I would mow the back yard, Papa the front, and then we would switch. It was less boring that way. As I pushed the mower across the lawn, the grass seemed to resist the blades, even though they were freshly sharpened. My arms ached, and soon felt as rubbery as the hose coiled perfectly at the faucet by the back door. I lumbered from the sunshine to the shade and back to the sunshine. When I was done with the back yard, I headed toward the front, and met Papa on the way. "Time for a break," he said, holding up the thermos of lemonade. "It's going to be hot today." I flopped down on my back in the shade of the old oak tree standing in the side yard, and stared up at the parasol of leaves that protected me from the hot sky. I curled into a half-sitting position when Papa handed me a cup of the lemonade. The sweet, cold liquid felt good on my lips, tongue, and all the way down my throat. "Ah, that's good." "Jâ," said Papa. "Your Mama makes a fine lemonade and this old thermos keeps it nice and cold." We kept our break to ten minutes, because there was a lot of work to do and because customers always fretted that they would be charged for break time no matter how many times Papa assured them that they wouldn't.
