who's your lawn boy?

Spring has sprung—or at least in my yard, it has, judging from the newly-cut jonquils in my kitchen. So, in honor of the day, I had my first date of the year with my lawn mower. And it made me realize that I owe my old mower an apology. All this time, I thought that it was the ancient machine we had at my old house that caused the rapid gasoline consumption. But it seems I am the one to blame. I went through not 1, not 2, not even 3—no, 4 tanks of gas this morning. So much so that my Grandfather told me, as he got the gas can out of the truck again, that he was going to have to start charging my for his service calls.
Thankfully, he was there by the time I had used up my first tank, and of course was well equipped—he can always be counted upon to carry with him every possible tool, machine, and fuel, that one could possibly have a need for. The only thing I had to be wary of was choosing the wrong type of fuel out of the back of his truck—thus his assistance in the matter, considering it was a shame for me to break him out of his masked, ear-muffed, and gloved hedge-trimming. But I didn’t feel too badly really, as the truth is that he absolutely loves it when I ask for his help, and he has an infinite amount of patience for such interruptions.
At any rate, considering the fact that my lawn is about 1 and ½ hours worth of mowing when I do it all in one fell swoop like this, 4 tanks was certainly more than I should have needed. So, the only logical conclusion seems to be that something about my mowing method leaves something to be desired. Granted, I get a bit too gung-ho at times, doing silly things like going at a pace slightly faster than the average walk, which I realize is not the smartest thing to do with anything composed of whirling blades.
But the end result is such that, upon her arrival to survey our progress, my GramBea told me I was “the best lawn boy” she knew. Well, compliment or no, I am darn proud of my lovely lawn