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The fire starts but one of the mowers won’t.  The 36” Snapper walk-behind is a beast once it gets going, but it turns out, also a beast to get going.  Turns out it hates cold mornings.  It hates mild mornings.

If that was the only problem keeping the truck from pulling out.

The rider has a flat.  A 60” front deck John Deere.  Sucks up leaves like nobody’s business.  A necessity today as the clouds part slightly and the sun brightens up the fog bank.  Sure we own a compressor, which of course is at my brother’s house, trying to solve a pressure tank problem on his water system.

And the chainsaw is missing.  The big Stihl.  A tree is down across a fence and nothing else will do.  I get on the phone.

“Scott?  Do you have my saw?”

“Oh.  Yeah.”

I’ve taken to charging my brother-in-law for tool rental, now that he has his own business.  He grumbles about it to his sister, complaining that I’m taking out my personal life on him.  I’m not.  How many times have I asked the guy to let me know if he’s taking a tool?  A hundred?  Probably more.  He’s a lovable mutt, but has much to learn about business.

“I need it,” I say.

“Yeah, okay.  When?”

“Now would be good.”

I’ll need a new chain, he tells me.  Someone seems to have been cutting too much dirt.  Some day I’ll tell you the story about the dog who snuck off with my new truck while I was out of town, and how when the dog apparently looked away, the truck mysteriously began to roll, picking up speed until it slammed into another car.  I happened to be working 100 miles away when the state police called, searching for answers.

“Yes, that’s my truck,” I told the officers.  “By the way, is there a lovable mutt anywhere in the vicinity?”

“Yes.  Yes there is.”

“You might try talking to him.  His name is Scott.”

The day flies by, moving ferns, throwing soil here and there, firming up stepping stones, and of course, planting.  I move around the beds searching for angles, some internal plant growth gauge busily churning away inside my head.  What will it look like today, two years, five years, ten?  My idea of a decent landscaper is someone who can see into the future, and I don’t just mean the check waiting for them at the end of the day. 

The tree we brought, a dwarf Hinoki cypress is too small, which I knew it would be, so I dash over to another nursery and chat up the owner.  All his workers are away, picking hazelnuts, and he is left alone to man the fort from his wheelchair.

“So, I guess that means no dozing off today,” I tell him.  We laugh.  Small talk.  Who would ever have guessed that it would be the stuff that keeps the world on track and people from going insane as they muddle through their days.  I’m not actually much of a small talker, and might compare it to something like, I don’t know, eating rice cakes maybe.  Just something to keep the jaw busy it seems like.  The conversation does leave me wondering if I’ll ever end up in an electric wheelchair?  I’m hoping something all-terrain.  One that can jump curbs, maybe spray a little gravel out if I really get on it.

Anyway, the only thing standing between us and completing this job is a custom-made trellis, a couple of missing plants, a bench that is sitting in a store 15 miles away, three yards of bark dust, and a small bit of time.  I convince the customer that it is in everyone’s best interest to reschedule the trellis for a week from Monday, then send the guys out for the bench.

“We’ll wrap this thing up today!” I tell her.  Two days early.  She is very excited.  The plantings look good, and with her family coming in on Saturday, it is obvious that she wants everything to look perfect.

“Let’s throw in a small stone step here,” I tell Fernando.  Ten, fifteen minutes of work leave her stunned.

“Fernando!  I just love it!” she says.  He smiles, which is nothing new.