Cutting the Grass with Scissors
In a trailer park, if you have any yard at all, it's just a patchy stand of grass beyond the concrete apron. It looks raggedy, needs trimming. There's not much of it. Why buy a weed-eater, or even grass snips? My kitchen shears should do an adequate job. I don't stoop at my age, so I plunk my wide bottom on dirt and get busy. This is a soothing chore in a fretful time and I enjoy it, only gradually I begin to feel self-conscious. What is it? I know my neighbors are away. Still, I glance uneasily at their blank windows, which seem to look down in disbelief and pity at my odd behavior. And peering out through dusty glass, I swear that's Grandma Deans in her Methodist bonnet. She seems completely resigned to the possibility that even after years of patient instruction, you may never learn to fit in. After all, you're her age now and it's probably too late. In fact, she's certain that you'll move on to even more bizarre acts until it becomes necessary for the good people of the park to come to your gate and, in the nicest way possible, take over the small tasks of your life.