“It won’t break me,” I said.

By late July, the weeds around the Kearney farm mailbox were waist high.

The county grader had pushed loose dirt up against the wooden post, trapping the summer rain in a muddy pool.

Luke and I parked the minivan on the gravel shoulder of the road.

The evening air was thick with humidity and buzzing gnats.

We lifted our old red push mower out of the back of the van.

Luke started the mower on the second hard pull.