gettin' 'er done

Big day here, as those of you who follow this blog will attest: the basement apartment has finally, after many weeks of turmoil, been cleared. The tenant came back with a helper and a big truck provided by a family member, and they packed the truck with bags and boxes. I just filled my garbage bin with the garbage they kindly left behind - a broken drawer, a broken mirror.

Now the cleanup and repairs begin. Just the unspeakable fridge will take many hours, not to mention the walls and floors, the broken things, the hole punched in the bedroom wall, and so much more.

I spent the day with my dear friend and handyman John, who faced a list of 16 chores when he arrived, and we got through most of them. We put up the canopy of the pergola, under which, on this hot sunny day, I am sitting right now in blessed shade, with a glass of rosé already though it is only 4.30.

Some jobs were small - my bike basket bent out of shape so unusable, the front door not closing properly, a door in the apartment off its hinges. And some big, especially the RootX treatment we have to put down the basement drain once a year in I hope a successful effort to keep the roots of the vast maple out front out of my sewer pipes. They invaded once and believe me, you don't want to hear about it. The sink upstairs was plugged, the toilet handle in the apartment was broken. Etc.

While John did his chores, I started power-washing the deck with the noisy machine he'd brought. I hate them, but I guess it's the only way to clean outdoor, mossy wood. In an hour of noise and spray, I got less than half done. Why, why exactly, do we own houses?

I know, first world, rich white people problems. America is consuming itself. As someone wrote cynically and truthfully on Twitter, if it was Putin's goal in 2016 to destroy the U.S., he is getting the best return on investment of anyone ever.

But the garden is green and gorgeous and growing, and yesterday, I walked in the Necropolis, which after being closed for weeks is open limited hours now. It's beautiful and peaceful there, and I commune with my former neighbours - this time, a man who is buried with both his sons, one who died at a year old in 1896, the other who died in battle in 1917, age 20. Heartbreaking.

The book contract is under negotiation, two sparrows are mating in the tree in front of me right now, as I write, and we are still alive, my friends. It has been beyond fraught, this spring, and is getting worse. What a brutal year 2020 has been so far.