Here’s a fading memory that still feels itchy.
One day when I was a teenager—right after I finished mowing my grandfather’s lawn—he put his hand on my shoulder, pulled a sober face, and said, “I have a favor to ask.”
Something about the tone of Pop Pop’s voice when he said the word ‘favor,’ the heaviness of his hand, and the need in his eyes—all of it immediately made my stomach ache.
“There’s an old man at our church who could use your help,” Pop Pop said. “He doesn’t have a grandson. He doesn’t really have anyone. And he needs some yard work done. The best part is he’s willing to pay you for it.”
My grandfather told me the hourly rate I would get, which was significantly less money than I made babysitting the kid who lived around the corner from me. That gig was basically playing games with the boy for an hour, reading him a bedtime story, and then watching 90210 on TV while eating whatever was in his mother’s refrigerator. And I had been paid more than double for doing other people’s yard work.
“How many hours does he need?” I asked.
“Don’t worry,” Pop Pop said. “You’ll be compensated for your time. Plus you’ll be doing a good deed.”
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