Thursday, July 20, 2017

Inauspicious Beginnings

 

I went to let Charlie out yesterday afternoon and he immediately set up a barking fit. I went out on the patio and saw an arm sticking through the falling fence next to my bedroom. 

You can see the tree beyond the above pots, but it's a bit blurry. It's not only knocking down the fence, but has smashed in my gutter about 2-3 inches.


I go out there and there's this guy, who I swear looked like he'd walked off the set of Deliverance (some of you may be too young to recall that movie). He has a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth.

I asked him if he was there to look at the fence. He mumbled something around his cigarette. He wasn't doing much of anything but shaking the fence and making things worse. 

I told him I'd open the front door and let him in to look, and he said something I didn't hear and walked off. I didn't know if he was going for supplies or what. 


I left the storm door open for awhile to see if I could see him come back, but I never saw him. 

Then, hours later I'm showered and in my gown and Charlie wants out. I had this funny feeling, so I walk over to where to where he was shaking the fence earlier. 

And he's moved all the wood and such I had covering up the hole.

It was after hours by then, so there was no one to call. I was steaming and fit to be tied. 

I don't walk on the outside of the apartment where the guy was, because it's very rugged over there and I'm afraid I'll fall. 

So I reached through and managed to grab the pieces of wood he'd left on the other side. Why couldn't the fool put them back where they were before he started messing around? 

I covered up the open spot where the fence is falling as best I could to keep the dogs in. 


The next morning I'm fixing to call the manager and let her know that the maintenance mans leaving things was not acceptable. But first I need to let Charlie and Abi out. 

And I see that the patio is covered with debris. I call my next door neighbor Charlie and ask if he knows what's going on, and he says he saw a truck outside and thinks they might be cleaning the gutters. 

I call the manager and she says yes, they're cleaning the gutters. With a leaf blower. Making a huge mess.

I told her about the maintenance man leaving the fence without putting the wood back up to cover the hole. I told her to tell him not to touch that fence without letting me know he's out there. I don't trust him now.

What an inauspicious way to meet our new maintenance man.

A bit later she calls me and says she's sending a couple of guys down to get an estimate for taking down the trees. (I don't think the owner will ever approve of doing that.)

I soon learn they are the very guys blowing crap all over my patio. But I go out with them and we discuss the trees. 

They say there's no way to get those trees out without tearing up some of my stuff on the patio. And they don't even know if there's a way to get them in such an enclosed space period.
 
What a mess. They too were laughing about the maintenance guy we seem to have acquired. They jokingly said they could send him back over, and I tell them no, I don't want him here. 


If nothing gets done, and I seriously doubt it will, my son-in-law is planning to come Saturday to see what he can do. I'm leaving it to him, though I mentioned chicken wire to my daughter as something he might think about using.

She tells me they will have to hurry because Andrew has a birthday party to go to before noon. 

I tell you, that boy at age three has a much busier social schedule than my girls had even after they'd started school. 

It seems that kids these days are doing things at a much younger age. Shoot, he will start school not this fall, but the next. And he'll only be four! 

Seems to me that little kids are shuttled around to an awful lot of organized activities. Don't kids take a stick and just dig in the dirt anymore?

Oh well, I'm just an out-of-touch grandma.

Meanwhile, I lowered the painting. Some of you mentioned you thought it would look better lowered. Here it is.



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