It had been said around the county that grass did not grow under George Mooney’s feet: a compliment to complement his un-lazy lifestyle. Though George lived on the slow side, at least he was always busy being slow, and as was the way of the Farm, there had been talk for many years of having a real grass lawn surrounding the house. Sure, there was the little yard at the south end and the fenced-off area out back, but mostly that’s where the dogs went. He wanted a place to build a nice gazebo for family get-togethers, and maybe some space to play croquet with his grandkids or set up a horseshoe toss.
An old wood shed had come down five years earlier just north of the house, and the open space had given George a hankering to maybe start thinking about doing something with it, someday. After two more widows along the county road passed away and their estates divvied up amongst neighboring properties, George found himself the owner of two used riding mowers. He saw the acquisitions as a sign to finally bring his dream to reality.
The Farm’s landscape had always changed a bit from year to year, but never as much as it did when Randy was around with a chainsaw and an excavator. The bulldozer had been stuck in the mud for months, and a mini-excavator was rented for a weekend to dig it out. Randy tackled the project, got it done, then put full hours on the machine to get the most bang for the buck before it had to go back to the rental place. Trees were felled at an alarming rate, and debris was cleared as though swept away by a giant hand.
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