I delivered papers at 12-13. Mowed lawns of course. One guy, an immigrant from the Netherlands, Krommenhoef. He wouldn't let me mow on the sabbath and had me use his manual push mower. The guy also wore wood shoes and puffed some exotic looking pipe, long wispy beard as he examined my passes. No wonder I had such strong triceps as a kid.
A few houses down was Mr. Rambo (seriously). Total opposite. Some kind of machinist. Let me use his big rider, always had metal on the radio in garage. Kids in neighborhood always wondered what kind of firearms he owned. In winter as we'd play hockey on the pond across the street He'd come out to see what the problem was when we'd eventually start arguing or fighting about something. Neighborhoods thrive when you have enigmas like that. His name was Rambo, in the early mid 80s! We wouldn't dare cut through his yard, heck I'd be pissed too, I cut that sucker.
