When sweaty angels show up

Monday morning, the 4th of July, I woke up with some problems.  A weeks worth of thunderstorms and nature-induced treachery had left the trail system out here at the rancho relaxo looking like a war zone.  So about 20 trees needed cut, tossed, cleared, and generally fought with in order to right the wrongs and allow the flow to, once again, flow.  

Also, having just completed my new office to make room for a nursery in my old office, I needed to move some pretty serious pieces of furniture.  A gigantic, heavy desk, etc.  So the door needed to come off of the wall, a dolly needed to be put into use, some sweating and swearing needed to happen, and then a huge amount of chainsawing and hellraising outside was going to take up most of my afternoon.  And I was on my own for this action.  Like most times when the workload appears more complicated and lengthy than I can stand to think about, I just sort of locked up in paralysis and stared at the job to be done.  Sometimes living in the country isn't so terrific.  

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my semi-catatonic state to see what was the matter.  And there, materializing seemingly out of nowhere, three angels did appear to help me shoulder the load.  Loose Bruce Almighty (topless), K-Rod (drinking bourbon at 11 AM, or at least considering drinking bourbon at 11 AM),  and Brer Bridge (with pliers in hand ready to remove the aforementioned door.)  I don't know how they knew, and really I don't know if they knew at all, but if there are three people on earth more worthy and useful for two such projects, I don't know them.  Unbidden, they just showed up.  Angels, I tell you, though admittedly and unapologetically sweaty, shirtless angels of questionable moral fiber.  

Within about 3 hours, the furniture was moved, door was re-installed, trails were cleared, a pretty serious shred had happened on the newly groomed trails, pond swimming had gone on drowning-free, they had eaten greater than half of the popsicles in my freezer, and I was out of bourbon.  And life was good again.  

Three things then occurred to me:

1)  It takes a village to raise a Kyle.  

2)  It takes a Kyle to have a trail.

3)  I takes a trail to have a village.  

And I like our village:

So, in the world of symbiotic win-win-wins, the score on Monday was Dave 3, everything else 0.  Now taking applicants for future trailwork to keep the local goods dialed.  Those intimidated by the bourbon-infused need not apply.  

On a not-so-quasi-sentimental and yet still moving forward note, is anyone down for another super D, but this time a chainless SUPER D?  

Let it rain, I say.

Up, up, up.