Mom, dad, and the nephews came down Sunday and we went to a Redbirds game. We were among a dozen or so people in attendance on what turned out to be a lovely evening. I am exaggerating. There had to be thirty people there. It felt nice to show off the park and even nicer that the Redbirds won. Going to those games is bittersweet; it’s always fun but when I go, I see how many people aren’t there, and I get scared that they are going to take the team and the stadium from us because we don’t appreciate it enough.
Also, I paid $7 apiece for two cups of Ghost River beer. Don’t ever accuse me of not supporting the local economy.
Monday I woke up at 8 a.m. and we all went outside and gave the yard a little TLC. I swear, I think they like working in my yard more than they do their own. Mom showed me what she had done while I had slept in the wee hours: Meticulously hand-weeded the backyard path from the porch to the garage. (She admits she may have a bit of a weeding obsession.) Then she got busy planting the clippings she’d brought me — more hosta and cannas, plus a peony, another baby redbud, a flowering caramel plant, some yellow-flowered plant whose name I’ve forgotten, and some leafy shrub things (for the front bed) and leafy trailing vine things (for hanging pots) — and dad occupied himself by chainsawing the hefty roof-denting limb I, for the past week, had taken great joy in cussing every time I saw it.
Later, he and the youngest nephew got busy up on the roof of the shed, cutting back the invasive stuff from the neighbor’s yard that had no doubt been creeping and climbing for years. I thought that stuff, while it was flowering, was really pretty (there was ivy, carolina jasmine, and a beautiful light-pink rose bush) and I hated to see it go, but I understand that it was basically overtaking my shed and would eventually be a real hassle for me.
I hauled the oldest nephew out to Lowe’s with me (where I — for the second motherfrickin’ time in a month — forgot to use the coupon I specifically went there to use) for some supplies. When I returned, my yard was full of sticks and vines and debris from the roof, and I had a neat little pile of insta-mulch, which I later distributed in the back bed where the bulk of my cannas are planted.
I busied myself with planting forget-me-not seeds around the backyard hosta, irises, Indian carpet dianthus dad picked up for me at a store, and still more Saltillo-grown cannas along the back fence. Then I got ultra cocky and cleaned out my front gutters.
Gag. Remind me next time to use rubber and not cloth gloves.
I can’t even explain how much I appreciate these little visits. My house, I realize, is probably not the most comfortable place in the world for five people to co-exist, but my nephews are so well-behaved (seriously, my sister did right by them) that it never really became an issue. Even when I knew they were bored. (I let them get on the computer and video snack a bit, until they started making me watch “comical” videos of birds getting hit by baseballs.) But the help around the place, at least until I get a handle on how and when to do the bulk of the maintenance stuff (forgive the noob learning curve), is invaluable to me. I am independent to a fault, I think, so having them drop by every now and again to check on how I’m holding the place up will benefit me in the long run.
Speaking of the long run, the roofer came out today to assess the damage. I am ecstatic to report that he doesn’t think the interior damage is major, and that the exterior damage will only cost me a few hundred bucks, mostly because my roof has old-school decking (not plywood, which has to be removed in larger chunks) and just one shingle layer (that’s less of a pain in the ass for roofers, I guess). This is the best-case scenario for me, and I am so grateful. I don’t want to celebrate too much, though, until the work is done and the check is written and has cleared the bank and there’s another hard rain that yields no leaks.
That whole spiel I had about feeling like I was being invaded? It’s still true. But I can’t even imagine what it must be like for people whose homes and neighborhoods and schools and workplaces and churches and stomping grounds were overrun with water. I just keep reading stories and looking at all these flood pictures and losing my shit. These are places and people I love and they are showing such unbelievable class in the face of the madness. I am fiercely proud of the people of my state, who were handling their shit even while the country twiddled its thumbs.
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