Mrs. McKee is a lonesome old lady in her mid-eighties.She seems fragile, but is strong. Her sons are all grown, and she has no one tohelp her around the house. I had never talked to her, so when she just called oneday and asked for my help, I didn't want to at first. I didn't know what toexpect, but she offered to pay me, so I decided to give it a try.
Onemorning while the dew was still on the grass and the sun was just starting to popup over the trees, I rode my four-wheeler to her house. I wanted to get her workout of the way quickly so I could go out with friends.
She looked likeI'd pictured - a small lady with white hair and bad teeth. She had a little limp,but that didn't stop her. I watched as she sawed boards and constructeddrawers.
That day I ended up shoveling dirt for her. I went to help thenext day, and the day after that. I started going to her house on a regular basisto do the yard work she couldn't tackle.
I would do whatever she told meto, even if it meant burying newspapers (I don't know why) or cleaning hersidewalk. She paid me six dollars an hour, and when I shoveled coal it was fivedollars a ton. Some days I would chop down trees, and others I would mow herlawn. Even though she is old, she still does a lot for herself, includingplanting flowers and mowing some of her grass.
I have grown to love Mrs.McKee. She reminds me of my great-grandma, whom I miss. Mrs. McKee is fromCzechoslovakia and has a slight accent I always notice when she says, "Youknow," in a choppy way after each sentence. I feel bad because all she talksabout is her sons, whom she doesn't get to see very often.
It's kind offunny, because she still doesn't know my name. She thinks my name is Jimmy Turnerbecause I live near my grandpa Turner. I try to do things to suit her, I don'twant to upset her.
Some of the work I do for her is hard, but I likebeing outside early in the morning. I enjoy helping her because it makes me feelgood about myself, and it wouldn't even matter if she didn't pay me. She is aneat lady who has had a rough life.
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