Yesterday afternoon, with the enthusiastic help of our six-year-old grandson, I mowed the pasture in front of the house with the old push-mower my father bought way back in 1964. The thing weighs a ton. The grass was a foot deep from the rain. The buffalo scattered. The mountain goats came down from the trees. Raking madly, going after stray blades with a pair of scissors, the boy was in heaven, as I was, and as are we all. We swept the sidewalk at least half a dozen times and gazed out across the plain. Then I brought out a chair and drank tea while he trimmed the young cedar next to the lilac, ran the brush through his shredder, and spread the mulch on our garden space. Well imagined. Well done, as every tool in the garage assumed a magical new purpose. Paradise, of course. It needn’t be hard.