Just like everybody else, I've been feeling the pinch of a constrained economy, rising gas prices and a virtually stagnant career. (Oh, wait, that last one's just me.) I've been looking around for ways to cut back. Just this past week, in fact, I had to cancel the lawn service.

The problem is that my lawn service has been, for the past few years, my 14-year-old son. When he started volunteering to cut the grass four years ago at age 10, we thought it was cute. (And, before you write in, I know, somewhat dangerous.) We wanted to encourage him, and cutting the grass was not one of my favorite things to do around the house. (It didn't even make the top 50 list.) So each week, I'd pull the mower out of the shed, start it up and let him do the yard.

But then one day my wife decided, as a way to reward his industriousness, to slip him a 20 after he'd finished the lawn. She didn't realize that she'd established a base price, and from that point onward, each and every time he revved up the old motor, we were out another $20. As time went on, and he got more ambitious, and greedier, he'd start cutting the lawn more and more frequently. By last August, I'd find him out there, strolling up and down the grass pushing just days after he'd last done it, not a single grass blade high enough to meet the lawnmower blade. We were basically paying him to fan our lawn.

He also cleverly realized that if he alerted us every time he cut the grass, we'd catch on. So he'd cut (or fan) the grass two or three times, then mention casually that we really needed to get him another $40 or $60 if we wanted to keep our account current. I started to avoid him like a losing gambler avoids his bookie.

So this year, I thought, I'd either cut the grass myself, or, in a pinch, appeal to him to help out as a good son instead of an independent contractor.

He'd expanded his business to cut my in-laws' grass, too, I rationalized, and didn't really need me for spending money. He was saving up for an X-Box, but he'd made so much money shoveling snow over the winter that he was within a few weeks of amassing enough dough for a trip to the electronics store.

Still, it was hard to let him go. I didn't say anything, but when he first mentioned that I needed to dig out the lawn mower this spring, I procrastinated.

The other weekend, his mind clearly on the X-Box, he eyed up the lawn. It was getting embarrassingly long, he noted. Throwing in a little humiliation, he noted that the neighbors' lawns had all been cut weeks before.

I ambled to the back of the property and dug the lawnmower out from underneath all the other junk we'd piled on it. When it was ready to go, he came over and hovered by my side, his way of saying that it was time for me to step aside and let the professional take over. I waved him off.

"I'll do it," I said.

"You?" he answered in shock. "That's my job, Dad!"

I sighed and explained that this year, he was old enough to volunteer around the house. If he wanted to cut the grass, that was great, but he was going to get reimbursed with goodwill and warm regards rather than with cold hard cash. I stepped aside and motioned to the mower.

"You want to help the old man out and do the lawn for me, pal?" I asked.

He stared at me, then at the lawn. Then he nodded slowly, turned, and just walked away across the overgrown lawn.

"Where are you going?" I called out.

He didn't even look back.

"Grandpa's house," he responded. "At least he still pays!"

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