House – Page 12 – Ephemerality

May 16, 2018October 16, 2019

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.

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.

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.

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

May 8, 2018

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?

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.

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

May 1, 2018April 29, 2018

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

April 26, 2018October 16, 2019

Landscapers

I’ve mentioned The Landscaper, our neighborhood stoner landscaper who doesn’t seem to concern himself much over his children’s blatant disregard for property lines. Our tenuous relationship as neighbors I had considered to be a cliché, owing to the old adage that “fences make good neighbors”. And seeing as I had landscapers in the family, I had never considered the profession in itself to be in any way related to The Landscaper’s sub-nominal personality traits. No one wants to be judged for the profession in which they arrived, if said profession was not the original plan. I can personally attest to that sentiment.

Liz and I had discussed hiring a landscaping company, as the 0.48 acres could be quite daunting to mow in the dog days of Ohio’s summer (during which I had learned to apply deodorant to certain body parts to which I had never previously considered applying deodorant). A 2 hour per week investment is right on the fringe of becoming non-trivial, yet I had faltered for 3 reasons: the cost of doing some simple mowing seemed unreasonable ($40? Fuck you. I’d hire a neighborhood kid for half that), they probably wouldn’t do the job to my level of expectation, and mowing is my primary source of cardio (otherwise I’d have to go jogging–fuck that). But something else nagged at my already-wavering conviction.

One evening, as I was driving home from work, I stopped at an intersection, dutifully obeying the rules of the road. A pickup, hauling a trailer of landscaping equipment, turned left towards me. In so doing, the driver yelled out to me, “Ur takin’ up the fuckin’ lane ya faggot!”.

The comment gave me pause. First of all, I was not taking up his lane. I had merely left the courteously bare-minimum space to my right so that if a car behind me needed to turn right, they could do so without me first having to vacate. Second, it was an extremely rude and offensive comment to make to a fellow motorist. At the time, I had simply ignored it, since the fellow obviously proved himself to be beneath contempt. He completed his turn without incident, proving that I had indeed left sufficient space, and I continued on with the rest of my day.

The encounter would have faded from memory, but Liz recounted a story of a colleague’s run-in with a landscaper–something about a collision and overblown tempers and threats of litigation. Then I recalled my mother’s stories about her former employer. Then I remembered The Landscaper.

Then this guy showed up at my door, soliciting his own landscaping service. I would have dismissed the encounter entirely, had he not had the audacity to then ask me whom I was currently employing. I told him it was me. He left immediately.

It might be a foregone conclusion, but landscapers are assholes. Were it not merely due to my aforementioned reasons, this conclusion itself is reason enough to deny additional revenue to these degenerates. No, I’ll continue to mow the lawn myself, and when I’m too old and feeble to manage the task myself, I’d gladly pay a neighbor’s son the equal of your their rate, just to deny them the revenue. Fuck you.

–Simon

April 21, 2018April 17, 2018

Uh Huh, Uh Huh, I Work Out!

But only so I can keep drinking bourbon.

I mean, I don’t live in New Jersey. I don’t need to look like a big ripply and tanned turd to fit in. But I do need a reasonably healthy BMI and the body strength to handle maintenance and landscaping duties around the house. And so I do work out, with a simple chin-up bar and some weights.

But then Liz arranged to buy a used machine from a colleague–one of those complicated torture devices with the cables and pulleys–on the cheap. I’ve always been hesitant to use those things, as I’m under the assumption that isolation exercises don’t replicate a natural range of motion and so at best are minimally effective, and at worst physically damaging. Mostly though, they’re expensive, so now with the cost variable removed, I was willing to try.

So off we went to this dude’s house which he was selling and was completely devoid of any furniture save this machine he didn’t have room for anymore. And as the house was no longer occupied, the dust had begun to accumulate. And the lubricant had inevitably leaked out of the machine. It was gross and unwieldy.

I had hoped that we could selectively disassemble the thing into manageable chucks that fit into the back of the CR-V. In so doing, however, the cables tangled, and when we got back home the thing was a giant knot of cable and steel. We then threw it into the front lawn and sprayed it off.

Having lost patience with it for the day, it was cast into the basement, where it lay waiting for reassembly. But then we went on vacation.

Upon returning, I quickly grew tired of the mess and so began putting it back together. This proved to be no easy feat, as since the device was partially assembled, the instructions could not be sequentially followed. So I had to resort to deduction, and the instructions sucked anyway. And did I mention the thing was gross?

But its full assembly was inevitable.

It seems to work okay. A point of confusion was the pulley system that changes the weight resistance. Depending on which cable is pulled, a single plate can have 4 different poundages. I’m not terribly interested in quantifying my workout to that extent, but it did cause some initial confusion regarding my abilities and why my musculature seemed so wildly disparate.

And Liz and I can work out together now. That seems minor, but it’s far more motivating to be suffering alongside someone than alone. Now, when the weather ever decides to change into Spring, we’ll be properly conditioned for the upcoming gardening installations.

–Simon