That brings us back to the driveway. I had just finished cleaning the mower, and was trying to figure out how to start it.

"Whoa! Don't get ahead of yourself, there!" Dad was back. "First thing's first", he said, grinning. "Before you start mowing, you need to go around and trim everything the mower can't reach."

"How?", I asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

He held up a finger, the international sign for "Moment Please". I could hear him rummaging around in a corner of the garage. A minute or two later, he returned, and presented me with a rechargeable grass shear. I don't know if you remember these things, but I came to suspect that they were invented by a vengeful, sadistic parental figure. I vowed again to never do this to my own kids.

"Just go along the fence, and around the trees, and trim up close." He thought for a second, and his grin widened. "Make sure you do around the pool, too. You know, the pool that you swim in all summer, but have never once cleaned...yet?"

So, after forty five minutes of lawn mower cleaning, and an hour and a half on all fours, following the the fence line, and circling trees, I was exhausted. I was heading for the house, when he came back out.

"Where ya goin?", he asked.

"In.", I said. "It's too hot out here. I'll finish tomorrow."

"Oh no.", he said. "When we start a job, we don't stop until it's done."

I looked at him for a moment, but didn't allow my expression to change. He was trying to teach me a lesson, here. I knew it, and he knew that I knew it. My childish arrogance, which knew no bounds, prevented me from giving him the satisfaction of thinking I was learning it.  

"This mower is old", he was saying, "but she'll start right up, if you know how to treat her."

I started pulling the cord, and after about ten tries, he stopped me. Apparently, I was not 'treating her right'.

"The choke doesn't work, any more, son. Here's what you have to do."

I knew that my life was not about to get easier, but what could I do? Escape was not an option, at this point.

"First", he said, "you need to give her a good shake" Of course, I did that wrong, too. "No, not like that. Just roll it back and forth a few times, quickly."

"That's right. Like that. Now, turn it over on its left side. You got it. Now on its right side. Ok, now flip it back over on its wheels, and pull the cord."

I did all that, and the rusty old mower sputtered once, and died.

"Oh! You almost got it!", he shouted. "Now do it all again, and it should start." I did it all five or six more times, to no avail. He looked at me, still grinning.

"Son?", he asked. "Did you happen to check the gas tank?"

"I'm not an idiot, dad.", I said, knowing I would come to regret those words. He threw up his hands, and went back in the house. Once he was gone, I tried to figure out where the gas tank was. Just because he knew more about lawn mowers, didn't mean he was smarter than me.

After filling the tank, I grudgingly mowed the lawn. And when I thought I was finally done, my dad was kind enough to point out that we also had a front yard. I repeated the whole exercise, chanting my mantra over, and over again.

"I will not treat my kids this way. I will be a much nicer dad. I will be a cool dad."

After ruining an entire Saturday, I was graciously given two dollars. And from that day forward, I was the official lawn guy. To be sure they were getting their two dollars worth, I also became the take-out-the-trash-guy, the clean-the-pool-guy, and the snow shovelling guy. On a couple of occasions, I also stood in as the the paint-the-house-guy.

To his credit, dad taught me the lesson he had intended, as well as a few others. The value of a dollar, the value of an honest day's work, the respect that comes with a strong work ethic. These have served me well, for the thirty plus years since that day.

I tried to be a nicer father but, when my kids began to develop a sense of entitlement, the wheels fell off the cart. As my son was demanding an allowance, I found myself in the garage with him.

"Today is the day, son! Today, you become a man!"

The look on his face was priceless, and at that moment, I knew why my father had grinned so much on that long ago Saturday. Some would view this as an opportunity to bond. Others may think of it as a rite of passage. All I know, is I haven't had to mow the lawn for the last three years. And when he complains about his his paltry ten dollar allowance, I can regale him with the trials I had to endure for two measly bucks. But that story will wait until after he takes out the trash.