When spring and summer rolled around about 35 years ago, you’d find me spending a lot of time cutting grass. This was my main job from about age 9, when I began mowing my next door neighbor’s yard once a week.  By the time I was 17, I was hauling my mower around town in the back of my pickup truck. It wasn’t always easy work, but I sure enjoyed the money.

I used to get so stinkin’ aggravated when some of my employers would sit out on their front porches and watch me mow. I don’t know why. Being in theater and basically a huge ham who enjoys the attention, you’d think I’d be glad for the audience. To me, people who watch you work are probably watching for negative reasons.  At least that’s how I felt at age 16.

Once I was mowing a yard that was beautifully laid out with thick, lush zoysia grass.  Yes, it’s beautiful grass; but boy is it hard to mow. You push and shove your mower through it.  Not easy.

The owner of this beautiful lawn, at least in the early days of my employment with him, used to sit on his front porch and watch everything I did. If my mower died, he’d holler instructions on how I could keep it from dying. If I had trouble starting it, he’d tell me how to do it. He’d run and get a screwdriver if I needed one — especially on those days when I was really having start-up problems.  I resented his advice. I mean, I’d been mowing for a long time. I was an expert.

I would sit on porches for a drink break from time to time, making polite conversation with some of my employers.  There were times some of them would ask a barrage of questions, mostly mundane and, to me, non-important questions I found irritating and annoying; almost as much as being watched closely.

There was a little old lady who used to come out and hold up her bushes with her rake every week so I could mow under them. I had assured her that I could get under those bushes just fine all by myself. Still, out she came with that rake. Every week. She also asked me to mow a certain way as to keep her sidewalk immaculate. Grrr.

Recently, I was doing a job with a good friend of mine who is wise beyond his years. We were talking about being told how to do things and being questioned at our age. Both of us agreed that we want to tell certain folks, “You know, I’m almost half a century old! I think I know what I’m doing.”

We talked about how we don’t have time to answer questions, especially the ones that don’t seem to matter. I told about my old days of mowing for those critical, questioning older folks.

Then my friend piped up with something I found not only profound, but a bit shaming.

“You know, those older folks just want to feel necessary and needed. They want to feel like they still have a purpose and a voice. Asking questions and helping out, even if we find it bossy and annoying, is their way of still making a contribution.”

He wasn’t preaching to me, he was just sharing something he’d realized with a friend. It hit me, like most things, smack dab between the eyes.

I think I walked away from that conversation feeling a lot shorter.