Carol’s Column

There's a mini-millionaire in our backyard

LAST week our grass grew. Yellow, wizened and dry, overnight it spouted fresh green shootlets and in two days, it was looking like an apprentice lawn.

Then came a deluge. The wind howled, the house shook and the rains gushed forth from heaven, and I could almost hear the grass growing outside.

Later, I forced open the bedroom window — it had swollen, you understand, due to the rain — and in doing so the window parted company with the frame and went hurtling like a helicopter down on to the green, soft lawn.

So thick was the grass that the window bounced back and almost knocked out my new set of permanent-sparkle plaque-free dentures causing my tonsils not a little stress.

But alack, in every silver lining lurks a dark cloud. The appearance of the lush lawn meant the resuscitation of Gottschalk the lawnmower so named because he had been acquired at a lawnmower sale 17 years ago bought from a then recently deceased Mr Gershon Clint Gottschalk.

For 17 troublesome years, Gottschalk has reluctantly mowed our lawn, cutting the grass unevenly with his blunt blades and stopping more often than starting.

It was once again time to retrieve Gottschalk from the gardening shed and bring him back to life. Unfortunately a stiff whiskey was not enough to get him going and one week later, I fetched him from our local hardware shop.

"Good heavens, I might as well buy a new lawnmower," I exclaimed when I had to pay R373,58 to secure his release.

"Mrs Lazar, this is the bargain of the year," said the hardware man, "for R373,58 you have yourself a new lawnmower."

As I carried the new lawnmower to the car, the front right wheel fell off and rolled down the stormwater drain never to be seen again.

That night as we sat eating a delectable macaroni cheese without the cheese because it's fattening, I brought up the controversial subject of lawnmowing in order that we could begin negotiations about which child would mow and for how much remuneration.

After much bargaining, Jamie negotiated himself into the job for R7,50 a mow.

On Monday I arrived home to find seven smallish persons sitting in my kitchen drinking orange juice and eating a banana loaf.

"Ma, meet the team," said Jamie.

"The team? What team?"

"This is the Lawnmowers' Convention Team," replied Jamie with not a little aplomb. "I have subcontracted them to mow our lawn. Furthermore, instead of Gottschalk lying idle in the tool shed, I have arranged to mow a neighbour a day. We'll work in shifts in between homework. There is a demand and we will provide the supply," added my son.

On Tuesday the Lawnmowers' Convention Team mowed the patch of grass in front of Mrs Appelgrun's patio. Unfortunately Gottschalk refused to start which meant the team had to resort to cutting the grass with several pairs of nail scissors.

On Wednesday, Jamie replaced Gottschalk's carburettor and cleaned the spark plugs. The team, booked to mow the Entwhistle's patch, moved in with alacrity. Gottschalk performed like Bruce Fordyce, taking off like a Nasa rocket.

The grass looked superb and it was unfortunate that Enrico Entwhistle's 13 prize rose bushes, two miniature hibiscus plants and a giant blooming plumbago were also sacrificed in the path of Gottschalk.

On Thursday Jamie was jubilant because he and the team negotiated a year's contract to cut Ouma Kakevanea van Wyk's backyard. The khakibos field next door was thrown in for good measure.

On Friday the team cut our lawn at a special discount rate.

"C'mon, Ma, it's nothing," said Jamie as I tried to pay him in full. "We've made a killing in the past few days."

Inside I glowed in a mothersome way. "I think you'll be a millionaire by the time you're 30," I grinned proudly as mothers are wont to do.

"Thirty? No," mumbled Jamie as he stuffed a slice of banana loaf into his mouth. "I want to be able to retire when I'm 21. Life's short, you've got to start early otherwise you end up on the compost heap."

So to speak.

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