My father made me mow the lawn every Saturday whether it needed it or not. When my mom was alive, she let me get away with mowing every other week. Sometimes I felt like all I did was watch the grass grow then chop it down so I could watch it grow all over again. There was nothing interesting about my home town, or the state; and until I saw otherwise, I believed there was nothing interesting about this whole world. The only exciting thing to happen around there was when someone let all the pigs escape at the 4-H auction and the fire truck had to block the road so they could wrangle them. It was more difficult than it sounds because all the roads around the fairgrounds were dirt and it was raining. It was the closest thing that I’d ever seen to mud wrestling, and it was just a bunch of farm boys with their beloved swine.

I was lucky that I didn’t have to raise livestock. My father and I lived in town, right off Main Street, a block away from the only stoplight. We could walk everywhere important from our house—church, school, market, diner. Those places were the entire world for my father and me. He was a math teacher at the school. I mowed the lawn at the church—not because we were devoted church members but because my father felt less guilty about not attending church by making me mow the lawn. We ate at the diner every night because after my mom died, every home cooking attempt ended with flames or vomiting. Sometimes both.

I guess you could say that our little Wyoming town was quaint. It was one of those towns where everyone seemed old. It didn’t matter what decade it was, when I was a kid in the 70s or when I went back to visit as an adult, everyone still seemed old, perhaps just a bit more feeble as time marched on. The town was also very clean, like time stood still after 1957—with perfectly trimmed lilac bushes, bright white picket fences and stoic red barns seamlessly placed on the edge of green pastures. In the summer it seemed to rain every day at noon for one hour. Not a huge downpour, just a light rain to cool things off and make the damn grass grow. I remember sitting on our porch when the noon rain hit and wishing for something exciting to happen. In 1976, when I was 16 years old, my wish came true.

I awoke on a Saturday morning to the unfamiliar sound of a woman’s voice. I hadn’t heard that sound in our house in years. I pulled on my robe, tiptoed into the dining room and peeked around the corner into the kitchen. Sitting at our table was a tired-looking woman with her hair in a bun, thick black glasses and an orange cottony dress. I was shocked at the idea that my father had let a woman spend the night then allowed her to drink coffee in the very kitchen my beloved mother used to drink coffee. Just as I tightened the belt around my robe and marched into the room to cause a scene, a girl came around the corner and slammed into me. She had a plate of donuts and a glass of juice that fell right out of her hand and shattered on the dusty hardwoods below. Just as I bent over to pick up the remnants of the plate, my robe came untied and my discolored cotton briefs were revealed. I dropped the ceramic shards and booked it back to the safety of the Roy Rogers-papered walls of my bedroom.

I failed to slam the door, which is something that every man who just experienced brief humiliation from cotton briefs should do, so I had to endure the sounds of my father’s laughter. It took me a good ten minutes to get dressed and get up the courage to face my attacker. This time I didn’t lurk in the dining room. I strolled directly into the kitchen with my head held high, only to find my father in his torn argyle cardigan sitting alone next to a plate of perfectly cooked bacon. I’m sure my initial question should have been regarding the two females, but I was so shocked to see un-burnt bacon in our house that I had to inquire.

“Is that bacon?” I asked, pretending that the smell didn’t tip me off.

“Yep.” My father replied with his usual lack of zest as he slid the plate my direction.

“Where did it come from?” I asked, taking a bite and nearly crying from the nostalgia of my mom’s Saturday morning breakfasts.

“A pig. You should know that if you expect to survive in this town.” He didn’t look up from his paper.

He knew what I meant and I could tell by the curve of his lips that he was enjoying this dance. “Did that lady cook it?”

“Yes, Sandra, that lady cooked it.”

I wedged a third piece of meat into my mouth and mumbled. “That was nice of her, but don’t call me Sandra.”

He set down the paper and snatched the last piece of bacon from my greasy fingers. “Funny, Richard. You should take your act on the road. New neighbors, Sandra and Cynthia. They moved here from New York. I traded donuts and juice for bacon. When you ruined the donuts they decided to leave and never come back.”

“So they went back to New York?” I grinned.

“They went home to unpack. You will mow their lawn later since they don’t have a mower.” He pointed at my jeans. “And afterward, we’ll walk downtown and buy you some white underwear. I can’t believe we all had to witness that.”

“Had I known I’d be half naked in front of New Yorkers, I would’ve worn something classier.” I sighed. “How come I have to mow everyone’s lawn around here? Am I at leastgetting paid?

“Because you always complain about how bored you are. Your reward will be in heaven.”

“Why doesn’t the bacon lady’s husband mow it?

My father sighed. “Because he stayed in New York. Based on Sandra’s bitterness, I assume he won’t be coming to Wyoming.”

“I’d be bitter too if I had to leave New York to move here.”

An hour later, I finally got around to mowing all the lawns. I finished just before the noon rain and retreated to the porch to drink a pop and read my Mad Magazine. Before I realized she had even come onto the porch, I felt Cynthia sit next to me on the swing. She sat so close that the hair on my arms stood up and I repressed a soft gasp. I could feel my face turning red and I did my best to remain calm.

“Can I help you?” I continued to stare at my magazine and tried to sound annoyed.

She leaned forward and kicked her feet, setting the swing in motion. “It’s Richard, right?”

“Dickie.” I felt so immature when I said it. “Or Richard.” The girl had seen my underpants, I wanted to regain my sense of intrigue.

“Well, Dickie, I’m gonna ask you a favor and I have to be quick about it.”

I turned my face toward hers and our eyes met. My entire body felt hot and I wanted to run as far as I could. I envisioned myself running all the way to the fairgrounds and stealing a rodeo horse and riding off into the sunset. The idea of it made me chuckle. Then I realized she was talking.

“Can you do that for me?” She put her hand on my arm.

I cleared my throat. “Huh?”

She sounded exasperated as she repeated herself. “Okay, you’re not following. Geesh. My dad left my mom for his secretary. This made my mom a little crazy. She tried to find a job in New York to support us but nothing paid enough to live on. So this made her a little angry. One morning she came into my room and said we were moving to the Equality State so that she could stand up for her rights. I didn’t know what state that was so I looked it up. That’s why we’re in Wyoming. Anyway, she’s now on some sort of crazy mission…”

Before Cynthia could finish her explanation, I realized what she was talking about. Coming down the street was Sandra, sporting a giant wig and platform shoes. She was carrying a sign that read ERA, and she was chanting, “Women deserve equal rights!” The rain was making the letters on the sign blurry and her platform shoes were slipping on the damp sidewalk.

I couldn’t stop staring. The wild Wyoming wind was blowing her dress in all sorts of crazy directions. “Yeah. So what was the favor again?”

Cynthia put her face in her hands. “I’m mortified!” She fake screamed and said, “Can you please just ignore her and not let this be a reflection on me? The last thing I need is to start school in the fall and have all the kids call my mom the crazy lady."

“It’s a small town, news travels fast. I think you might be doomed.” I tried to sound funny even though I was being honest.

My father stepped out on the porch and lit a cigar. He took one drag and choked. “What the…” He looked down and saw Cynthia next to me. “What’s your mom doing?”

“She’s protesting.”

“I see.” He leaned up against the house and casually crossed his arms like it was something he saw every day. “And what is it that she’s against?”

“Men.” Cynthia said it with so much conviction that neither my father nor I could defend our gender.

“Fair enough.” My father flicked his ashes into the cuff of his pants and opened the screen door. “You kids want to walk to the diner with me? I think ice cream might be in order.”

We both got up and ran down the steps and up the street, leaving Sandra far behind marching back and forth across her lawn, which seemed to provide better traction than the sidewalk.

This protest went on every Saturday for the next several months, sometimes before the noon rain and sometimes after. Each time, my father would take Cynthia and me to the diner for the appropriate meal. I had grown fascinated with the mother and daughter and looked forward to hearing Sandra rant and Cynthia express her humiliation.

One Saturday morning I realized that the woman might be onto something. I went into the shed and found a couple old boards. I fastened them together, painted them white and secured a handle. When the paint dried, I took a bingo marker and carefully wrote No Pay, No Mow on it. Next I took the sign to the front yard and started marching back and forth shouting, “No such thing as a free lawn!” I found it exhilarating and could tell why Sandra was so passionate about her cause and her persistence.

I was only at it about five minutes when I felt my father rip the sign out of my hands. “Get inside young man”. He said it slowly through gritted teeth so I knew he meant business.

I did as I was told and hoped that none of the neighbors saw this rare act of discipline. The minute the screen door slammed shut my father started yelling. “What on earth are you thinking, boy?” He paced, almost like he, himself, was picketing. Then he stopped and stared out the window for a moment before continuing. “You might think it’s funny, but what you did is disrespectful. That woman is passionate about her beliefs. She may be the only woman in Wyoming doing it, but she is standing up and fighting for things to change. She’s fighting for her convictions; she’s saying she wants things to be better for her daughter’s generation.” Steam was practically coming out of his ears.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think of it like that. I just figured that if she could fight to be paid fairly for her job then I could do the same. It’s not fair that I have to mow lawns for free.” I was being genuine. I really did just want my work to be acknowledged and thought if it worked I might have enough cash to take Cynthia to the movies.

My father stared at his shoes for what seemed like forever. “Richard, I will pay you a dollar per lawn.” He pointed his finger at me. “And not because of what you did today, but because I want you to know that I do respect that you work hard.” He squinted his eyes, which was always a sign that he was serious. “Now I want you to go next door and apologize for being condescending.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Sandra was standing at our screen door. “I like that you stood up for yourself, Dickie.” Then tears rolled down her face. “And Thomas, I really like that you stood up for me.” She pressed her bright red lips against the screen and made a kissing sound. “Dinner’s at seven, boys.”

My father watched her walk down the steps then turned to me and winked. “And that, my boy, is how you win over a woman.” He then danced out of the room while I stood there with my mouth hanging open.

The following weekend, Cynthia and I sat on the porch swing and quietly watched as Sandra marched up the street with her picket sign. A few minutes later, my father came out reeking of aftershave, and wearing a brand new leisure suit with the tags still on it. We watched as he gallantly bounced down the stairs, dashed across the lawn and caught up with Sandra. We watched as Cynthia’s mother and my father chanted in unison, and marched down the street, hand in hand.

After that summer, Wyoming was never the same. The old people still seemed old, but my father was no longer one of them. It was the summer that the perfect little town with manicured lilac bushes caught up with the rest of the world. It was the summer that my father charmed the lady next door and we never had to eat at the diner again