If you read last week’s post, you know I wandered into two strangers’ yard, dispensed unsolicited landscaping advice, and left feeling like I’d done something useful. I also gave them hockey tickets, because apparently I was in a generous mood and hadn’t yet learned my lesson.

The tickets didn’t work out.

I was at the grocery store Saturday afternoon when she called. Their HOA had issued an ultimatum — something involving condemnation proceedings, HOA jail, or possibly being forced to live in their dispensary. I’m fuzzy on the exact bylaws. The panic, however, was real, and the solution was an emergency run to Tulsa for a trailer full of sod. She felt terrible about the tickets and wanted to make sure it was okay if someone else used them. I told her, of course, and that she was being more conscientious about free tickets than I ever would have been. Her guilt was running at a much deeper level than the situation required.

Knowing one of them has a bad back, a sod run sounded like a terrible idea. But they had a plan, and me adding unsolicited opinions to their plate wasn’t going to serve any purpose. Good on them for having a plan at all.

What I didn’t know was that the universe had already logged my next move.

Easter evening, I went for a walk — solo, audiobook loaded, no agenda. My son and his fiancée went a different direction. I made a small adjustment to my route. I now understand this as my first mistake.

I turned onto their street just as they were staring down the second of two pallets in the trailer. Four pallets total, two days of work — this was just a fraction of the pain, and they were already operating on fumes. I had options. A tactical retreat was available. Reversing my path before eye contact was made remained technically possible.

I did not take my options.

“I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I left you to finish this by yourself.” They tried to wave me off. I borrowed some gloves and got to work.

The first several rows went fine. I loaded the hand cart; they wheeled it over and unloaded; and then, I grabbed a couple of loose rolls in the meantime. We chatted. I asked if their friends ended up liking the game. They didn’t go either. The tickets had now failed two sets of people in one evening, which felt like a record. They kept thanking me, and since the only adequate response was to actually finish the pallet, I stayed focused on that.

Sod operates on a cruel law of physics. The pallets used a standard Lego stacking principle — two rows of five left to right, two rows of five up and down — and the lower I went, the heavier each roll became. This may have been the physics. It may have been me. I didn’t investigate too closely. The trailer walls felt like they were narrowing. The ceiling felt lower than it had been. I was taking longer breaths between rolls, doing a controlled squat my knees were filing complaints about, and wrestling each roll into position so it wouldn’t unravel on me before I could get a grip.

By the last two rows, I’d stopped pretending to be efficient. I just shoved them to the back lip of the trailer so they’d be easier to reach. I told myself this was strategy. I let that stand.

When the last roll came out, it about killed me. The good kind, I think.

I asked if they needed help with the pallet itself. They did not. They thanked me at a volume and sincerity level that was probably appropriate to the situation and possibly flattering to my ego. I started the walk home.

My clothes were dirtier than an Easter stroll should produce. My gait had become something I’d describe as a waddle, which my “muss-kulls” — what I call my muscles when they’re tired, overused, and acting thick — were working to correct one awkward step at a time.

Judy looked at my socks when I came in. “What happened? Are you okay?”

I told her none of it was blood. I told her I’d rather be known as someone who helps than someone who watches. I believe that. I also believe there’s a line between good neighbor and slightly creepy yard stalker. Unloading sod for people I’ve shaken hands with exactly once is, at minimum, unusual.

Their landscaping nightmare isn’t close to finished. They still have to till the dead grass, put down topsoil, grade the whole thing, and actually lay the sod. But my work in their yard is done. I know a route adjustment that’ll save me considerable time and laundry. Should the knight in me feel the pull to rescue the maidens again, I’ll choose a different street — just to remove the temptation.

A man has to know his limits. Especially on Easter.