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11/10/18 21:29 As of July, I have a new landlord. We are still getting used to one another: my family are not his first tenants, and he is far from my first landlord. However, we are used to different previously established arrangements. We have differing modes and speeds of communication and of getting things done. My previous landlord was very good about giving a minimum 24-48 hour notice about any impending visits or changes, and I liked having that kind of heads-up. It allowed me time to plan and adjust my schedule as needed, and to prep the Span, if necessary, for a change or a visit from a stranger (albeit a vetted one with a purpose for being around the place).
New landlord texted me at half-past seven Tuesday night to let me know arborists would be arriving and essentially taking over the driveway at 9AM on Wednesday.
Luckily, this did not hugely impact my schedule or require any management of the Spawn; I merely had to leave for work earlier than I'd planned. Too, this was ultimately a response to me letting him know that one of the commuter parkers (we live convenient to railways and shops, and he is renting out spots in our driveway) was parking on the resident rather than the commuter side of the lot; I had speculated that this was most likely due to not only a precarious dead tree at the edge of the woods but also the branches of some of the live trees handing so low as to fill the space and even sweep the pavement when heavy with the rain.
When I got home from work I had little enough time to appreciate the change: the dead tree's trunk had been chopped a few yards above ground level, and the dragging branches lopped. Everything was let go to gravity and nature, down the back hill into the woods. But there were dinners to prepare, children to chat with, medicine to take and progress reports to check out.
Once the kitchen had inhaled and exhaled its lungful of meals and catching up, I stood at the kitchen door, looking out the screen and across the driveway at the newly exposed woods. With the branches carved away, it was as if an emerald curtain had been lifted to reveal a half-shell, a darkened amphitheater. In the twilight, the woods were screaming. The cricket song was shrill thanks to the spate of unseasonably warm weather, and the birds and squirrels attempting to return to roost and nest were finding their space irrevocably changed.
A bat darted into the air above the driveway, an angular-winged flitting silhouette against the lavender-grey sky.
"A bat!" I squealed, "Hee!" It swooped and jolted, following its hunger through the sky on a path that, though invisible to me, was certainly not without purpose. Into the dark and back to the light, over driveway and house and tree, it flew and ate its fill, silent and beautiful against the dark chorus of the screaming woods.
I have not seen a bat there before.
New landlord texted me at half-past seven Tuesday night to let me know arborists would be arriving and essentially taking over the driveway at 9AM on Wednesday.
Luckily, this did not hugely impact my schedule or require any management of the Spawn; I merely had to leave for work earlier than I'd planned. Too, this was ultimately a response to me letting him know that one of the commuter parkers (we live convenient to railways and shops, and he is renting out spots in our driveway) was parking on the resident rather than the commuter side of the lot; I had speculated that this was most likely due to not only a precarious dead tree at the edge of the woods but also the branches of some of the live trees handing so low as to fill the space and even sweep the pavement when heavy with the rain.
When I got home from work I had little enough time to appreciate the change: the dead tree's trunk had been chopped a few yards above ground level, and the dragging branches lopped. Everything was let go to gravity and nature, down the back hill into the woods. But there were dinners to prepare, children to chat with, medicine to take and progress reports to check out.
Once the kitchen had inhaled and exhaled its lungful of meals and catching up, I stood at the kitchen door, looking out the screen and across the driveway at the newly exposed woods. With the branches carved away, it was as if an emerald curtain had been lifted to reveal a half-shell, a darkened amphitheater. In the twilight, the woods were screaming. The cricket song was shrill thanks to the spate of unseasonably warm weather, and the birds and squirrels attempting to return to roost and nest were finding their space irrevocably changed.
A bat darted into the air above the driveway, an angular-winged flitting silhouette against the lavender-grey sky.
"A bat!" I squealed, "Hee!" It swooped and jolted, following its hunger through the sky on a path that, though invisible to me, was certainly not without purpose. Into the dark and back to the light, over driveway and house and tree, it flew and ate its fill, silent and beautiful against the dark chorus of the screaming woods.
I have not seen a bat there before.
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