Summer I was 18, I had a job doing general mowing and weeding and working on the golf course at a ski resort in my home county in Northern Greater Appalachia. The place was founded between the wars by emigrants who bought a lot of land that was so hilly and isolated and worthless, there was nothing to do with it but build a ski lodge and become the biggest employer in two counties. The guy who hired me was one of their sons; he and my dad were high school classmates back when the place was barely afloat. He was a millionaire by then, but he liked to drive the dump truck and operate the backhoe, and his personal car was a nondescript 7-year-old Buick.
Anyhow, that summer Hurricane Agnes hit, and it rained like hell for days (yes, even up in the mountains), and there was nothing to do for a week but repair lawnmowers and other equipment.
At least once a day that week, we had the same exchange: