On Monday, March 16, the owner of the landscape company hired to demolish my landlady’s pool made an appearance. He surveyed the uncompleted project (the packed rubbish that now fills the hole which once housed the pool) and promised to send “the guys” out to finish the job that afternoon. “I’ll rototiller this dirt,” he said, “and we’ll fill the top twelve inches with prime soil.”
He then departed.
In his place: another load of dirt arrived in the driveway, a mound of clods, plastic streamers, bits of lumber, chunks of concrete, and pieces of pipe, followed by a second, smaller mound of a darker, richer hue. Upon close inspection, the darker, richer soil looked suspiciously like the contents of the rubbish mound put through a grinder.
The rototiller? The wheelbarrows? The shovels?
Not a sighting.
It is now Friday, March 20. The mounds are still soiling the driveway. My landlady has ceased mumbling to herself and is now zoning out in front of a blaring television.
This is a lesson in patience.
This is a lesson in acceptance.
How does the story end? Go here.