Infills, Outtakes and a Successful Tantrum

They laid in the metal guide rails for the sidewalk concrete this morning.

They started to do it yesterday but my brother chased them away (I was out at the time) when they called in a private tree trimming service (which contracts to the city) to butcher the live oak. Despite being able to run the loader/grader last week without any interference from the tree, somebody decided it was suddenly in the way and ordered it cut back. The ASPLUNDH clowns managed to take one major branch down before my brother knew they were there. They cut it off a good 20 feet back from the path of the proposed sidewalk and were getting ready to hack off another, higher, one (and therefore less in the way, even theoretically) when he stopped them.

They claimed they had to cut it back to the power pole line but had no answer when my brother demanded to know why they hadn't, therefor, touched the palm tree that fairly abuts the sidewalk right-of-way. He told them they were full of shit and that he was going to file a complaint. All of them, tree butchers and sidewalk layers alike, were packed up and gone in the time it took him to go into the house, get his phone and come back outside.

This morning, 7 a.m., the sidewalk guys were back, laying out the guide rails, snapping them together end-to-end, spiking them into place and leveling them. And very carefully not stepping off the right-of-way onto our property.

When they were done, a guy with a mini-front loader came down and began hauling dirt from a pile they had deposited in the vacant field across the street. The rigid and straightened rails didn't always touch the ground and there were gaps and low points all along the way that needed to be topped up or else the concrete would (slowly) flow all over the place. It took about ten trips and, for the record, the loader never left the street pavement, except for one pass, after all the dirt was deposited, in order to level out the fill inside the rails. It looks nice.

We sincerely hope this bunch passes on the warning to the crew that comes next to pour the concrete.

Meanwhile, they've moved across our road and started to scrape Neighbor Mike's place.

The Longest Day . . .

. . .was cut short by a collection of towering, rolling, flat-bottomed thunderheads that came from the east and covered the land faster than the sun could reach the horizon. Distant lightning and muted thunder promised rain--somewhere. But then, it's done this every day for the past week and lied about the rain each time. We're supposed to be into the rainy season now.

We did finally get a fifteen minute shower which is so useless as to be just an insulting tease.

Mom has got a bee in her bonnet about trimming a bush which is growing in front of the dining room window. She says she can't see anything out the window now, which is true, but when it is trimmed the situation won't change since A.) she can hardly see anything now as it is, and B.) when the window is cleared there is nothing out there but the front lawn, the road and an occasional car going by. Nevertheless.

When I caught up with her she had the window open and was trying to remove the screen so she could reach through with a pair of scissors and trim the bush from inside. She said she didn't have the energy to go outside and do it.

Pushing The Walker (Running Is Impossible) With Scissors

Mom has one little recurring OCD tic. She can go weeks without it hitting and I'll think she's somehow past it and then for no reason I can figure: out come the scissors.

We have scissors everywhere in the house. I, of course, have my own for beard and mustache pruning. But (and this is intentional on her part) every drawer in the kitchen contains one pair of scissors. They're all surgical grade medical scissors (Mom is an ex-nurse, after all) and some of them probably have antique value, as well. And every now and then, Mom gets the urge to cut.

She sits on the couch and cuts paper. She cuts squares, strips, various sizes and shapes and lays them all out on her table. She slips them under the place mat, aligned and squared up neatly. She stacks them. Eventually she throws them out or forgets about them and I throw them out.

Last night I caught her contemplating cutting out lines from a typewritten letter a friend had sent her. When I asked her "Why?" she said "I want to cut these out." I said, "I know, but why? If you do it you won't be able to read the letter anymore." She thought for a minute, couldn't figure out an answer, got mad and tossed the letter and scissors down.

After she went to bed, I put the scissors back in their drawer. As far as I can tell she hasn't mentioned them or missed them.

Until next time.