Surveys and Mailboxes

Since we moved here, I’ve gotten the impression that our presence has been a neighborhood disruption.  The prior owner, an elderly woman, had let the landscaping fall into mild neglect over the years.  That’s hardly her fault, but the encroaching wilderness had sent its signal to adjacent residents that the property had become a plot of wilderness–land that wasn’t owned, and could therefore be mildly encroached upon without consequence.

I don’t condemn anyone for this, as it’d be easy to say, dump firepit ashes in the honeysuckle hedgerow, or allow a brush pile to move further and further back.  So when we showed up and started gardening, we introduced a variable into this status quo.  The property lines, determined de facto by everyone’s landscaping, became more and more hazy, and more important, as we developed the property.  So in order to put the issue to rest without confrontation or hurt feelings, we got a land survey.

Ironically, that had the opposite effect.

The first to come talk about it was Diane–with whom we share a 10-foot border, and the owner of the brush pile.  She had been maintaining the area around the silver maple behind the pile, but we had suspected that the area was ours.  She asked me, directly, if she had done something to piss us off.

The pile doesn’t bother me, but the tarp is a bit of an eyesore

Keep in mind that for months preceding this event, we had dropped hints to all our neighbors, on multiple occasions, that were were going to get the survey.  Nonetheless, Diane seemed surprised.  I assured her that we were just getting a full survey done as we were putting in gardens, but that we would like the brush pile to be removed eventually.  She took the news well, having been assuaged of her fears that we were not installing an electrified fence with concertina wire, and has even since taken to burning off the yard waste.

Then I saw The Motorcyclist out talking to the surveyor.  I liked the surveyor–he was a kindly older chap from Kentucky, clearly experienced in his profession, but not imposing.  So I felt bad as I watched him humor The Motorcyclist, and went out to offer a distraction.

The Motorcyclist fits into an odd class of old-school masculine ideals.  Years back, he had been involved in a motorcycle accident and had suffered lingering damage to his foot, and (I suspect), some head trauma.  I don’t wish to speak ill of the infirmed, so I offer my prognosis matter of fact-ly.  He strikes me as a man who relished the seemingly consequence-free recklessness of manly youth, but became a statistic on when such a lifestyle goes awry.  He lives the life of a bachelor, yet maintains delusions of a Steve McQueen persona, going so far as to ride around on a 3-wheeler, or bright yellow jeep, depending on his mood; interested in finding a girlfriend but generally unsuccessful (according to one of his church friends), for after all–a handicapped middle-aged man without a career would be a tough sell to women his age.

But The Motorcyclist was concerned about his estate.  His chainlink fence between our yards had been set back several feet, due to the pipeline and the former honeysuckle hedgerow.  Previously we had discussed this region, which was his, and he expressed no desire to maintain it and had given me unofficial permission to maintain it.  And I had, eventually weeding a portion and replanting it with clover so that neither of us had to deal with the upkeep.

I moved that garden

But the survey had revealed that more of this general region was his.  I had been mowing several feet onto his side.  Now, that the irrefutable truth was known, he developed a sudden problem with my maintenance of his property.  The concerns were justified, and I asked him how he wanted to proceed with this newfound knowledge.

In short, he didn’t want to maintain it, because he had no convenient access to it, a la his riding mower.  But, he didn’t want me maintaining it and claiming eminent domain on it later (despite my assurances that I would not do so).  After all, the extra mowing was minimal and I’d be perfectly happy with helping out a neighbor in need.  But no, he didn’t like that answer, and instead wanted to sell me the property.  I had strong doubts over the economic viability of that plan (later confirmed).  I gave him a noncommittal answer at the time, then later moved my encroaching landscaping and gardening from his side.  What he’ll decide to do remains to be seen.

The landscaper stopped by briefly,  but his recent tree-planting was spot-on.  A landscaper who knew the exact bounds of his property.  Go figure.

No problems here

I worried for a time that we had upset Brian and Kelly–our family-oriented neighbors who indulge the kid.  And when I saw their daughter go out to the garden in question with a shovel, I panicked and ran over to explain that their garden was on their side and we didn’t care about our shared border anyway.  Turns out that she was simply edging, but she called her mom, who in turn called Liz, to explain that no one was upset, resulting in an amusing bit of message relays.  But after The Motorcyclist drama, I had started to worry about everything.

All good

Ultimately, the property line was reasonably aligned with what we expected, and had the necessary effect of signaling to our neighbors that we were serious about it–though for mutually-beneficial reasons.  We certainly didn’t want to start planting in someone else’s yard.  And it’s land for which we’re paying, not to mention the property taxes, so there isn’t a good counter-argument to knowing the exact border.  Still, while getting a land survey done didn’t necessarily upset anyone, it certainly didn’t make us any friends.

Our mailbox was in The Motorcyclist’s yard

–Simon

Dandelion

There’s an incredible amount of dandelions this year.  And I can’t deny their charm, as their happy yellow blooms dot the landscape–a prelude to my daughter’s romp through their seeding masses, almost colloidal as they hang in the air.

Yet a part of me cringes as I watch countless potential dandelion progeny drift throughout my yard.  I’m conflicted.  Do I despise them as a blight, or tolerate them for their aesthetic/medicinal value?

Like all exotics, they’re unstoppable

I considered buying an herbicide, and I admit, I use Roundup.  But despite the dandelion’s invasiveness, I’m opposed to fighting nature with such overkill tactics.  History has proven that such measures always yield unforeseen, and undesirable, consequences.  So I began removing them manually.

What is this, Chinese steel?

But the weeding tool proved inadequate.

And so I debated.

Many times have I learned that fighting the natural world results in only temporary victories, that instead I should either appease or compromise.  Such was it that I’ve preserved many a garden crop by planting instead tastier alternatives for the neighborhood rabbits.  So why should I dwell on the humble dandelion?

Nay, I shall harvest this plant.  I will use this formerly unwanted bumper crop to instead experiment with salad and tea.  Stay tuned!

–Simon

Showing Restraint

Tomato plants can be quite ungainly, amusing since once upon a time they were European garden ornamentals.  And the indeterminates I find especially difficult to corral, as they quickly overtake any type of cage or post to which they’re lashed.

Definitely looking petulant

Perhaps its their collective personality, much like a petulant child’s–they don’t know what they want, just that they know they don’t want what you gave them.  So I’m trying something different this year–a net.  Now they can grow free from linear vertical restriction, or at least they get two dimensions instead of one.

If I placed it along the property line, would the kids stay out of my yard?

I wonder if it will be strong enough to hold up the vegetative mass.  Soon to find out, I suppose.

–Simon

Essence

The uniqueness of this molecule is undisputed, from its polarity to its illogical density/temperature relationship.  And as I peered down from above, upon this microcosm of natural beauty, I contemplated how such random perfection could allow the genesis of terrestrial life.

The organization and order, juxtaposed to the surrounding chaos!

Okay, it’s just water, but it sure looks cool–enough so as to warrant its own post.

Incidentally, I later researched motion-activated sprinklers in my ongoing non-confrontational cold war against the neighbor and his children.

Water!

–Simon

Laminate

Carpet–I know not whence this diabolical invention first saw universal fruition, but I rue that day.

The Internet was of little help, spouting the usual assortment of trendy anti-(insert whatever’s popular here) sentiments.  And I, one of these confrontational assholes, would agree.  I hate it, and whoever invented it should spend eternity in a vat of histamine, forever sneezing and itching in anaphylaxis, yet never able to escape the ailment.

Compounding the misery was the result of a whippet’s predilection for misidentification, for so readily does carpet endlessly absorb the liquified proteins of urinary putrification.

And further compounding the problem is a human female’s oversensitivity to olfactorial displeasure.

So it was that I found myself ripping up the carpet in the hallway.  The late whippets, always naughty and leaking, favored this spot as a preferable alternative to the bitter cold of Ohio winters, despite the physical punishments that would ensue from such transgressions.

Another futile attempt at deodorizing the carpet

What I found beneath was sheer horror.  Over the decades, dirt had sifted its way through until a fine layer of soil covered the sub-flooring.  Extensive vacuuming and Lestoil-scrubbing later, the floor appeared to be painted white–at least what the floor cleaner didn’t strip.

Liz scrubbed the floor with baking soda and vinegar, then let it dry until the next weekend.

And so began the hard part.  The hallway, being narrower than the boards were long, required that I had to cut every single piece to fit.  Adding to the complexity was the oddly-shaped linen closet.  Fortunately I had watched enough preparatory YouTube videos that I knew how to hammer segments into connecting, even when wedged around tight corners.

Then there was the problem of the end strips not locking to the floor properly, but a few hammer blows and swear words and emergency runs to the hardware store fixed that problem.  The end result was never in question.

An afternoon was required to dismantle the existing flooring, and 11 hours of straight labor to install the new.  But like all things in life worth having, it wasn’t supposed to be easy–yes, that’s right, philosophical reaffirmations from flooring installations.

Then I had to install new moulding, which was equally as bad as the flooring.  My supply of finishing nails dwindled, and I bought a box at Home Depot.  But the nails lacked the head notch, so my driver continually slipped and punctured the moulding.  A return visit yielded no better alternative, for the associate stared blankly when asked if they stocked another brand of nails.  I made due with what I had.

I estimate this project to have taken 30 hours of work.  It sucked, but I have to admit: it is better than a cesspit corridor.  The kid seems to agree:

–Simon