While out and about on my usual Saturday afternoon stroll, I snapped up several small items from various “garage and/or yard” sales; bought some tasty cold lemonade being hawked by a gaggle of preteens from a curbside card table; and negotiated the purchase of some fruit I can’t even identify, from that guy who stands every day down at the 4-way, by the park.
I like to support local merchants.
What’s the difference between a “garage” sale and a “yard” sale? I see signs nailed up for both. But when I drive by, they both look the same. Neither one seems more upscale.
In our case, it would have to be a yard sale, that’s for sure. Our 1940’s wooden garage door has never been replaced—and it’s so out of kilter you’d need the “jaws of life” to get it horizontal, and half-a-dozen 4-by’s to keep it there.
The guy across the street has exactly the same kind of yard lights as I do. I never noticed that before. You can’t get those any more. That means if I ever need parts, well…ha, ha, ha…I’m just kidding of course.
Maybe I should go over there and share the joke with him. Or maybe not. You never know who you can trust these days.
Rex and Bud were already in their eighties the day we all stood together in Bud’s deep back yard. They’d been neighbors and friends for almost fifty years. Theirs were the first two houses built on of our street.
So okay, now we’re standing there, scrutinizing the huge tree that’s way in the back corner of Bud’s lot. Some kind of spruce or pine thing. It’s dying—even I can see that. Probably dangerous. If it fell in some odd direction, it could certainly endanger life and, well…limb. Rex and Bud nod without speaking.
Now it turns out that the still-strapping Rex was, at one time, something of a formidable lumberjack—if he said so himself. He offered to cut the thing down. His eyes glinted once more at his forty-foot adversary, and he pinched them down a bit. He said it would land right there. He pointed.
Bud studied on the idea. I shut up. Over there was the tree. Over here was his best friend who drank to much, slept too much, and watched too many game shows because he thought he’d lost his purpose in life. Bud silently weighed things. Weighed fifty years of trust. Weighed Rex’s beaming face. He weighed me not at all. Then he said okay.
Rex pounded off and returned with a bunch of large, rusty wedges; a couple of pry things; and a double-edged axe that looked like Paul Bunyan might have used it. Once more he took the measure of his opponent, then marched over and began attacking the trunk. Moments passed, as he gradually loosened and came alive to his task, swinging high and free, as though he were thirty again; whacking and wedging, wedging and whacking. Maybe two wedgings in a row once a while.
Then he stepped back and looked over his handiwork; looked up into the thick bower of branches. He considered things one more time, then whacked one of the wedges in another inch, side-kicked the stump, and—oh, my Lord!—the whole thing began to topple. Crack!! Gaaaaa!!… …Whomphhh!! …It’s down.
To be fair, it landed about five feet to the right, on top of the camelias. Rex shrugged it off as being a consequence of atmospheric conditions. Then we spent the afternoon chopping up the remains, piling them up; before going around to the front porch for a drink in the fading sun. Bud and I had Coors from the can. Rex had a whiskey sour.
And that’s as true a story as you’ll ever get from me.
The telephone quality suddenly got terrible this morning. I walked down the street a ways, following the wire, until I came to that green construction fence. They’re tearing something down behind it and putting something else up.
I see they’ve kind of moved things around on the power poles to accommodate their needs. And apparently, keeping the telephone line as pristine as possible is not one of them. So they’ve come up with a “make-do” solution. I can see why I’m having trouble with my connection.
On the opposite sides of the gap they’ve nailed two Del Monte cans and stretched a piece of string between them.
An ice cream truck drove down our street. Outside it’s maybe low-seventies. No kids live on our block. And certainly none who can catch a twenty-five mile an hour truck. Maybe he’s driving to where the kids are.
Who is this guy? I’ll watch.
I don’t know why that beautiful old period-piece of a house isn’t selling. Upgraded, big kitchen, nice old tree out front. Anderson windows and doors all around.
Maybe they could convince the guy next door to park his service van behind the gate, or at least a little closer to his side of the contiguous driveway. Having a big van that says “Wally’s Mold Remediation” and “We Come to You!” parked next to the house you’re selling is not exactly going to help you up your score on the “Drive By” test. Especially when there’s a 50,000x blow-up of a mold spore on the back doors.
Maybe some Sharks tickets. Something close up.
Because there’s so many trees in our neighborhood, the streets are often root-cracked and irregularly patched. That’s true of the sidewalks too, so I have to watch that I don’t stumble over the uneven parts. Of course, that leaves my head open to the nonexistent mercies of low hanging branches; and there’s a lot of those. Even in daylight, I have to pay attention.
When foster dog Bob and I took our evening walk, I made the unfortunate mistake of wearing my computer glasses—which focus at about 30″—instead of switching to my regular ones, as I usually do. So the whole way it was pretty much…stumble, conk…stumble, conk… Four blocks around. …stumble, conk… I think Bob thought it was funny. We’ll discuss that at dinnertime.
Meanwhile, I’m home and Bob’s fed and I’m left nursing a bruised toe and a half-cracked cranium. It’s my own fault I know, and I’ll chalk it up to experience and all that. Besides, just because I spent half-an-hour conkin’ my noggin’, that’s no excuse for being a sorehead.
Well, it’s happening again. Two doors down, a young couple recently bought Bud’s mid-Forties bungalow—pristine and original, if small—then tore the top off, and are now proceeding to build above it an architectural statement for the Ages. Looks like five stories to me, though Kathy says it’s only two. I tell her it’s at least four or the upstairs ceilings are 35′.
Happens all the time around here. People buy something on these narrow, root-bumpy streets because they fall in love with the quaint, Beaver Cleaver charm of the neighborhood. Then they go on to destroy a little bit of what makes it all so charming.
Kathy took me down to see an Open House a couple of blocks over. She said it’s a “Short Sale”. Going in, I had to duck—the ceilings were only 5′ high.
Short Sale, indeed.
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