I can very clearly recollect the first time I ever mowed the lawn at my father’s request. I remember it because it was summer. The sun was bright, the weather was perfect, and I recall the amazing smell of the fresh-cut grass as it tickled my nose. Mainly I remember it because it was also the last time I ever mowed the lawn at my father’s request.

Growing up, my father had me on a never-ending mission to build character. It was the reasoning he gave for every meaningless chore that was ever assigned to me. Why do I have to split wood? Because it builds character. Why do I have to pick up sticks in the woods? Because it builds character. Why do I have to build a Flux Capacitor? Come on, you’ve seen the pattern here. Because it builds character!

I managed to make it to the end of my senior year in high school before I was finally assigned with the task of mowing the lawn. My father usually took charge of that because he never trusted anyone else to do it correctly. One day I guess he ran out of trivial things to occupy my time and decided to throw a real task my way. He hauled out the big red push-mower into the front yard and proceeded to show me how it was done.

Now, our front yard wasn’t your average small, flat, fenced in area. Instead, ours was quite large and included a steep hill and several obstacles including trees, stumps, a wooden deck, and several flower beds. I was confused as to why I was going to take a trial run at mowing it because I was pretty certain that he didn’t want any of the aforementioned things destroyed. Before I was allowed to mow the grass, I had to be able to turn the machine on. This was no simple task that was done with a power switch or the turn of a key. This particular mower was one that you had to prime, and then quickly and strongly pull the cord to start the engine turning. This was also my father’s demented idea of a character-building right of passage that I completely failed at. I’ve always been a small guy and to be completely honest, I’m fairly sure that my father had more muscles in his left arm than I did in my entire body. I primed the engine and yanked that cord as hard as I could.

When nothing happened, neither of us looked very surprised. My father demanded that I take another try at it while I reminded him of his rule about not being allowed to mow the lawn if I couldn’t turn it on. Several more unsuccessful attempts later, my arm nearly ripped from the socket, he decided to start up the engine for me since daylight was beginning to run out. Once we got the mower into motion my father headed inside, leaving me to tend the yard. Everything was going smoothly until I got to the small hill. I approached it cautiously not wanting to send the mower careening into the nearby flowerbeds. As I started down, I gained more momentum than I expected and before I knew it I was being dragged down the hill behind the mower.

Before I carried out any chore assigned by my father he would give a long-winded explanation of the job and how to do it correctly. I always expected his instructional seminars to be followed by a written exam. Luckily, I had paid attention during Lawn Mower 101 and remembered that if I let go of the handle, there was a mechanism that would kill the engine. I let go of the handle, slamming to the ground while the mower traveled a few more feet before coming to a stop. Hearing the engine turn off, my father emerged from the house to investigate. When I explained to him my tale of woe about not being strong enough to control the thing, he did exactly what he always did: sent me inside and did the job himself.

Several mower-free months later he decided out of the blue that it was time for me to build more character. This time he wanted to throw a real challenge my way. Moments later I had a chainsaw in my hands. I took a look at the primer and the pull cord and knew right then that someone was probably going to get hurt.

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