My entire town’s water and sewer system is being dug up and replaced, and that is exactly as charming as it sounds.
The people overseeing and assessing the work are also the people doing the work, and are also, coincidentally, the people being paid to do the work. I explain this to describe the efficiency with which this project is being carried out.
Somerville, where I live, is just over four square miles in area. My street has seven houses on each side. Cross Central, and Oxford Street has 27 houses per side. Oxford Street took 14 months to complete.
Well, they haven’t really paved it yet. But it’s mostly filled in. On a hot day your foot sinks into the temporary asphalt, though, so don’t wear your good sneakers.
They started working on my street in earnest three weeks ago with stern parking signs, and blue hoses that defy all building code regulations and now back-flow water in from the street through a spigot into our homes. These are held in place by tar piled on paper lining our sidewalks and driveways.
Then they started cutting trenches and pulling up the road and pipes, and the big machinery arrived, as did the port-a-potty, located immediately outside my office window. Someone with a sense of humor not only named their portable toilet company CPR, but bought 1-800-CPR-4-U as their number.
That’s also where they park the excavator. I call her Sheila. I don’t mean to brag, but she’s a Volvo.
The digging started in earnest last week, but “digging” doesn’t really explain what’s going on here. I guess “excavating” is closer, but that still doesn’t convey the foundational shuddering, shaking, jarring, and grinding going on for hours on end.
Noise-canceling headphones help, especially as I was in a writing course last week when the worst of it was going on. I mean, the worst so far. I made sure my tea was only filled 2/3 of the way because my desk was shaking at times enough to spill a full mug. The bottoms of my feet were tingling from the vibrating floor, but my concentration was OK until I looked up and saw one of the cups from the Fuck Shelf about to fall.
In fact, they were all about to fall.
I leapt up and pushed them back, losing only the Fuck Pencil from the bottom shelf. The lead broke, but it was OK. I know you were worried.
I’m not exactly sure when the Fuck Shelf started, but it’s at least fifteen years old. There’s a remote control Flying Fuck, of course, and various mugs that people have given me over the years that express a certain outlook that is useful at times.
Many times.
Often.
Sundry other items are in that section of the bookcase—a guillotine my father gave me (“I saw it and thought of you”), a paper mache paint brush and paint tube, a ceramic paper bag, some baskets an artist neighbor made, a couple of pictures of the boys when they were little along with cards they made me, and the HMS Beagle—all favorite things I absent-mindedly gaze at when I’m thinking, or in need of grounding. It’s directly to the right of where I sit all day.
Dozens of books filled with perhaps millions of words flank that section of the bookcase in my office. There are books of poetry and philosophy, teaching and learning, mystery, medicine, geography, history, music, and fiction.
When seeking wisdom, there’s one place I always look first. It rarely fails me.
I guess I should dismantle it until the work on the street is done.
Nahhhhh. I’ll just tape them down. A girl can’t do without her muses for too long.
Morning Teaistisms
The very nicest thing…
The local She Thing and Thing 2 got me this tea set as a “My First Yes” celebration gift.
Not only is it gorgeous, but when you’re done with it, it stacks!
Yes, obviously we need to get all the colors. Of course we do. I just don’t know where it came from yet.
Love the teacup/pot! What an exquisite color.
The story was wonderful and god save the fuck shelf.... But that teacup and pot is adorable!!!