People waved.
Sometimes he waved back.
“Mr. Vance can’t get his mower started.”
Usually he didn’t.
One Saturday morning, Noah was looking out our front window when he said, “Mom.”
I was drinking coffee.
“What?”
“Mr. Vance can’t get his mower started.”
I glanced outside.
Noah kept watching.
Mr. Vance was standing halfway down his driveway, leaning heavily on the mower handle. He pulled the starter cord once, then stopped and pressed a hand against his lower back.
“He’ll probably figure it out,” I said.
Noah kept watching.
Then Mr. Vance tried to bend down and nearly lost his balance.
Noah put down his cereal spoon.
“He’ll say no.”
“I’m doing his yard.”
“You could ask first.”
“He’ll say no.”
“Probably.”
Noah disappeared into the garage.
Five minutes later, he pushed our mower across the street.
I stood at the kitchen window expecting Mr. Vance to tell him to go home.
Then he pointed toward the side yard.
Instead, Mr. Vance watched Noah for several seconds.
Then he pointed toward the side yard.
Noah nodded.
That was it.
For the next four years, from spring through fall, every Saturday morning, Noah mowed Mr. Vance’s lawn.
He never got paid.
Noah looked offended.
I once told him he should at least let the man give him twenty dollars.
Noah looked offended.
“Why?”
