Tales from Easement Acres
As an addendum to Part 1, this evening saw another rainbow. It accompanied hail. With the sunlight, it was a bizarre meteorological event. Maybe it’s not a blessing after all. Maybe the next event will be locusts. Hmm.
–Simon
I find that the beauty of ephemerality is ironically similar to the that of permanence. We mortals, viewing a work of art which has long outlived its creator, are confronted with our own fleeting existence. And when I gaze upon a moment of natural beauty, I feel the same.
Or maybe it’s just that some things are really cool in their own right.
But if a rose is just a rose, we’d lack the multitude of spiritual and mythological Rorschach impositions upon these events: where the leprechaun hides his gold, the path to the afterlife, a promise from God…etc. Sometimes, it’s harder to not find meaning in them.
Our house faces roughly E-S-E, which, being at about 39 degrees N latitude, translates to the direction opposite the setting sun from Spring to Fall. Upon the conclusion of a storm, at the onset of dusk, the alignment is perfect for rainbows.
They might be simple rainbows, but since their unusual frequency coincided with us purchasing the house, I can’t help but to apply a mortal’s predilection for symbolism. I say it’s good luck (although I really wish a pot of gold was involved too).
–Simon
I think I shortened my lifespan this weekend. There were certainly moments when I wanted to lay down and expire. But rather than make individual posts and cloud the feed, I’ll make a multi-purpose single post instead to feed the cloud (heh, nerd jokes):
You Say Tomato
Yes, I removed more sod. And I think I’ve finally had it with that. There will be no more garden installation this year. Seriously, I hate removing sod.
Note that old cable box from a defunct cable company. I’m going to have to rip that off the wall one day. Anyway, when the house’s seller (the son of the former owner) haphazardly threw down mulch to gain a +10 curb appeal, for some reason he made this side organically-shaped. It’s the only “garden” that wasn’t rectangular. Maybe he got creative. Maybe he ran out of mulch. Who knows? But, this is the SW side of the house, and the ideal location for a vegetable garden. So I had to widen it anyway.
We argued over the tomato-securing system. I wanted to use trellis netting and just have a row of tomatoes. Apparently Liz had experienced that before with her parents and the results were not as expected. But the peculiarities of any garden are unique to their specific circumstances, so this will be an experiment anyway. This year, we’ll try the bamboo poles. Planting to come this weekend.
Mobile Foodies
I admit–food is not my drug. Therefore, the many joys of food novelty are lost on me. Among these is the influx of food trucks. It isn’t really much cheaper, I have to yell over the sound of generators to place my order, and as the customer I’m tasked with finding my own improvised seating arrangements.
But, it is an opportunity to quickly try a variety of food options. And those spicy Caribbean tacos I had were pretty darn good. And it was a fun new experience for the kid, so win.
…Comes Tumblin’ Down
Look at this pine tree:
It appears unimportant to me, priority-wise. It isn’t dying, nor is it leaning dangerously. But my neighbor hated it, and my wife hated it. As I spent my childhood on the Great Plains, it’s still fascinating to me that trees can grow naturally, and not have to be attended to constantly. I like trees, but native Ohioans seem to revel in deforestation for some reason. Ultimately, I conceded to having this one tree removed, were we to need to remove a tree to satisfy the boiling desire of my Ohioan wife to kill a tree.
My neighbor, in his excitement upon hearing word of my concession, and apparently having recently gotten his chainsaw in working order, ran over to greet us with said chainsaw, and expressed his willingness to cut the tree down at that moment–to which my wife readily agreed.
I also have many a memory of the trees in Lubbock dying, and needing to be chopped down. And while my youthful memory likely exaggerates the negatives, I recall dad borrowing a chainsaw to fell the trees, followed by me spending hours with the pruners and bow saw, chopping and cutting, chopping and cutting…
This tree was no exception. 3-4 hours later, and we had grown the firewood supply. And for whatever reason, the women of the neighborhood found it hilarious that I was butchering the tree with a reciprocating saw. I guess, compared to the chainsaw, there was a penis joke in there somewhere.
What the Duck?
Ending on a happy note, a duck and her ducklings wandered down the gutter.
I wonder where she was leading them. I’m not aware of any nearby ponds. But last year I almost hit a duck with the mower in my front yard, so apparently we’re good duck territory despite the lack of ponds…and mechanical chopping machines.
–Simon
Well, a drainage ditch anyway. If you’ve talked to me about the house at all, then you’ve most definitely heard about the drainage issues, or rather, the complete lack of basic drainage. See the Get Off My Lawn! series. The former owner, in her battle against a flooding basement, paid to have it trenched and a sump installed. After purchasing the house, I’ve since extended downspout drainage, and the sump has remained dry ever since.
Until recently. We had a very dry summer last year, and it didn’t give me a good baseline with which to predict future water problems. This spring has seen a lot of water, and now the sump is running. This in itself of course isn’t a problem–the water is being handled dutifully by the pump. Outside, however…
Someone had retrofitted a vacuum hose to the outlet. Again, effective, but incredibly ugly. And then the kid played with it and cracked it, rendering it useless anyway. Now, with water pooling against the foundation, my hand was forced. It was time to finally address this eyesore.
This is the ENE side of the house, under a pine tree. These factors limit my planting options, but it does make a good candidate for a shade garden. First though, I needed to trench. Re-purposing a concrete downspout extender, I could immediately channel the water about 4 feet.
But, this was still rather industrial and ugly, and tended to back up (the sump pump probably spits out about 3 gallons whenever it clicks on). I needed a longer trench and ornamentation. Mattock, shovel, axe, and reciprocating saw all contributed to the project (damn roots). I then buried the pipe, planted the hosta which we saved from the apartment (split apart), added some ferns, purchased more hostas, and voila:
I now have the beginnings of a respectable shade garden, and effective sump drainage. Plus, the mason bees really like it. I like those bees, they’re cute.
–Simon
There’s two things I learned from having moved to the suburbs. First, everyone wants to meet me–not necessarily because people are interested in building their social network, but because I might be an axe murderer (more on this later), and admittedly that’s information I’d want to know about my new neighbor too. Second, older men assume I have no idea what I’m doing. In all honesty, this second point I had already known. Even I had to suppress the urge to run out and tell the neighbor’s son, who had taken advantage of a warm day for some target practice, that he was shooting his bow wrong. But still, this concept became even more pronounced than I had anticipated. Maybe with our forced vicinity, thus lifted the veil of respectful indifference to which, having lived in apartments, I was so accustomed.
Shortly after purchasing our house, BP (the oil company) paid us a visit. The property’s southeastern border was under an easement, as a pipeline was buried there. This suddenly became an issue as the trees, which had been growing there for at least 50 years, were on the easement, and BP assured us that “the government” was now requiring aerial line-of-sight assessment of the pipeline’s path. We found out about the easement the day before signing, but after discussion, decided it was not sufficient to deter us from completing the purchase. And now, suddenly those trees were a problem and had to go. I mentally weighed who I trusted less: an oil company, or my own government. This question, when posited to my contemporaries, inevitably elicits laughter.
Whatever. At least this was happening before we did anything with the yard. And besides, they were ripping out the honeysuckle–a project which would have taken us years. One problem had been traded for another, but we’d also have more sun now for a vegetable garden, so ultimately we came out ahead.
Two oaks and two pines later, I had a rather large pile of wood. And in a time when I was otherwise occupied with the house’s interior, I figured that the wood could wait. My neighbors, however, disagreed. Like an unkempt lawn, the sight of un-split and un-stacked timber violated the order demanded of a suburban yard. Three neighbors knocked on my door to inquire–two whom wanted the wood, and one who was simply curious. I decided then that I would begin chopping. Surely that would send the message that the wood was not available, I was bringing order to chaos, and therefore people would stop asking me about it, right?
Wrong. Four more neighbors approached me in the act of chopping, and each time we’d have a general discussion about BP, the easements, that’s a lot of wood, and boy do I have a lot of work to do. The village elder, as I call him (the neighbor across the street), lent me a second wedge. Another neighbor’s son offered to do some of the chopping (I assume he was after some cash). But it was the man with the maul who created the most awkwardness.
One day I was chopping away, and I caught a glimpse of a man walking through the yards. Apparently, the children in this neighborhood have learned from their parents that property lines don’t define where you can walk (see the Get Off My Lawn! series). No matter, he was on a mission of good faith. I could tell this because he was carrying a large axe. Ordinarily, that would seem less than friendly, but I took it in proper context, and besides, I had an axe too, and I’m much younger than he. Alas, he was not seeking an axe fight.
It was a maul, to be exact, and he felt that it was a necessary tool to aid in this Sisyphean task–the missing tool that I so desperately needed. Honor-bound to a stranger’s courtesy, I accepted the boon, and used it with limited success for the remainder of the day. Ultimately the wood was just too green, so the benefits of the maul fell short. Then, with the weekend at an end, it was time to return it.
It was at this moment that I realized I didn’t know where he lived. I had a vague notion though, and so I took off on the way from which I had seen him come–through the yards, disregarding property lines the way he had (hey, I live here now too). During the journey, I casually waltzed through a backyard in which a woman lay in a hammock, talking on her phone. It was an uncomfortable moment, me a random man bursting through the bushes with a large melee weapon, but she didn’t acknowledge me. I hadn’t thought I was being particularly stealthy, but people on their phones drive into emergency vehicles and stationary objects, so I may have been at an advantage. Still, maul or not, I’m a gentleman, so I cleared my throat and lifted the maul in salutation. Yet even after that, she didn’t acknowledge me. I know she had to of seen me–she was facing me. But, she was a very attractive young woman, and in my experience it was nearly impossible to get their attention under any circumstance, short of being a famous athlete, actor, slaying dragons, or wearing a suit. And I was not wearing a suit. Still, I figured under the circumstances that she would at least acknowledge my existence. I figured wrong.
So I continued my trek, tromping through her garden in the process. Yes–that was passive aggressive. I mean, I could have charged and killed her, but she was so self-assured that the thought hadn’t cross her mind. Pity, there was a time when women found me creepy. I guess becoming a family man had lessened that vibe.
Fortunately my feelings of self-doubt were assuaged when, reasonably certain that I had found the man’s house, I knocked on the door. The wooden door opened, leaving the outer glass door between us. There I stood, maul slung over a shoulder. But the resident, a woman, stopped, completely immobilized, yet she was the first to initiate dialog. It was something like this: “Yeah…that’s not creepy at all.”
And I, never one to miss the opportunity to use humor in a tense situation, replied: “Heeeeeere’s Johnny!” Although, I immediately followed with a hasty explanation, so as to not get shot. Apparently, her husband (not at home at the time), had failed to mention that he had lent me the maul.
Months later, we stopped at their house while trick-or-treating. She then mentioned that I was far less intimidating sans-maul, and with a child in tow. We all shared a laugh, but I know for certain that she’ll never forget me.
–Simon