Scatter Brains and Sugar Canes

by James M. Bellarosa

An old man answered a knock one hot summer morning and a younger man, about thirty, said he’d come to mow the lawn. The elder glanced at the hedge clippers dangling from the stranger’s belt, then out at a lawn mower idling near the road.

“There must be a mistake,” he said. “As you can see, my entire yard is paved with asphalt.”

The visitor half turned away. “Give your property more credit than that,” he replied. “That’s a thick, lush lawn out there and it needs grooming. I work for free so you’ve got nothing to lose.”

The old man remained silent, supposing the stranger would soon crack a smile and admit the joke. When he didn’t the old timer sensed the offer had a forlorn sincerity to it, and that to ridicule it might strike dangerously at a psyche in fluster. He put his arm around his visitor’s shoulders.

“Go ahead and tidy up the lawn,” he said. “Take whatever time you need.”

The stranger turned back to the old man, shook his hand and said, “Thank you. It’s important that I keep busy.”

The home owner went inside, watched through a window as the stranger turned his mower to the asphalt covering the yard, 80 feet of frontage, 100 feet of depth. He thrust the mower forward but it bucked instantly, as though it had struck a wall. He tried again. Once more the mower recoiled. After 15 or 20 thrusts, only one foot of “lawn” had been cleared. The old man smirked, muttered to himself that when tinker toy equipment reduces folly to farce, it loses all its charm. He went to perk some coffee.

Soon his elderly friend next door phoned.

“He’s mowing my lawn, Carl,” the old man explained.

“Well, it’s reassuring to know there still are people willing to challenge the impossible,” the neighbor mused. “I wish he’d mow mine.”

“This man doesn’t trifle with grass, Carl,” the old man crowed. “He’s a man energized by loftier challenges.”

Overcome with laughter, the men ended their conversation. As soon as they did, a knock rattled the elder’s front door.

“It’s tough going out there,” the cutter told the homeowner. “May I trouble you for a glass of water?”

“Maybe that’s enough for today,” the elder suggested. “This heat—“

The mower shook his head vigorously.

“Water’s all I need,” he said. “I don’t quit so easily.”

After his drink, the mower returned to his task. The old man brought his coffee to a window, sat down there with the morning newspaper and became so engrossed in it he’d lost track of time when the workman knocked again.

“I’ve never run into such stubborn grass,” the cutter sighed. “One hour and I’ve cut only four feet—it’s going to take heavier equipment than mine to handle that stuff.” Then he turned and, pushing his mower, he headed out of the neighborhood.

The old man watched him round the corner at the end of the street, then went out to the curb for his mail. When he returned his friend met him at the porch and again asked about the mower.

“His was groundskeeping fueled by folderol and fancy,” the old man chortled. “When the reality of a hearty lawn like mine confronted him, it stopped him dead in his tracks.”

The neighbor glanced at the front yard. “Don’t be so sure,” he said. “I don’t see a single uncut blade of grass.”

“It spooks the hell out of me, Carl, that you see any grass at all!” the elder howled. “Call me if you spot any witch hazel.”

That night as the old man enjoyed a drink, he wondered why it is that God skips an occasional soldering point when He wires His subjects.

The next morning as the old man watered his porch plants, a burly, middle-aged man hurried up his sidewalk.

“I’ve come to finish your lawn,” he announced. “The other guy is new but he should have known a hand mower can’t take down sugar cane.”

The old man threw his head back. “Sugar cane?!” he laughed.

“Sugar cane,” the visitor repeated. “Robust stalks, good rich color—a fine looking crop.”

“Don’t cut it!” the old man cried. “It’s not ripe yet.”

“Oh, it’s ripe all right,” the stranger disagreed. “If you don’t harvest it now it’ll go bitter. I know what I’m about.”

The old man gazed at the visitor briefly, then glanced at the large power mower he’d hauled in on a truck. Deciding quickly that it’d probably be futile to try to persuade such a dreamer from his purpose, he asked how long the job would take.

“Half hour at most,” the man replied.

The old man sighed. “Please make sure when you leave that everything is cut—the cane, the sorghum, the corn, the oats and the wheat. Take everything when you go so you won’t have to return tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay, but all I see is sugar cane,” the man said. “Just where in hell do you see sorghum?”

The old man glared at the newcomer. “Go ahead,” he snapped. “Just finish up as quickly as you can.” And he went inside.

For twenty minutes the wild din of the motorized mower penetrated the house, and prompted the old man now to think his property had deteriorated into a playground for the pixilated. He feared complaints from his up-scale neighbors about a needless racket arising from a pursuit with no purpose. But soon the cutter ended that concern when he knocked to say he’d finished.

“I’ve loaded everything that I cut into my truck,” he said. “I didn’t run into any sorghum.”

“Sorghum’s always on its toes,” the old man replied soberly. “When it sees trouble coming it bolts.”

The mower hesitated, scratched his temple. “I have to leave so I can start refining the cane,” he said, and he loaded his mower and drove away.

After dinner that evening the old man went next door to play checkers with his friend, who asked why such a powerful and deafening mower had been needed for such a simple mowing job.

“Simple job my foot!” the old man scoffed. “Turns out I had a field of sugar cane in my yard.”

“I knew you’d have a reasonable explanation,” the neighbor nodded.

“But he missed the sorghum,” the old man reported. “I told him sorghum stays on its toes. Sure enough it’s still standing.”The neighbor, hunched over the checkerboard, snapped up. Quietly and with his eyes riveted to his friend’s, he said:

“I own a sorghum mower.”

The two men laughed so hard they upset the checkerboard.

That night the old man remembered his two-day adventure with the mowers, and fell asleep with a grin on his face. In his dreams later he encountered them again...in a children’s story. They were mowing beanstalks.

The next morning when the old man went out for his newspaper, another stranger hurried up to his house. Dressed in a blue sports shirt and gray dress slacks, he introduced himself as the employer of the mowers. Then, thrusting a sheet of paper into the elder’s hand, he asked him to complete a job evaluation.

“They’re the usual questions,” he explained, nodding at the sheet. “Did my guys show up on time? Did they meet the specs you set out in your work order? Would you hire them again?”

The old man glanced at the job evaluation form. It was blank. Almost at his limit, he hesitated.

“Where should I mail this form after I complete it?” he asked brusquely.

“Please fill it out now,” the visitor asked. “I’ll come back for it after I spread your lawn with fertilizer.”