Mud Crew Shenanigans
- linnieaikensartist
- Jan 17
- 11 min read
Updated: Feb 22
This story comes from my college days. One of my on campus jobs was working "Mud Crew," which was our colloquialism for the landscaping crew, as opposed to "Crud Crew," the name we'd given the custodial team at the college. As I had worked full-time mostly through college to put myself through, I worked every summer there as well. As far as the name of the college, I'll just say that it was in a very wooded area in Montecito, the tony area of Santa Barbara, California.
To say that we were a crew of misfits and socially challenged individuals, in those years at least, is perhaps an understatement, so working with plants, and often alone, was well suited for us. Looking back now, I can see the department head must've had a heart for these kind of quiet souls and provided a safe space for them to grow and experience the unconditional love of God.
Most of my co-workers were locals, having grown up in the woods surrounding the college. My immediate crew leader was quite a character, and now a life-long friend. I wrote this portrait of his unique beauty years ago... His feet silent on the damp, decaying leaves of the undergrowth, he emerged each morning from the woods near the college facilities area as unobtrusively as a garden beetle might silently wander out from the shade of the grass. The sharp, early morning light pierced through the forest’s canopy to highlight the fire in his chestnut hair, curling haphazardly around a craggy face, slightly softened by his penchant for Mexican food. His wrinkled jeans, long since faded beyond any indication of their original color, bunched at the tops of his soil-encrusted trail shoes as he walked.
He had worked on “Mud Crew” for an indeterminate amount of years now, seeming naturally woven into the Montecito landscape and job of gardener for the college that was nestled into the lush hills above Santa Barbara. He’d grown up in one of those wooden bungalows that I had often sketched on the outskirts of campus. While working, his humor lent itself to Gomer Pile impersonations, and he enjoyed singing to the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band and Credence Clearwater Revival, the more off key the better, as the barest hint of a smirk revealed how he warmed to the idea of irritating others in mock innocence. It didn't take me long however of working alongside him to discover that he was an extremely intelligent, deeply philosophical and educated artist, as well as a learned botanist of local plants. In those summer hours of planting boxwood groundcover or clearing deadwood from the oaks, he’d break the afternoon silence, without even a breath of fanfare, as he drew me into the lore of the area and the origins and legends surrounding the native foliage and culture of Montecito. However, when or if, he talked about himself, it was with a wry self-deprecation that both endeared him to me and made me angry with him at once. I suppose he was like looking in a mirror for me. He hid all of this beneath a scruffy beard and an even scruffier personality, fond of using grumpiness and sarcasm to hide any insecurity and discomfort with social situations. He purposely dragged his feet when he walked and would avoid looking at me when he talked, although sometimes granting me a grunt, which seemed to convey apathy and interest, cynicism and curiosity, kinship and irritation all in one.
Living alone in his ancient 20 ft. trailer, which was camouflaged by the dense vegetation left to grow around it, unchecked for decades, he worked on his insect specimen trays, drawings and paintings, things I’d discovered during the initial years of our friendship. Every so often, I’d find on my doorstep a hand-painted picture of a water-colored rose or a box of curious pods, cones, shells and dried flowers. I’d bend down to collect my precious gift, my heart smiling. Never were there any notes attached, nor did I need one, for his heart and mark were as unmistakable as the comforting scents of sage and oak in the afternoon breeze.
One of his friends, another mud crewman, was even more withdrawn than we were, and with him I felt comfortable stretching myself to try and draw him out, again, because I instinctively knew that there was no risk; I wouldn’t have to deal with any response other than his bashful grunt. I would realize much later that I often employed the habit of testing out avenues for growth by trying them out with someone even more socially uncomfortable than I perceived myself to be, that perception often proving to be a shaming delusion in itself. I’d been on both sides of that road at different times in my life. Eventually, he taught me to dance country swing and the two-step, although he never said more than 8 words to me in any one day! With him I took my first steps toward initiating conversation with a man.
Next, I became friends with another crewman, another gruff guy who covered his own insecurities and soft heart with joking and unstoppable one-liners laced with provocative innuendoes. He embarrassed me daily, which endeared me to all of the men during those few years. It seemed to become one of their favorite pastimes to say as many outlandishly provocative comments just to see me blush. I sometimes wondered what the dynamic was there; a bunch of moths drawn to the flame of another, always wary of being burned, thus never getting too close. None of us trusted a person of the opposite sex, and most of us didn’t trust anyone, period, least of all, ourselves. We’d formed an odd sort of alliance, all of us; wounded people living half-lives with very tentative steps of friendship, but conspicuously loners still. The funny thing is, I think we all really learned to care for one another, although such sentiments were never actually verbalized among us or expressed physically. No, none of us ever dated.
Through months and months of this, one young guy was always present, standing off to the side of this strange moth dance, scowling at the rest of us, especially at me or any other girl present. He was equally ill at ease socially, and he covered his discomfort with his own brand of gruff bluster. But there was a sharp intelligence that always pierced through the crystal blue of his gaze, and a gentleness and sensitivity that sometimes slipped out between those shards of blue, which protected him from others getting too close. It was easy to see that he was also one of us, the wounded and hurting underneath all of our masks or walls. This was the gardener I’d met on that first day of college, a year prior, the first person to say hello and welcome me.
Amazingly to me, he was more shy and ill at ease with himself than I was with myself. For some reason, that old child in me snuck out to do mischief. With his first lashing of sarcastic whit, I knew I’d found someone I could understand, someone who felt like home to me. I’d deviously devise pranks to ruffle him. At the time, he lived out of his battered van down by the shop, even though his family home was less than a quarter mile down the road. At 7:20 a.m. the vintage VW van would start to suddenly rock this way and that as he thrashed around inside mumbling and cursing, looking for his clothes. With a growl, the side door would slam open and he never looked up as he leaned forward like a bulldog, with long shaggy bedhead, and lumbered to the bathroom at the shop. One day, in retaliation for something, I enlisted the help of my friend, the other female student worker on the crew, and together we sewed up all of the openings to his pants, shirts and underwear with long basting stitches so while easy to rip out, it would be an irritation nonetheless. The next day, we arrived early and waited, grinning in anticipation, watching from our hiding spot behind the skip loader. He didn't fail us. The slamming and cursing issuing from the van took on epic proportions that day and for several subsequent days after, as he’d gradually discovered that ALL of his clothes had been sabotaged. That imp in me, or maybe gremlin after all, still smirked as I retold that story for years during our subsequent 35+ year friendship, made all the better since he never failed to honor it with the deepest of groans.
He and the other guys would always retaliate, however, by giving me the yuckiest, most
undesirable landscaping jobs that they could think of. Once, I was given the assignment of clearing the overgrown, ivy-covered shoulder of the roadway behind one of the dorms. My supervisor patiently and kindly taught me how to use the pick axe to uproot the ivy with a maximum efficiency and a minimum of brute strength. I’d learned to trust him a little by then, since I’d discovered that he was a real softy under all that bluster. He was considerate and kind to me, and surprisingly, a really patient teacher. Since I am only 5’2”, and the pick-axe seemed like it was only eight inches shorter than myself, he taught me how to leverage my whole body into the swing so that I wouldn’t hurt my back, or chop off my leg.
After some practice and 20 minutes or so, I got into the swing of it, moving to a comfortable rhythm. About an hour into the task, I paused for a rest, and looking around me, noticed three of the crew’s trucks parked in the lot behind me with all of the guys drinking sodas while leaning nonchalantly against the front grills facing me. I waved to them and was met with a row of sheepish smiles followed by unrestrained grinning. I yelled a question to them asking when they ever worked, before I conscientiously went back to my pick-axing. Laughter erupted behind me and then they all peeled off in their work trucks. It was only 20 years later that one of them finally fessed up and told me that the guys had really been watching me, quite entertained with my "little dance" as I worked. He predictably, shook his head, muttering at how clueless and naïve I’d been. Twenty years later I was given the chance to finally blush in mortification.
That wasn’t the total of their amusements by any means. Another choice experience involved a 90 pound jackhammer. I don't know whose brainstorm this was, but I think it was the worker who lived in his van who egged me on with the dare by saying that I wouldn’t be doing that job because I wasn’t strong enough to control 90 pounds of jackhammer. He had my number right from the start, honing in on that stubborn pride to prove I was as good as any man. I was still showing up the Boy Scouts I guess. After verbally relegating them to the emotionally primitive stone age, they feigned a grudging acquiescence and allowed me to try, offering lots of advice and warnings about safety. So intent on proving myself proficient, I didn’t see the round of smirks and bellyached laughter held in so tightly that their faces were turning purple...I only heard about that later too.
Giving the go-ahead with a nod, one of them flipped the on-switch, and I manned that jackhammer with all of my attention and considerable control. A 90 pound jackhammer in the hands of a 5’2” girl, required all of my strength and focus, or I would have noticed that the guys encircling me, under the guise of being on hand to rescue me, were actually gripping their bellies with both arms in barely restrained mirth. My van friend finally stepped in and laid his hands over mine while he turned it off and steadied my jello’d body at the same time.
When it registered in my brain that they were all recovering from laughter, I squinted my eyes in questioning suspicion. He looked straight at me with a look of utter incredulity on his face, and muttered quietly out of the side of his mouth with exasperation, “A jackhammer that size, REALLY vibrates, Linnie.” I agreed, laughing, saying that my arms were still vibrating. That was met with another groan at my naïveté, choice of words, and disbelief that I could be so gullible, as he closed his eyes in studied patience, shook his head and muttered again, “That’s not all that vibrates, Linnie. They weren’t watching your arms, you know.” Still it took several seconds for the meaning to dawn on me. Sucking in my breath on an instinctive shocked gasp, and immediately looking down without thinking at my over-endowed chest, I then looked back at the guys, who were watching this exchange, I saw now, with rapt fascination. In horror, I quickly crossed my arms in front of my chest. On another burst of laughter, they all scrambled for their golf carts and sped away at the top speed of 15 miles an hour, leaving one poor crewman standing there, outwardly appearing oblivious as he loaded the jackhammer into his cart.
I am sure the guys lived on that story for some time, but it just didn’t bear pondering then or for a week or so after. I told the head boss the next morning that I wasn’t feeling all that well and asked for some task that would allow me to work quietly alone. The tell-tale twitch at the corner of his mouth and the sympathetic nod spoke volumes. The story had spread who knew how far in 24 short hours. And that was long before social media (in the digital version) was even invented. Never one to stand down in the end, however, the next morning, I put on my work gloves, held my head high and with one look dared any of them to say a word. The head boss nodded to me with approval. As a funny twist, many years later, he'd married the girl who'd been my partner in crime to the basting-stitch prank.
Those men were my dearest friends during those years and my collective nemesis at the same time. They were patient in teaching me how to drive the backhoe, the Toro, and skip loader, choose appropriate ground cover, and gain expertise in rose maintenance. They were all protective of me when any other men or boys noticed me and would give me the brotherly talk about how to never trust a man. Like I really needed that advice. Working Mud Crew provided a lot more life knowledge than in just landscaping.
In hindsight, I am once again intrigued by the subconscious workings of our minds that would draw like-minded, like-hearted people together, in this case, a group of wounded individuals who chose a sort of paralyzed solitude over healing and using the gifts God created within us to grow beyond our woundedness. Nevertheless, God is gracious, and we’d each been granted a sense of humor as we grew into more emotionally stable and evolved individuals through the following years of our lives.
Living in the woods behind the mansions for many years, they'd walked on the outskirts of the tony culture, by choice or damage, colorful, enigmatic, earthy men, deemed misfits by the academics and prestigious people by whom they were surrounded—just as intelligent and talented as those who judged them, but without desire to broadcast it. Behind all the fame and glamour of the celebrated residents in this posh area, they were natives nestled into the landscape, steeped in local history, men who loved the earth and loved others, which they passed onto others like me, for which I will be forever grateful. Looking back, I can't help but think that here was where some of the real riches of Montecito lay.
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Note: All artwork, stories and observations posted within should be credited to the author, Linnie Aikens Lindsay (unless cited in the post). Permission is required for any use of my words or artwork. Taken from my work, "My Life As Wallpaper Art".
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