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CPR
When I was a kid, cutting the grass was a problem. My dad had very reasonably decided that I should be responsible for taking care of our suburban lawn every Sunday afternoon. This would result not only in a nice-looking lawn, he reasoned, but I’d learn to take pride in my labor and because lawn-care was tied to my weekly allowance, I’d get a better grasp of the value of a dollar as well.
That’s not how it panned out.
Instead, I’d grudgingly trudge around behind the self-propelled lawn mower, terrified by the explosions when the blades hit rocks or bones our dog had half-buried, enraged at the Sisyphusian futility of cutting grass that would just grow back in a week.
My dad had worked hard his whole life to afford the suburban lawn that I viewed as alien and ridiculous. I remember a particularly difficult conversation about this. I must have been twelve or thirteen years old. I’d once again done a “half-assed job” on the lawn, neglecting to trim around the trees, and Dad was walking me around, pointing to the tufts of grass that announced my sullen indifference.
“Chris, how can you not see how bad this looks?”
He’d moved beyond anger into concern. I’m sure he was imagining a dark future for this son of his who appeared to have no respect for the dignity of labor.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “It’ll just grow back.”
“But don’t you feel pride when you do a good job?” He was looking at me with curiosity now. This was a real question.
“No. Not really. I’m just doing it because you make me.”
“That’s the problem,” Dad said. “You need to want to do it.”
“But I don’t.”
I can still see the look of concerned, loving incomprehension on my father’s face, over forty years later.
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