And We’re Off!
- Michael Jay Tucker's explosive-cargo
- 15 minutes ago
- 4 min read
So last time I had the two of us, Martha and me, actually making arrangements for the good folks at Moore Buildings to come and view our lot.
This duly occurred a couple of days later. Amanda Moore arrived at our door along with Matthew Smith, a pleasant fellow who would be our project manager. They chatted with us. We chatted with them. We discussed the best place for our Casita to be (sort of along the South wall), and, finally, Matthew put out four stakes in the grass, each representing one of the corners of what would be our Casita.
And that...basically...was it. Martha and I looked at each other. We did not say, but thought, Whoa, are we really going to do this?
The short term answer was Not Really. For, after that, we entered that curious but inevitable stage of any construction project -- to wit, Hurry Up And Wait. Of course, the Moore people had to find a place for us on their calendar. Then they had to find craftsmen to do the job. Then there was ...the forms. Oh, the forms. The endless forms. To be filled out and refilled out and de-filled out. And then quietly forgotten, shredded, and buried in “waterlogged, acidic, and oxygen-deficient conditions”(1) in hopes of generating a lovely crop of peat someday.
Time passed.
About the photos: First, the Casita when it was finally (mostly) complete. This would be Sept 1, 2024. Second, a night shot of the Casita shortly after it was finished. Third, an interior shot of the desk the day I got it moved into the new office, and (gasp) it actually worked. Fourth, and finally, Martha giving me a highly skeptical eye when I suggested that she should claim the Casita as her own. More about that later.
It seemed that nothing would ever happen. I knew it would, but that’s how it felt. Which was unfortunate, because of course it meant that I had time to reconsider. Should we be doing this? It was awfully expensive. Maybe we should wait. Maybe I could work in the kitchen with my laptop so Martha could have the whole office to herself. Or, maybe, we ought to wait a couple of years. After all, we’d been doing pretty well up to now. Did we really need more space?
This is, of course, known in professional circles as Being A Dork.
Long story short, I didn’t suggest we actually stop the project for a number of excellent reasons...not the least of them being Martha would kill me. I won’t say she was determined to give me an office. I’d never say that. No. I might say that she was really, Really, REALLY determined to give me an office. But not just a single “really.” No solitary reallys for her. You betcha.
Anyway, we waited, and then...in the way of such things...all of a sudden, it happened! There was suddenly a crew of tradesmen in the backyard. There was all sorts of hammering and sawing and pounding and sawdust and guys going hither and thither while carrying big pieces of wood and tin roofing and then there was an inspector from the city here to inspect and then he was gone and then the electricians were here and all the power turned off for a day and then it turned back on again and then there was more hammering and sawing and the painter was here (Blue and Navajo White) and then...and then...
It was all over. And there, in the back yard, was an adorable little blue and white house, with a tin roof, and brown awnings. It was, well, adorable.
Now that it was actually in place, I figured I could start coming up with Plans. I thought Martha could have the cute little Casita. I was sure she would love it. She would have the cool little cottage outdoors. And she’d have the guest room for her sewing machine. And she’d have (at least) half of our existing office for her other pursuits and hobbies.
Yes, sir. That’s how I planned it.
Golly. Gee. Whiz.
You know that line in the Robert Burns poem about “The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men / Gang aft agley...”(2)
Well, guess which particular Men got his schemes agleyed right up the wazoo.
Ah well.
More to come.
Footnotes;
1. Peat, Wikipedia, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peat
2. In “standard,” i.e., non-Scots English, “The best laid plans of mice and men, often go awry.” It’s from the poem “To a Mouse.” Give it a read next time you’re in the mood for something dark and depressing and written in Scots Dialect. It’s all about a mouse whose home gets dug up by a bunch of nasty people. And it’s a lovely metaphor for how all of us, men and mice alike, get screwed over by fate.
I think the word I’m looking for to describe Bobby Burns’ poetry is “Dour,” as in, “That Michael Tucker, he’s a dour aud bastart, an' nae doot aboot it."
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