Having a house with a lawn seemed like such a good idea at the time: the Wickeds lived 15 minutes up the road, and they would be here every other weekend. The first summer we lived here, we bought a 12-foot blow-up pool that all five of us practically lived in all summer long. Once school started, it became Baby Mosquito Land, and then Dingo had a fit of horror when he saw the giant circle of dead grass.

Then the Wickeds moved to Dallas, and we haven’t used our yard since. It’s too hot, and there’s no shade. See also: mosquitoes. We look forward – aside from giving up our super-cheap mortgage – to selling this house some day and moving down into town, where there are sidewalks.

But in the meantime, we have a yard. Neither of us is a gardener; and a few years ago, our lawnmower dropped dead.

Now we have Carlos. That is, we write a check to “Carlos M.,” but I’d lay down money that none of the group of three men I mean when I say “Carlos” is actually that person. I’d also be surprised if any of them spoke any English.

Our next-door neighbor set us up with them: she directs them when to stop mowing every  week in the fall, and when to start up again in the spring. Our yards are both postage-stamp size.

I admire how Carlos divides and combines for the greatest efficiency: one man on the edger, one on the mower, one on the leaf blower. The truck pulls up, and the edger goes around in a relatively unbroken line: first our yard, then our neighbor’s. The mower does half our front yard, the back, the other half of our front, and then the same to our neighbor’s yard, ending up back in front of the truck. Then the blower blows the sidewalks and driveways clean. Two yards, 15 minutes.

I wish I could be half that efficient at work. I’d have whole afternoons to sit and write.