Lawn-mowing and the Green Guys

So here in the city there are workers to whom we refer as “green guys.” The explanation for this is simple. They wear green uniforms in all four seasons. They usually work in groups and you often find them leaning up against a building having a cigarette. I caught one guy ducking from his supervisor in my front yard last week. After the manager walked away, he sat back down and had another smoke.

So anyway, these guys do all the jobs that I used to do at home. They shovel the snow in the winter, mow the lawns in the summer, and basically keep the place spruced up. But I’ve found that in our neck of the woods, so to speak, lawn-mowing isn’t a high priority. It was mid June before I called property management to get somebody out here. My explanation---I couldn’t find #4 in the grass behind our patio. Within an hour they were right out here. So I just call every other week when it seems the grass can’t be managed.

When they do get around to finally mowing, it looks like a kamikaze pilot was driving. There are never straight lines or any general direction at all. Even better is when they weed-eat and trim around the fence, but never actually mow. Or sometimes they mow a three foot path through the grass and never mow around it. Thank goodness for that path.

A couple of weeks ago, my husband had made no-bake cookies and Number #1 thought it would be a good idea to share with the workers. With her cheerful disposition, she bounded out the door with the plate in hand. She figured it was a good opportunity to practice her Russian.

Each man has his job.
One man pushes the mower.
One man empties the bag from the mower.
One man rakes the grass into a pile.
One man uses his hands to put the grass into a trash bag.
One man ties the trash bag and heaves it into the truck.
One man drives the truck.
One man works the radio in the truck.
And I can’t remember what the last man does but I am certain there were eight.

So Number #1 walks out there with our American no-bake cookies made with Jif Peanut Butter and Hershey’s Cocoa and says, “pazhalsta!” (sort of a help yourself invitation). A few of the men obliged but the man with grassy hands shook his head and tried to explain that he couldn’t possibly. Number #1 insisted, “Da! Da!” she said (yes, yes) while nodding her head. He smiled (a rarity) and took one. I haven’t had to call property management since. In fact, I think they hang around our side yard a little longer each week hoping we’ll bring out a snack.