Cutting the Grass

WHEN OUR lawnmower broke and wouldn’t run, my wife kept hinting to me that I should get it fixed. But, somehow, I always had something else to take care of first—the shed, the bike, making beer—always something more important to me. Finally she thought of a clever way to make her point.

When I arrived home one day, I found her seated in the tall grass, busily snipping away with a tiny pair of sewing scissors. I watched silently for a short time and then went into the house. I was gone only a minute, and when I came out again, I handed her a toothbrush. I said, “When you finish cutting the grass, you might as well sweep the driveway.”

The doctors say I will walk again, but I will always have a limp.