Trench Warfare

"How's it going down there?” I said standing on the edge of the pit. 

"Slowly," Mr. Wonderful said tossing soil with his shovel.

"The Army's best work is done slowly." 

"This is glacially slow."

"And you're doing a fine job, soldier."

Silence.

Wartime is loud but also, it is surprisingly full of silences: like those moments when soldiers get lost in their thoughts to contemplate life, death and when will all this interminable digging be finished?!

I knew something about war. As the general leading the work on this corner of the Western Front of California, I especially knew it was hard leading an army of one. Here I was on the edge of the empire trying to inspire a lone Doughboy to dig a trench. I tried various techniques. I told him the trenches would: 1) Be our defensive weapon; 2) Keep the enemy at bay and; 3) Serve as an electrical conduit for my clothes dryer, because every general needs a clothes dryer. Governments have toppled for much less. Ask the Romans.

The digging had started to remove concrete, graduated to deleting a sarcophagus and now had progressed to digging trenches to run from the main house to the guesthouse. The trenches had to be two feet deep and two feet wide in order to allow for new water pipes, gas pipes and electrical conduits. As we say in the Army, it wasn't KP duty.

"I can’t dig anymore,” Mr. Wonderful said tossing his shovel out of the pit. 

“You can’t or you won’t?” I said standing over him, firm in my boots.

“Both.”

“Winning the war means digging, soldier.”

Private First Class Wonderful crawled out of the pit and plopped on the ground. The soldier was exhausted. I jumped into the trench and seized the shovel. Enough talking about leading. I should just lead, by which I meant shovel.

The whole day I dug, burrowed, dredged, exhumed, hoed, mined, quarried, scooped, tilled and forked out, over and under until I had dirt in my ears, nose and throat. I flung the shovel out of the pit and climbed out.

"Looks good," Pfc. Wonderful said brushing the dirt from my uniform.

"Son," I said "That's how a general digs."

"Like a gerbil?" he said pointing to the dirt under my fingernails.

"Quiet or I'll demote you for insubordination!" Private Wonderful rolled his eyes. I would have demoted him, but the glass of water he handed me made me reconsider it.

With the trench finished the next step was up to me. I had to contact and secure a plumber to install the new gas and water pipes and delete the old ones. Compared to digging trenches, using a crank phone to dial a few workmen would be a breeze. Or as we say in the Army, it's totally KP duty, dude.

First, I dialed the plumber who'd done the inspection on The House when Pfc. Wonderful and I had moved ourselves into this farmhouse property among the countryside's fields, orchards and BMWs. The plumber said he didn't have time to get involved in the warzone.

Next, I checked Yelp.com where I learned by reading the consumer reviews that one plumber could be the best thing since sliced bread and the worst things since stale bread. It was as if every plumber was Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde; both an angel and a devil. War was hell enough without hiring a potential satan.

Then I went to Angie's List because that brigadier general knows how to organize an army of reviewers and keep them honest. The reviews were good, there were plenty of plumbers to choose from but they didn't call me back, not because they were rude but because they were so busy working for other generals up and down the Western Front.

I asked advice of a neighboring general, Gen. Harold Haroldus. He'd earned his stripes in the War of 1812 so, he'd seen his share of war zones, trenches and plumbers.
"Angie's list always worked for me," he said shuffling back to his barracks.

Drat! I already tried that! I looked around the campground and noticed Gen. Jerry Jeroldus. He'd tricked out his trenches with barbed wire, or were they rose bushes? No matter, the man was very clever, he must have an answer.

"I have a great plumber," he said adjusting his general's hat. "He replumbed my entire house."
"Tell me who," I said with pen, paper and ink pot in hand.
"He moved to Florida and bought a yacht. Evidently he made his huge fortune replumbing my house."

Drat! Were there no good plumbers left on the Western Front? I noticed General Charles Charleson surveying his camp. I marched over and asked him.

"I've got one. The best," Gen. Charleson said. I made note of the plumber's name, rank and serial number and called him up. The plumber came out to the property and agreed to to do the work for a fair price. Yes!

"See, soldier," I said to Pfc. Wonderful. "That's how we do things in the Army." Wonderful didn't hear me because he was on KP duty.

A Painful Break Up

"You getting ready to work?" My 86 year-old neighbor said clutching his newspaper.

"Yes, Harold," I said spreading black plastic on the driveway.

"This job going to be a big one?"

"Yes, Harold."

"You have all the tools you need?"

"Yes, Harold."

"Can I watch?"

"No, Harold!"

Mr. Wonderful and I were embarking on the biggest DIY job we'd ever done on The House and the last thing I wanted was an audience. If Harold had offered to help us with the work, that would have been a different matter. But I didn't know how much weight his 86 year-old arms could carry, how much stress his 86 year-old heart could take and how much white wine his 86 year-old liver could digest. Yep, on this morning my spouse and I began with a glass of Chardonnay then promptly put on our boots and went to work.

We drank before noon because we believe in pleasure before pain. And oh boy, the pain was coming. In steps.

Since our entire backyard was covered in hard surfaces--concrete, brick, titanium--we'd decided to remove some of it, specifically the concrete slab which used to be the foundation for the pool's original filter. You know, the one the Ancient Egyptians installed. 

Here was our day:

Step #1 Went to The Home Depot to rent a circular saw with diamond tips.

Step #2  Back at The House Mr. Wonderful steered the saw, cutting through the concrete. He followed the straight lines we'd made with the sidewalk chalk. We're very high tech.

Step #3 Went back to The Home Depot to return the saw and and rent a jackhammer.

Step #4 The jackhammer weighed 25 pounds but felt like 160 pounds. It broke up the concrete successfully turning the formerly flat surface into a pile of rubble.

Step #5 Mr. Wonderful went back to The Home Depot to return the 25 pound jackhammer, meanwhile-- 

Step #6 I loaded concrete rubble into a wheelbarrow and dumped it on the black plastic in the driveway, meanwhile--

Step #7 Harold looked on with excitement wishing he could participate!

Step #8 I lifted out the last of the broken up concrete chunks and underneath discovered… more intact concrete. Arrgh!

Step #9 Mr. Wonderful returned to The House, saw the extra concrete that needed to be broken up then collapsed on a lounge chair. Arrgh!

Step #10 Harold wanted to get his hands dirty but couldn't. Arrgh!

Step #11 Mr. Wonderful's stiff arms were in pain, meanwhile--

Step #12 I experienced burning back pain, meanwhile--

Step #13 Harold felt massive mental anguish at not working our job.

I crawled to the fridge, retrieved the Chardonnay and despite our sweaty clothes and dirty boots, we drank the wine because it lessened our misery. Although Harold remained sore from being 86 years old and not toiling away. I grabbed a juice glass and poured our neighbor a splash of Chardonnay. He sniffed and drank it. The beverage helped him, too.

We survived an agony-filled DIY day. But realized we'd have to get up tomorrow and do it all over again. But then, that was tomorrow. Today we'd worked well and drunk Chardonnay. Yep, the pleasure eased the pain.

Palm Tree Mystery

“Don't chop the palm trees down!” Harold bellowed from his front yard as the third tree specialist of the week drove off.

“We’re having them trimmed.”

“Just get on the roof and do it yourself.  That’s what I did,” he said hoisting an American flag on its pole.
I scanned his deserted front yard.  "Harold you don’t have any palm trees to trim.”

“I trimmed yours, from your roof.”

Now I was new to suburban living in Los Angeles but this struck me as weird.  Yes, Harold was our nosy next-door neighbor and a retired engineer but no amount of nosiness or engineering, control-freak behavior could explain why he would have trimmed our trees before we moved in.

Unless of course: 1) He cared about our neighborhood’s neat esthetic.  2) He was concerned about his own property’s value being brought down by a vacant home’s sloppy garden.  Or 3) He was a crazy thrill seeker.

“Harold, what do you mean you trimmed our trees?”

“I climbed on the roof and used a pole trimmer to cut the leaves off the Queen Palms,” he said pointing to two brown trunks along the front walk.  “Although maybe I trimmed them too much because they look… dead.”

“They’re definitely dead.  But why did you trim ourtrees?”  

“She wanted me to.”

“She?  Your wife?”

“My mother-in-law.  She loved palms and she made me trim them—”

“Wait,” I gasped.  “These palms—and our house—they belonged to your mother-in-law?”

“And father-in-law.  They built the house in the 1950s.  He tolerated palms but she adored them because they were so California—”

“What!  Your in-laws built and lived in our house and you lived next door to them?”

“For 30 years,” he said scratching his forehead.  “Why else would I be trimming the trees in your yard?  I’m not a crazy thrill seeker, for Pete’s sake.”

“No,” I shook my head.  “Of course not.” 

What a revelation!   Harold knew—and was related—to the people who built our house.  Which made him an oral historian of the development and establishment of our house and the lives of the people who’d lived in it.  This piece of information explained so much about him and his strong, nosy interest in us and our home.  It gave me a new appreciation for him.  It made me want to hear his stories about the house, the trees, his in-laws and family.

“Harold, you want to come over for a cup of coffee and chat about the house’s early days?”  He looked at me with surprise.  

“Why talk about the past?  I’ve got too much to do now,” he said straightening his baseball cap and climbing into the car.  Before he drove off he put the window down and called out.  “She’d be glad you’re not cutting her trees down.”  

I was glad, too.  In a world of disposable things, these trees—his mother-in-law’s palms—stood as a testament to the power and beauty of Los Angeles both yesterday and today.

Hummingbirds Part 2

Working at my computer I noticed an email from my nosy neighbor Harold.  As if it wasn’t enough having the retired next door neighbor commenting on my life face-to-face, now he’s emailing me, too? 

I clicked on the email and noticed an attachment.  Unbelievable: Harold is 86 years old and he’s attaching files to his emails.  My 60 year-old mother-in-law could learn something from him.

I double clicked on the attachment and saw an image that didn’t need much explaining.

“Ready to fly”, he wrote.

"Beautiful," I wrote.  "They sure grow up fast.  Congratulations, Harold."

Then I clicked, "send".  Some things you just can't express face-to-face.

Cats and Hummingbirds

“Keep your cat away from my yard,” our neighbor, Harold, bellowed at me from his driveway.  For an 86 year-old he had a booming voice. 

“Sure,” I said flipping though the mail.  “Wait a minute--”  I paused.  Jackson was an indoor cat who came to our house in a carrier and was so scared he’d spent the first two weeks hiding under the bed.  “How did you know we got a cat?”

“I run the Neighborhood Watch,” Harold said puffing out his chest.  “I know everything.”

I thought this information about neighbors looking out for neighbors was supposed to make me feel safer but instead I just felt… exposed, violated and in the market for even thicker curtains.

“Harold, you keep an eye on… whatever you look at and I’ll keep an eye on Jackson.”

“In that case,” he said straightening his baseball cap.  “Follow me.  Use the side gate.”  I’d never been through Harold’s side gate not to mention his backyard, which is where he led me.  In the yard grew soft blades of grass, ropes of ivy and along the west wall, a row of cypress trees.

“What do you think of those guys?” he said pointing to an exposed branch, which held a miniature nest with two baby hummingbirds snuggled inside.  The nest was the size of my woman’s fist and the birds just bigger than my thumbs.  With their striped brown and white plumage they would have been perfectly camouflaged if their nest had not been so exposed.

“Wow,” I whispered.

  

One bird opened his beak, no doubt hungry.  They were both so tiny and precious.  I understood Harold’s concern.  One swipe from a cat and they would be history.  However, if we left them alone maybe they’d grow up and in three weeks be buzzing through our garden pollinating flowers.  

On second thought, maybe it wasn't a bad thing having a nosy neighbor and a scared cat.  Together they would give nature’s newest kids on the block a fighting chance.