He did have a point. If I were the neighbors, I’d hate us. Especially if I were Charles and Stephen because on a windy day their yard already received most of our dead palm fronds, plus they worked long hours and now their bedroom windows were just a few feet from the busy wood chipper. Waking anyone—especially them—from precious weekend slumber with this incessant, high-pitched noise wasn’t the way to ingratiate ourselves with our neighbors. But with both Mr. Wonderful and I working six-day weeks, Sunday was the only time we could oversee this massive job.
To trim, chop and remove the dead arboreal debris, the bucket truck lifted and lowered—Beep! Beep! Beeping!—with every movement. Chainsaws whirred and the shredder decimated tree parts spewing them on the street in what looked like a sand storm in the Sahara. At 10 AM I spotted Charles, our bearded neighbor from across the street, and his pit bull. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Charles looked at the machines and hard-hatted workers charging about our yard like a famished ant colony at a summer picnic.