The Lawnmower Blade

(summary posted on Facebook.)

Looking over my resume, I had the sweetest memory of my little brother, who probably doesn't remember:

My brother, who regularly visited and mowed my parents' lawn (like his ol' man!), had taken the lawnmower blade to be sharpened, and had to put it back together. Always logical, he wanted to double-check his work before he moved forward. The lawnmower wasn't new, and we didn't have the manual anymore.
We conferred briefly and decided to look online for the manual. We used my computer to look for it, as Harriet had dialup but I had U-verse. (I'd waited with bated breath for our neighborhood to get high-speed internet.) We Asked Jeeves for the manufacturer's website, then located the specs.
At one point, I looked up from the monitor, and Mom was watching us from the doorway, crying. I don't know if it was because her kids were working together OR because her kids were working together using post-Star Trek technology. I'm really glad that she saw her adult kids advance in Commander Uhuru's future.
I'm not sure why I was surprised; she knew how smart her Son was, and she knew I was no slouch myself. (Hell, a former boss came to our house to have me do his resume.)
She herself was no stranger to the Internet; she'd been keeping her online journal (she didn't want to be called a "blogger") for quite some time - though she insisted that dialup was sufficient. (Until she wanted to take part in a Q&A with author Kathy Reichs, and needed the dongle I'd gotten so she could connect to my internet fast enough to get in her Q.) I'm really glad that she saw her kids growing in Commander Uhuru's future.
Later, I'd call her a silversurfer. She was far better than she thought she was.
Which leads me to things she told me that mean people said to her, That make me sad, and I want to keep this memory a sweet one.

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Timeline for my own use: Must've been around 2000, when I'd moved in with my parents while I looked for an off-campus apartment. Then, my dad had a cardiac episode, Mom needed a hand, and "a month" turned into years. I'd worked eight years at Yale, followed by at least two years as a legal secretary by the afternoon in question.