Outsourcing

We hired the “man” to trim the lilac bushes and to halt the Russian olive trees from commandeering our tiny back yard. The task was way overdue. Over the years these trees have arched backward and downward toward our stubby lawn, like adolescents in handspring position. We respected the way they shrouded our tiny plot from the gaze of neighbors pacing nervously around their decks in winter, dewy long-necked beer bottles in hand. But cutting the lawn had become a singularly menacing experience, my skull in danger of having a painful message etched deep into it by the tree’s sharp and unforgiving branches.

Outsourcing has never been our strong suit. But the landscape hire happens on a whim one day when I’m outside throwing the neon green Frisbee for the black dog. A man trims a stubborn hedgerow for the neighbors across the cul-de-sac and as I casually wave to him, he stops his work, and shouts back to me:

Looks pretty good, right? He is smallish, tattooed and energetic.

Excellent, I holler, feeling a twinge of guilt that I didn’t compliment his work first. Indeed, it truly looks excellent, as if trimmed and ready for the first day of school.

The black dog races toward me across the front lawn, a muddy Frisbee in her mouth, folded in half like a taco, bee-lining toward my newly laundered pants, until she smashes directly into my leg, smiling goofily. She is a beautiful mess.

Landscape man and I begin to converse. He’s in from Phoenix, working for his brother, the taller one wielding a chain saw on the other side of the property, his furrow line visible from here. The men work hard and swift, as if headed to their next job, or as if aware of an approaching storm that no one sees. But it turns out business has been slow. Phoenix senses my admiration of his work and jogs over to his blue truck and returns, clutching a pale yellow flyer that advertises their services in Times New Roman font. A traditionalist.

Back inside the house, Casey agrees with the plan. Over the next few days, the two men will give our longhaired, frazzled, 1980s landscape a makeover, though strangely, the Russian olives will never see the blade. Lilacs and climbers are cut, autumn blaze maple leaves gathered, a dead Aspen tree downed, flagstone set, and our neighbors on each side of the worn wooden fence are made visible. I think how many months we’ve spent drilling and taping and gutting the inside of our home, creating a modern, insular world, while the outside has become a jungle, a shroud.

On day two I bring cookies and water in large porcelain steins outside for the men and the furrowed one asks what I think of their work.

It is beautiful.

Does Casey like it?

He hasn’t had a chance to see it, I confess. Came home late last night and just crashed.

He seems disappointed.

What do you think of the flagstone?

Awesome, I say, distracted by the phone ringing inside and the kid in my arms.

So you’re pleased?

Yeah, absolutely, I add. Six feet tall, forty plus years on the planet, a strong skill set, and the landscaper is unsure of what’s clearly stellar work.

I start to write out a check but my arms are full.

I can hold your baby, he offers, stretching out his arms and I do not hesitate. I pass Eli over into the large hands of the insecure gardener, who within moments has made the boy smile.

I can’t decide if he looks like you or Casey, the man suggests.

Yeah, neither can we.

Later that night, we start a fire in the outside pit with the wood from the dead Aspen, supplies for open-faced s’mores at the ready. Neighbors slide open glass doors, startled by the new view. Their eyes dart downward toward our backyard stage to see a black dog in a red coat, a tall man holding a baby in a bundle of warm fleece, a woman donning a wool blanket breaking kindling and stoking fire. The Aspen is dry and burns fast and hot. We are building a bed of warm embers for the spring months that lie ahead. I can't help but think of the metaphor of a Phoenix man who rises from the ashes of the cul-de-sac. Friendly, honest, hard workers with strong hand shakes, not afraid to gently hold a fussy child, nor to break tree limbs and stereotypes in the same breath. Strange, though, that they never ate the gooey homemade cookies.