I live near a major city but in a small town. Sometimes it seems even smaller then I think it was when I pause to remember a time long ago. That town had a lot of character and a lot of characters; this story is merely one of them. There was a man who lived there named Willy, a rather nice man, whose name that he might have been baptized as William but he was never into pretense with anyone that I ever saw. He was always Willy, young or old, male or female, they all called him that. He used to cut the lawn for all the WASPs in the city, white Anglo Saxon Protestants. He was English and went to the same church with them. The man was in his 70tys when I first met him. I was cutting the grass to the house next door, on the French side of things. The town was divided into two parts, the French and the English, though they all lived interspersed. So in a way we might have been competitors, but we were not. He never saw it that way and nor did I. So he would talk with me as we sipped some water on our break. This job, his jobs and this city, his city, was his whole world. He had been cutting the grass, trimming the hedges and raking the leaves for the same families for years and years. It was the only real job he ever had. Only job he ever wanted too. He was also in very high demand. People would be on a waiting list to get him and his services to take care of their lawns. Sort of a status thing, being in the city’s mainline, having arrived, if Willy did you grass. And if not then you were not in with the “In” crowd, if you know what I mean. He could only do so many places each day but had he wanted to he could have had a lot more people paying him to cut their grass. But then the quality of his work would suffer! He would have to rush. It was not something he wanted to do. He had enough to do with what he had. Work 6 days a week but never on Sunday, that was for Church. Though he never once offered to cut the church lawn either. He never got alone with that minister they brought in from elsewhere. Too standoffish for Willy! So he never offered. And no one ever asked either. Why if he did the church, then they might not get their house done because he would have to cut someone. And no sir! That was not to be allowed. He was a treasure and the WASP intended to keep him all for themselves and their lawns of course.
He was a nice sort. Dealt only in cash, and if the Mistress did not have enough money to pay, no problem he would carry them till next week. He had a book of accounts he kept with him in his shirt pocket with stubby piece of wood he called his pencil. I think he saw them on sale for 5 of them for nickel one year in 1957 and bought the whole lot. Spending, lavishly, a whole 40 cents for the lot! He would take out his pencil, or what remained, made sure it had a point or out would come his pocket knife. He had earned that trophy as a Boy Scout, back in the day when being gifted a pocket knife was the sign of being seen as a man. Once he had a point that he liked, then he would mark down everything; what money he had been given and the change he had returned. He would close the book, put it back in his shirt pocket and put away the pencil for the next house.
His shirt was never tucked in either. Always buttoned but just not tucked into his pants. Let the air flow in when it was hot and he was working. He never wore a hat either. I think i saw him in one once, He did not look happy with it on. So whatever the weather, his face was always in the sun; white in spring, red by May and tanned leather by August. Same for his arms but strangely not his legs, he always wore long pants. Never shorts. He was a professional. And you wore pants as a man of his profession. Or at least he thought so. He used to always wear shoe, good leather shoes but later on in life, I guess he let down that stiff appearance and switched out for running shoes. His daughter got them for him and made him throw out his old shoes. But they fit well and they were a gift from her, so he surrendered the older shoes to her and watched as she firmly placed them in the garbage. Don’t tell her, but when she left, he went and retrieved them. He still has them in the shed out back, just in case. You know, in case he needed them once more.
He would drive around with his bike, attached to the back was a cart filled with his tools. You would look inside, it was not covered. He had his rake, his gloves, a water bottle and his mower. Except it was not a gas mower, or an electric one. It was the old style that turned rotating blades and you walked and pushed it. He did not like the new fangled machines. They bruised the grass. So he was strictly a human powered mower-man. He would drive up to the house. He would park on the street, never parking in the driveway. He did not want to intrude on the family space. He would do his job the ring the door, hat in hand. Speak with the lady of the house and discuss what she wanted him to do the following week and of course get paid. He worked hard for his money do getting paid was important too. Then he would ride off to the next house. It was never far just down the street where he would repeat the same ritual he did ever other day. Rain or shine, he would be out doing his jobs, cutting his lawns, because that is what he did every other day. He was a man and this was his “Mans” work.
Willy is long gone now, passed on to mowing a better place. But his likes will not soon be replaced and hopefully not forgotten either. But the town has changed. The last WASP died off or moved away with the family to some other place that is not here. The lawn mowing companies are all professional companies. There are no independents anymore. As for Willy, I suspect is he was still here, he would not like them much either. They might just bruise the grass, their clients. See it is not just about cutting the grass. It’s about servicing the customer.