Money clips, mowing grass and a taste of mystery
- Mike Dewey: Life Lines
- May 10, 2025
- 430
I can’t be entirely sure, but I think that neighbor who hired me to cut his grass, rake his leaves and shovel his snow enjoyed irony.
Why else, as a graduation gift, would he give me a money clip?
I’d worked for him for four years, the entirety of my high school experience, so he knew that as an aspiring writer, I’d never be rich.
It was a handsome piece of jewelry, embossed with the image of a 1905 Studebaker, which, as he must have known, had been built in South Bend, the town where I’d be going to college in the fall.
Tucked between the sides of the clip was a crisp, new $50 bill, which was extremely generous of him, though I was kind of hoping he’d give me the keys to his 1965 shiny blue Mustang.
I’d washed and waxed that beautiful car several times each summer, and I considered myself lucky to do it; after all, this was a very particular man, the sort who liked things done the proper way.
It had taken me a while to get accustomed to his exacting standards.
When, at the beginning of our business relationship, he praised my work on our family’s lawn, which was kitty-corner from his, I felt pretty good about being entrusted with his piece of prime property.
That was before he threw me the first of many curveballs.
“One week,” he said, pointing at the front yard, “I want you to mow it horizontally, row after row, and I want them straight as ladders. The next you’ll go diagonally, giving it a different look.”
He owned a self-propelled mower and demanded every blade of grass be collected in a detachable bag, the contents of which would be emptied in the back yard, a process known as mulching.
There were similar rules for my fall and winter duties — how to deal with the hazelnuts or the proper way to dispose of shoveled snow — but those were a breeze compared with my summer job.
I can still remember those Saturday mornings and the way Mom would tiptoe to the side of my bed and gently shake my shoulder.
“He’s got the mower waiting,” she’d whisper, “and the gas can.”
This was his version of the Bat Signal … I was the Caped Crusader.
Then I’d pull on my jeans, put on my Stones T-shirt and Yankee cap, lace up my Chuck Taylors, and head across the street.
His wife was a gem, a truly lovely lady, and she’d often pull me aside when I was taking a break in the garage (usually ogling that ’65 Mustang with baby moon hubcaps) and say things like, “You’re doing fine. Don’t let his gruff tone of voice fool you.”
It got hot a lot on those Saturdays, and she always made sure there were at least two bottles of Pepsi, iced in a bucket, an opener handy. There also was a stack of magazines, usually Sports Illustrated, that I was always invited to take back to the house.
This had to be her gesture, though I never had the temerity to ask.
Here’s the strange thing about the four years of working for him.
What he paid me at the end of the day was always a surprise.
Such capriciousness was new to me, having always assumed a flat rate when mowing or raking or shoveling for others on the block.
I’m reminded of “Let’s Make a Deal,” a game show of that era.
“Do you want what’s behind the curtain or what’s in this box?”
He, as Monty Hall with a pen hovering over his checkbook, and I, dressed as the Scarecrow, singing “If I Only Had a Brain:”
“I would not be just a nuthin’
My head all full of stuffin’
My heart all full of pain.”
I realize this is going to sound ridiculous, but on those rare occasions I had a Saturday night date set up, he always, always, always paid me more … and there’s no way he could have known.
High school life was, by definition and tradition, always uncertain.
One day you’d get cut from the basketball team, and another you’d find out something you’d written had won an award.
Sometimes, you’d get called down to the police station for breaking into an elementary school gym to shoot hoops, and another time, you take a pretty girl to the homecoming dance.
Sure, she was bound to leave you, but for a couple of months, you existed in a world so filled with possibilities you had to smile.
The evening of my graduation was filled with contradictions. For one thing, the event was held in the gym, which had no air-conditioning, turning it into an overcrowded sauna, while outside, the promised rain hadn’t materialized, leaving the stadium empty. I went to a party afterward but walked home alone, having lost track of my friend, who had driven me there and then whizzed off.
In the end I was left with a money clip and a typewriter as parting gifts, signaling an unknown future ahead, one filled with surprises.
Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to join him on his Facebook page, where no one pays attention to the man behind the curtain.