Almost half of the human population leaves the burbs every morning. While at a neighbor’s coffee klatch last week, this topic came up with the gals talking about the men who are left behind in our town - the surfer-dude swimming coach, the Australian landscaper, the hunky waste management guy. We are not desperate housewives; it’s just that a little testosterone goes a long way to even out the air. It makes me grateful for the rare glimpses of a sweaty mower man or a saw-welding contractor.
Not long ago, the doorbell rang and there were two handsome gentlemen at my door. Lo and behold, I thought I had won Publisher’s Clearinghouse. I practiced my “surprise-win face,” just in case the white van with camera crew was there to capture the moment. However, the men were from a tree service company that we commissioned to cut some dead branches from our 100-year-old oaks. The trees are close to the swing-set, near where the fox lives. Goodness, that swing-set is requiring so much attention that we may need a “(play)grounds keeper.”
The tree guys went to the back garden, strapped on harnesses, attached ropes, and hammered clamps. It was a hot, humid day that signifies DC was originally built on swampland. One of the guys was climbing the tree and I noticed he had taken his off his shirt. Influenced by my "proper" upbringing in the South, I thought it would be mannerly to take those boys a beverage. Then I immediately called a friend in the neighborhood, and invited her to join me for a viewing of the strapping lumberjacks at work. When life is giving ya lemons, make lemonade.