| Humor Fiction posted June 14, 2021 |
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Lawnmower to the rescue: let her roll!
How to Outwit a Helicopter Mom
by Elizabeth Emerald
Three doors down on the suburban street where I grew up lived an oddball threesome with the unassuming name "Gardener."
Mr. Gardener was notable for his made-to-order tool-kit. The grips of the implements were a spot-on shade of baby-girl pink. To which his custom-painted Cadillac was a perfect match.
Mrs. Gardener was a voracious gardener (!); yellow tulips, and purple pansies encircled a king-sized bed of pink petunias (which could have served as camouflage for her husband's Caddy).
Greg, their only son, was a wannabe Mickey Mantle. Meantime, he'd have happily settled for playing baseball with the kids on the street.
Alas, Mrs. Gardener would not permit Greg to play, lest he get his head bashed by an errant bat. Or twist his ankle, skin his elbow, catch germs from a glove ...
Mr. Gardener was the first in the neighborhood to purchase a riding mower (which he'd had painted, by way of gender equality, in baby-boy blue).
One summer day, Greg coaxed his mother onto the mower. Before she got the hang of how to steer, Greg pulled the starter cord, upon which Mrs. Gardener commenced to swerve about the yard.
Greg proceeded to the end of the street, where a baseball game was in full swing.
During the subsequent hour, Greg, along with the rest of the team, heard the screeches of Mrs. Gardener, as she wandered the yard on the wayward mower.
Greg had "neglected" to teach her to brake.
When the machine finally ran out of gas, Mrs. Gardener hopped off and stomped into the house.
From which, within the minute, she emerged, gripping a ping-pong paddle, and strode down the street.
Thus wielding the paddle, Mrs. Gardener approached her son, and smacked his backside.
She proceeded to "escort" him home in like manner,
As the kids who followed the procession told the rest of us afterwards, Greg, in his triumph, smirked all the way home.
Three doors down on the suburban street where I grew up lived an oddball threesome with the unassuming name "Gardener."
Mr. Gardener was notable for his made-to-order tool-kit. The grips of the implements were a spot-on shade of baby-girl pink. To which his custom-painted Cadillac was a perfect match.
Mrs. Gardener was a voracious gardener (!); yellow tulips, and purple pansies encircled a king-sized bed of pink petunias (which could have served as camouflage for her husband's Caddy).
Greg, their only son, was a wannabe Mickey Mantle. Meantime, he'd have happily settled for playing baseball with the kids on the street.
Alas, Mrs. Gardener would not permit Greg to play, lest he get his head bashed by an errant bat. Or twist his ankle, skin his elbow, catch germs from a glove ...
Mr. Gardener was the first in the neighborhood to purchase a riding mower (which he'd had painted, by way of gender equality, in baby-boy blue).
One summer day, Greg coaxed his mother onto the mower. Before she got the hang of how to steer, Greg pulled the starter cord, upon which Mrs. Gardener commenced to swerve about the yard.
Greg proceeded to the end of the street, where a baseball game was in full swing.
During the subsequent hour, Greg, along with the rest of the team, heard the screeches of Mrs. Gardener, as she wandered the yard on the wayward mower.
Greg had "neglected" to teach her to brake.
When the machine finally ran out of gas, Mrs. Gardener hopped off and stomped into the house.
From which, within the minute, she emerged, gripping a ping-pong paddle, and strode down the street.
Thus wielding the paddle, Mrs. Gardener approached her son, and smacked his backside.
She proceeded to "escort" him home in like manner,
As the kids who followed the procession told the rest of us afterwards, Greg, in his triumph, smirked all the way home.
Mr. Gardener was notable for his made-to-order tool-kit. The grips of the implements were a spot-on shade of baby-girl pink. To which his custom-painted Cadillac was a perfect match.
Mrs. Gardener was a voracious gardener (!); yellow tulips, and purple pansies encircled a king-sized bed of pink petunias (which could have served as camouflage for her husband's Caddy).
Greg, their only son, was a wannabe Mickey Mantle. Meantime, he'd have happily settled for playing baseball with the kids on the street.
Alas, Mrs. Gardener would not permit Greg to play, lest he get his head bashed by an errant bat. Or twist his ankle, skin his elbow, catch germs from a glove ...
Mr. Gardener was the first in the neighborhood to purchase a riding mower (which he'd had painted, by way of gender equality, in baby-boy blue).
One summer day, Greg coaxed his mother onto the mower. Before she got the hang of how to steer, Greg pulled the starter cord, upon which Mrs. Gardener commenced to swerve about the yard.
Greg proceeded to the end of the street, where a baseball game was in full swing.
During the subsequent hour, Greg, along with the rest of the team, heard the screeches of Mrs. Gardener, as she wandered the yard on the wayward mower.
Greg had "neglected" to teach her to brake.
When the machine finally ran out of gas, Mrs. Gardener hopped off and stomped into the house.
From which, within the minute, she emerged, gripping a ping-pong paddle, and strode down the street.
Thus wielding the paddle, Mrs. Gardener approached her son, and smacked his backside.
She proceeded to "escort" him home in like manner,
As the kids who followed the procession told the rest of us afterwards, Greg, in his triumph, smirked all the way home.
 Recognized |
#33 June 2021 |
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