When it comes to doing yardwork, I would - as my friend Michael so colorfully says - rather be in hell with a broken back, so I was delighted when the man who cuts the grass suggested someone who would come and clean things up.
Patrick arrived on a suffocatingly humid afternoon, along with Mollie, an eight year old lab and therapy dog with stunningly good manners. After no more than an hour's work, Mollie was peacefully sleeping in the shade by the front steps while Patrick, shirtless and looking as if he'd just stepped out from a swimming pool, cut and hauled limbs, packed lawn and leaf bags to overflowing, trimmed the crepe myrtle, watered and mulched the flower beds. It was 106 and sweat poured from his shoulders and back and arms, even accumulated on his eye lashes. I could barely breathe in the heat but he was unstoppable and by the time he was done, the yard had been transformed and a brush pile of green debris four feet tall and thirty feet long had been neatly arranged and laid out next to the curb. Even Mollie seemed pleased at the results - from the drivers side of the pickup she looked out and gave an approving woof.
It's probably an extravagance on my part to pay people to do this kind of work for me when I'm completely capable of doing it myself - but no amount of antidepressant or antiperspirant can seduce me into outside manual labor in these temperatures. I know it's against a long southern tradition but flower beds bring me no joy. So I thank the good Lord for the roofers, the trash men, the mail carriers, the painters and carpenters and all the undervalued yardmen who for mere coin of the realm will dehydrate and sweat themselves into oblivion to make my life easier.
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