......

AS IT TURNS OUT, my less-than-ideal tenant tossed me a final aggravation by forcing me to climb out of bed on this very rainy morning and meet up with the constable, even though I was all but certain there wasn't any need for this rendezvous because she'd be gone. I was so sure of her absence at this gathering that I called and invited the locksmith to join us in her stead.

It was too late to call off the constable, anyway, and I wasn't absolutely, without-a-doubt, one-hundred percent sure she'd be all-done-and-out-of-there; but here's how I got the strong notion that she wasn't going to meet me at the door this morning with a wad of cash:

Yesterday afternoon the downstairs tenant gave me a call. "Just to let you know," he said, "there's a U-haul backed up to my upstairs neighbors' door. It sure looks like they're finally leaving!"
He sounded ecstatic.





Then he added. "Oh, and it also looks like they're holding up the guys that are trying to re-surface the parking lot."

"I'll be right over!" were my words.

And, Dear Reader, things were just as he'd conveyed them. When I got there, my less-than- ideal tenant and her boyfriend who does not live there but visits all day and spends every night were loading up a U-haul.

And sure enough, the guys who were waiting to put a top coat on that section of the parking lot were twiddling their thumbs, waiting for the U-haul to move on out.

First thing I did--I talked to my less-than-ideal tenant, after she came onto her porch with an armload of furnishings. "I'm very sorry," I said, and she studiously ignored me. "This is not the way things should have gone."

"Where do you think we should put the TV?" She asked her boyfriend, just as though I were the box spring and mattress already loaded in the U-haul. Or perhaps one of the tires on the truck. Maybe just not there at all.

On her next trip out, I suggested the possibility she'd like to make a contribution toward all that past-due rent. There was no response. Our one-sided conversation seemed to be going the way of the dinosaur.

I strolled over to talk to the idle parking-lot pavers, and these two young men seemed perfectly amenable to chatting--the part-Italian one with the German mother-in-law to whom he'd just as soon not live next-door, and the one with the Amish great-grandfather. Oh, there were lots of interesting orts of information I gleaned; we had plenty of time for our discussion of this and that.

But finally the U-haul was loaded, and suddenly it was pulling out of the parking lot. I'd been told that it would not be returning. Hmm...perhaps I would not be seeing my less-than-ideal tenant ever again, likewise. Thinking fast I said, "Ooops. Gotta go!" ending our chat, and dashed for my car.

I had no wish for a 'Gone-left-no-forwarding-address' farewell, so I steered my car out of the parking lot and fell into line right behind the U-haul.

Playing gumshoe for oneself, if one has no experience, can be a tricky ordeal, I discovered--What'll I do if the light turns yellow and they just squeek through? What if cars get between us and I can't catch up?

And then it got more than a little unnerving. After six or eight miles, the U-haul pulled off the road and into an empty parking lot. Hmm....I knew I had to make a quick decision; but, what kind of private investigator would drop the case now, Reader Dear? I pulled in behind.

Both of them exited the truck, the boyfriend quirking his eyebrows and scowling, the irate tenant marching toward my car, wagging her finger at me and voicing a strong opinion. I didn't get out of my car, but I opened my window.
"Unh-uh! You can't do that!" she directed me loudly. "No, sir! You are NOT allowed! You can't follow me!" She stated it several other ways, in addition, but basically that's all there was to it--I was not allowed!

(Dear me. You know how I hate to keep you in suspense, Reader Dear,
but perhaps I should ask my irate tenant if I'm allowed to
tell you more....


...

......

TOMORROW'S THE DAY. The constable's going to have to figure out how to get into the parking lot; I'm having a spring coating applied. Maybe he'll have to park on the grass, but there's no doubt he'll show up for this, our second rendezvous with my less-than-ideal tenant. The question is--will she be there, this tenant who prefers to pay rent only as a last resort? It's anybody's surmise, really, so help yourself, Dear Reader, venture a guess.

I'll keep you posted.

......

......


EIGHTY-NINE YEARS AGO TODAY the mother of my Yard Man was a squalling newborn infant. She was the firstborn for my yard man's grandparents, so I'm sure her birth was an exciting and happy event, though she herself was not aware it was her birth day, of course.

Now eighty-eight times since then she's had loved ones wishing her happiness on the anniversary of that day. Eighty-eight times she has had at least some small celebration of her life. Subtracting a time or two when she was in her babyhood, let's say eighty-seven times she's recognized the fact that this is a special day of days.

But alas, Dear Reader, as her life continues its steady march down the far side of the hill, strange forces have emerged from the wayside brambles. They have sneaked up and cruelly robbed her! This evening, when her four local children and their spouses showed up at the nursing home with an armload of birthday-enhancing goodies, she was no more aware of the special day than she was on that day she took her first breath.

Only partially was this due to the fact that severe back pain had produced an increase in her medications. She would have been pleased to see us, and likely she'd have known that she knew her daughters and her son, even if she couldn't say their names. Minnie would have known these were folks who loved her, and ones whom she loved (I'm sure of this), but as for knowing her age...or the fact that today was her birthday--that was part of the theft of which I spoke, Reader Dear.

The birthday celebration (such a scaled-down version from last year) was not meant to be. This morning, on the very day the balloons went up beside her door and little decorations on the door frame, she fell out of her wheelchair again (she fell last week, too). When the eight of us arrived at her room, she was out. She was actually there--right there in her bed, but she was heavily sedated and medicated for pain. No one said, "Happy birthday, Mom!" or "Look who's here! We're your family and we all came to see you because it's your birthday!"
No, instead we stood around her bed and sadly exclaimed, hardly knowing what to do. One son
-in-law left the room. "Oh, man," he said, "it's so hard to see her like this!" Finally we came to the sorrowful conclusion that there'd be no salvaging of this celebration--the best we could do was plan to try again on another day. So we left behind the cards and the flowers, and we said goodbye (to each other).



On the long drive home through the pleasant countryside, as I watched the birthday shadows lengthen and the birthday sun go down, I wished that annual celebrations of one's life would always improve with the passing of time, in the way of a very fine sunset.











And that everything stolen would always be returned for at least the one day--yes, Dear Reader, the not-always-so-HAPPY BIRTHDAY.

......

......

GREAT LOGS A-LEAVIN' !




It was a frabjous day today! Perfect to stand and watch these two not-so-nattily dressed men come and pack away the trunk--that massive oak carcass that's been lying beside our driveway ever since St. Patrick's Day.





There was a touch of chain-sawing, but not enough to
send me over the edge.





And, as this operation took place in full daylight, it afforded us much more entertainment (we got to see the details) than our nocturnal symphony of chain saws. (The sun made it much easier to cinematize, as well.)










When the logs were all aboard the truck, I asked one of the men, "Do you have any idea how much these logs weigh?" He figured five, maybe six tons. Yes, indeed--TONS!





This trunk was no toothpick!




Of course, now that I've mentioned toothpicks,
Reader Dear, doesn't your insatiable brain just wish to know how many
could be gleaned from such a behemoth?! (Alas, mine too....and we'll never find out!)


Whatever part of it is suitable for lumber



just went lumbering off up the road.


......

......

STRIKE UP THE BAND!! Blow those horns! Wave those flags! I felt inclined to do a little click of the heels, Reader Dear. "These aren't bedbugs, I can tell you that," was the lovely announcement from the knowledgeable woman wielding the microscope at Dodson Bros Exterminating Company in Richmond, Virginia!

But then she continued to study our disturbing dots--those mysterious mites, baffling bits. (If not bedbugs, what were they?!)

She wanted to give us a definitive answer for each frustrating fragment, identify each puzzling particle.

"This one here's a little piece of fuzz," she said. "And the rest"--she looked carefully at each one--"they're just little pieces of dirt."

Wow. Amazing how much I liked hearing about dirt on motel sheets!





And then, as the friendly, smiling employees of Dodson Bros Exterminating Company in Richmond, Virginia, rejoiced with The Yard Man and me, the expert dashed away and returned with a vial full of curious crumbs.












Wow. Amazing how it pleased me to catch a glimpse of real live bedbugs!



(I'd have to say, however, it pleased me even more to toss away directions to Dodson Bros Exterminating Company in Richmond, Virginia, and go catch another glimpse of a real live doll baby who lives there in Richmond, Virginia!)

......