The village maintains the trees along the street, which are trimmed according to some mysterious but regular schedule. The guys trimming our trees were careful to ask us to stay out of their way, and we sat and watched them for a good half-hour. Peter was really concerned about the safety of the bucket trucks; Grace was impressed with the number of cicadas that flew madly in every direction when the trees were disturbed. Then the trimmings went into the chipper and became mulch. The most fascinating part, though, is that three hours later the guys in the trucks are still sitting outside our house. Just in the trucks. Sitting. I'm tempted to go offer them each a cold beer, but there are probably rules that prohibit drinking and sitting in village-owned heavy equipment while on the job. And I wouldn't want to start some kind of Village Incident, because that seems like the kind of thing that would dog you as long as you lived in the neighborhood.
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