It was my quota of joy for 2017 all in the space of one morning. Thirty kind souls each took time on an August Saturday to arrive at our house armed with hedge trimmers and gloves. One family brought two shovels, then went home for three more. Another lent a lawn mower on steroids. It is called a bush whacker and it was not intimidated by the brush
and brambles masquerading as grass. It reminded me of a brawny teenager who likes danger.
The rain blessed us the night before, both softening the soil and bringing the temperatures down to seventy. Still many of us managed to work up a sweat. People whom I am more used to seeing sitting in chairs talking, leaned in to unearth buried paving stones from a forgotten path. For hours. Two men who probably had other things on their own to do list met and conquered the
challenge of a drain pipe gone awry. Using gravity and hydro force to solve the misdirection of rainwater, they reinstated the tunnels that are willing, and able, to keep water out of our basement. Imagine. A problem that I did not think we had a solution for much less the capacity to implement it. Gone.
Women worked in clusters so they could chat while they weeded. One brought her own folding stool. Some actually called it fun. I enjoyed conversations with
people I like and heard about their children and elderly parents. A group cleared an area of vines in preparation for a raspberry patch. Others liberated trees and hydrangeas that were being choked by ivy. The arbor that was tangled in overgrowth came invitingly clean. Stealth saplings trying to gain a foothold too close to the house met their fate at the teeth of a saw. Hearing it buzz was a satisfying sound.
The man who brought the truck and
trailer to haul it all away was friendly. Each time anyone tugged a tarp full of debris he and his son helped hoist it into the pile that rivaled a small elephant. Maybe a large one.
I shook the hand of a young man who has a unique history of altruism. The Delta Mu organization that clocks each student's record of community service has lists of names. Those who gave ten or less hours. Twenty or less. Fifty or less. A hundred or less. Then there is a
gap. Twelve hundred hours. Here he was giving three more to my grateful family.
The woman who provided snacks solved the dilemma of workers not being able to pick up wedges of watermelon in their dirty hands by poking them into our mouths. That was delightful.
There were mothers and sons. Husbands and wives. Young men and girlfriends. Three adult siblings. People who showed up on their own because of some inner tug I cannot quite
explain. One woman's shorts got so caked with dirt she wanted proof and asked us to take a picture.
Seven of the people who worked live on my road. It is possible, likely even, that each time they pass they will remember that they were instrumental in transforming an overgrown yard into one that is welcoming. Perhaps they will smile. In a world of unquenchable thirst for making a difference there is proof that they did.
Two days
later I realize that the joy was not limited to one morning or even one person.
