“Mom, let’s say you have a person who needs a small pair of boots and a person who needs a medium pair of boots and you have a medium pair of boots and a large pair of boots, what would you do?”
My initial reaction, “well it depends on who the people are”, was quickly countered by the more expansive response from my husband, “You have just hit open one of the fundamental dilemmas of social policy. Sometimes it’s hard to know whether to do some good for the most people, or if it’s better to completely solve some people’s problems and leave others with in inadequate solution.” And yet still it depends on whose feet are without boots.
The public education system in Massachusetts can be compared in many ways to the pair of people needing boots. Whether you consider the two bootless people to represent the financially poorer school systems and the richer school systems or the students receiving standardized instruction and the children needing Individualized Educational Programs (IEP) or the children needing honors class and those working at an average ability level, the metaphor can be played out.
Let’s consider that the students needing IEPs require medium boots and the students who receive standardized instruction require small boots. From a Massachusetts outlook, which in the public school system requires the maximum possible development of students with disability, the disabled students don’t have any footwear at all, while the other students all have at least one pair of shoes. Consequently, the education system in the state is crafted to meet the individual needs of the disabled students while leaving the remaining students to manage with a one size fits all approach—trying to put a large boot on a small foot, or worse, fitting a large foot into a small boot. In the case of disabled students and non-disabled students the cost of making the boots is not commiserate. So far more properly sized boots can be made for non-disabled students than can be made for disabled students for the same cost.
Hypothetical musings of a child are quick to capture fissures in social policy. I hope that as parents we nurture this thinking so that in time, she can be the one to find a plan to repair the cracks as well, where we have a system where everyone can get a pair of boots sized to fit.
All Wrinkled
I don’t iron. My mother will zealously verify this fact. Not infrequently, when she is a guest for Thanksgiving, I will find her meticulously ironing my cloth napkins shortly after she has walked in the front door. Honestly, how smooth do they need to be to catch crumbs of stuffing or blot up errant cranberry relish?
I have a vivid memory of our ‘ironing lady’ as a child. I would often drive with my mom to drop off or pick up our ironing. The slender elderly woman would hold the screen open for us as we carried out oodles of hangers holding crisp shirts and pants. Generally the ironing primarily included my father’s freshly laundered shirts, but on occasion I could slip in a shirt or a pair of pants. I must admit, there was something appealing about pulling a wrinkle-free shirt out of the closet and having the front lay flat when I buttoned it up.
Now I know that my mom could herself iron; she weaves textiles and frequently could be found, an iron in hand, pressing edges of a recently completed throw. However, somehow I never picked up that homemaking skill. Even my Jr. High Home Economics class neglected to include a unit on ironing. So when I got to college and thought it’d be nice to be able to pull on a crisply ironed shirt, I borrowed a dorm-mate’s iron and set up an ironing board in our common room. I held up my shirt in dismay—the wrinkles made the solid blue shirt appear batik. Where to start? An upperclassman noticed my confusion and quickly offered her efficient and effective advice, showing me where to start (top of the back by the collar) and ending with the front button holes. Yet, despite the fact that I can distinctly remember her instructions and even picture the late day sun streaming through the dust as we ironed, I neglected to keep up the skill and now find myself more often than not pulling on wrinkled clothing. Or equally absurdly, banishing a favorite wrinkle-prone cocktail dress to the dark recesses of my closet.
Rather than converting entirely to wrinkle-free synthetics, I have stumbled upon an alternative, efficient solution to prohibiting, or at least limiting, the wrinkles in my closet. I have found the wind. Or more precisely, the wind has found me. I hang my clothes out to dry whenever possible, primarily because they seem fresher when I take them off of the line. So what a delight when I hung my clothes out to dry with a stiff breeze blowing directly at the shirts and pants and towels clipped firmly to the line. Caught in the wind, the laundry blew nearly horizontal to the ground, the wind flattening the material like it was paid per vanquished wrinkle. I wonder how effective wind could be on that cocktail dress?
I have a vivid memory of our ‘ironing lady’ as a child. I would often drive with my mom to drop off or pick up our ironing. The slender elderly woman would hold the screen open for us as we carried out oodles of hangers holding crisp shirts and pants. Generally the ironing primarily included my father’s freshly laundered shirts, but on occasion I could slip in a shirt or a pair of pants. I must admit, there was something appealing about pulling a wrinkle-free shirt out of the closet and having the front lay flat when I buttoned it up.
Now I know that my mom could herself iron; she weaves textiles and frequently could be found, an iron in hand, pressing edges of a recently completed throw. However, somehow I never picked up that homemaking skill. Even my Jr. High Home Economics class neglected to include a unit on ironing. So when I got to college and thought it’d be nice to be able to pull on a crisply ironed shirt, I borrowed a dorm-mate’s iron and set up an ironing board in our common room. I held up my shirt in dismay—the wrinkles made the solid blue shirt appear batik. Where to start? An upperclassman noticed my confusion and quickly offered her efficient and effective advice, showing me where to start (top of the back by the collar) and ending with the front button holes. Yet, despite the fact that I can distinctly remember her instructions and even picture the late day sun streaming through the dust as we ironed, I neglected to keep up the skill and now find myself more often than not pulling on wrinkled clothing. Or equally absurdly, banishing a favorite wrinkle-prone cocktail dress to the dark recesses of my closet.
Rather than converting entirely to wrinkle-free synthetics, I have stumbled upon an alternative, efficient solution to prohibiting, or at least limiting, the wrinkles in my closet. I have found the wind. Or more precisely, the wind has found me. I hang my clothes out to dry whenever possible, primarily because they seem fresher when I take them off of the line. So what a delight when I hung my clothes out to dry with a stiff breeze blowing directly at the shirts and pants and towels clipped firmly to the line. Caught in the wind, the laundry blew nearly horizontal to the ground, the wind flattening the material like it was paid per vanquished wrinkle. I wonder how effective wind could be on that cocktail dress?
Chicago Symphony
What a day to be blessed 
with the sense of hearing. Ting, ting, shring, the halyards gently knock against the masts swaying in the breeze along the Lake Michigan shoreline. A symphony of wind chimes calls out as bikers, walkers and runners glide along the lakeshore walking path.
Walkers wait to cross Lake Shore Drive. Car horns sound, truck engines grind with the changing of gears. The ‘wrush, wrush’ of cars whizzing past the tree line press the pedestrians back on the curb.
Continuing across the serpentine bridge into Millennium Park, the sounds of
traffic recede. Visitors and residents alike amble under the trellis of Pritzker Pavilion. With a symphony practicing on stage strolling cross the lawn is like brushing by the violins and oboes, violas and clarinets as the crescendo of New York, New York builds throughout the venue. A pause, the notes permeate the space between the trellis and grass, surrounding and filling the entranced on-lookers.
Later a refreshing moment by the Crown Fountain,
while the sounds of children squealing in delight bounce between the two tall towers and a stream of water arcs out of the pursing lips. Shouts of “Hey guys!”, “Look at this!”, “C’m here!” are tossed among the kids splashing through the sheet of water.
Then time to return, to work or to play, walking briskly down Michigan Avenue, a jack hammer echoes off the pavement and building; a fire truck’s siren pierces the air. The door glides open with a nearly imperceptible ‘rshhh’ and as it closes the sounds of the city are temporarily suspended.
with the sense of hearing. Ting, ting, shring, the halyards gently knock against the masts swaying in the breeze along the Lake Michigan shoreline. A symphony of wind chimes calls out as bikers, walkers and runners glide along the lakeshore walking path.Walkers wait to cross Lake Shore Drive. Car horns sound, truck engines grind with the changing of gears. The ‘wrush, wrush’ of cars whizzing past the tree line press the pedestrians back on the curb.
Continuing across the serpentine bridge into Millennium Park, the sounds of
traffic recede. Visitors and residents alike amble under the trellis of Pritzker Pavilion. With a symphony practicing on stage strolling cross the lawn is like brushing by the violins and oboes, violas and clarinets as the crescendo of New York, New York builds throughout the venue. A pause, the notes permeate the space between the trellis and grass, surrounding and filling the entranced on-lookers.Later a refreshing moment by the Crown Fountain,
while the sounds of children squealing in delight bounce between the two tall towers and a stream of water arcs out of the pursing lips. Shouts of “Hey guys!”, “Look at this!”, “C’m here!” are tossed among the kids splashing through the sheet of water.Then time to return, to work or to play, walking briskly down Michigan Avenue, a jack hammer echoes off the pavement and building; a fire truck’s siren pierces the air. The door glides open with a nearly imperceptible ‘rshhh’ and as it closes the sounds of the city are temporarily suspended.
Candy Here!
I love a parade where you can arrive at the start and find curb si
de seats for a whole family. Where kids dart out into the parade to collect candy being tossed from floats, while moms sitting on the curbs yell out, “Backup Mandy. Not so close Evan!” And behind the moms, sit the grandparents in their metal frame folding chairs. Not the collapsible fabric chairs that are stored in a bag slung over your shoulder by a strap, but the metal folding chairs of the 1960s and 70s with brightly colored plastic straps woven together for the seat and back. Where you needed to use WD-40, or in the verb form, where you needed to WD-40 the hinges each spring so the chairs would open and close without a struggle. Of course, if you sat too far forward, or the front leg wasn’t properly angled out the chair would collapse on itself and its occupant. Well, those chairs were alive and well along the corner where I sat to watch the Old Home Days parade.
Mandy stood with her brother several feet in front of the curb. No parade marshals here to urge the crowd back. Here every toe fended for itself, with a little help from mom. Leading off the parade were the restored vintage cars—a Bel Air, a Model T – driven smartly down the road. As the Aquamarine Bel Aire drew in front of Mandy the driver ducked down, grabbed a handful of candy and tossed it out the window. Mandy eagerly darted out between cars to grab the tootsie roll before it was too late.
Ten miniature 18 wheelers came into view and Mandy yelled, “look at them mom!”
“Step back Mandy!”
In response, Mandy took 1 step backward and then 2 steps forward craning her neck to see the trucks approaching. Surprisingly, Mandy seemed to retain all 10 of her sandal clad toes as the 18 wheelers snaked in between one another, driving figure eights and spirals at reasonably high speed.
Of course the fire engines brought up the rear. Not just 1 or 2 or even three,
but nearly a dozen large trucks each with its unique horn blaring in a syncopated concert of sorts. The trucks rolled slowly by representing every town in a 30 mile radius it appeared. Saturdays in Americana would, it seem, be a very unfortunate time to be in need of a fire truck or two unless of course the fire occurred in the town hosting the parade.
Certainly for Mandy and the others along the curbs, closing a state highway for the better part of an hour was well worth the inconvenience of the drivers in their pickups and less-than-antique cars waiting, some more patient than others, for the parade route to clear.
de seats for a whole family. Where kids dart out into the parade to collect candy being tossed from floats, while moms sitting on the curbs yell out, “Backup Mandy. Not so close Evan!” And behind the moms, sit the grandparents in their metal frame folding chairs. Not the collapsible fabric chairs that are stored in a bag slung over your shoulder by a strap, but the metal folding chairs of the 1960s and 70s with brightly colored plastic straps woven together for the seat and back. Where you needed to use WD-40, or in the verb form, where you needed to WD-40 the hinges each spring so the chairs would open and close without a struggle. Of course, if you sat too far forward, or the front leg wasn’t properly angled out the chair would collapse on itself and its occupant. Well, those chairs were alive and well along the corner where I sat to watch the Old Home Days parade.Mandy stood with her brother several feet in front of the curb. No parade marshals here to urge the crowd back. Here every toe fended for itself, with a little help from mom. Leading off the parade were the restored vintage cars—a Bel Air, a Model T – driven smartly down the road. As the Aquamarine Bel Aire drew in front of Mandy the driver ducked down, grabbed a handful of candy and tossed it out the window. Mandy eagerly darted out between cars to grab the tootsie roll before it was too late.
Ten miniature 18 wheelers came into view and Mandy yelled, “look at them mom!”
“Step back Mandy!”
In response, Mandy took 1 step backward and then 2 steps forward craning her neck to see the trucks approaching. Surprisingly, Mandy seemed to retain all 10 of her sandal clad toes as the 18 wheelers snaked in between one another, driving figure eights and spirals at reasonably high speed.
Of course the fire engines brought up the rear. Not just 1 or 2 or even three,
but nearly a dozen large trucks each with its unique horn blaring in a syncopated concert of sorts. The trucks rolled slowly by representing every town in a 30 mile radius it appeared. Saturdays in Americana would, it seem, be a very unfortunate time to be in need of a fire truck or two unless of course the fire occurred in the town hosting the parade.Certainly for Mandy and the others along the curbs, closing a state highway for the better part of an hour was well worth the inconvenience of the drivers in their pickups and less-than-antique cars waiting, some more patient than others, for the parade route to clear.
Showdown in the Garden
The fight was on. We each pursued the same object yet with opposing goals. My opponent attacked stealthily by night; I countered by day. My opponent damaged what I had carefully nurtured. My opponent incessantly nibbled away at my sanity—I was losing the battle, the status quo couldn’t continue.
My first stop, True Value. I found a sympathetic clerk.
“I need something to eliminate a predator methodically munching through my garden,” I lamented.
“Try a .22”, she responded quite seriously.
Somehow I hadn’t been picturing facing off against Bambi with weaponry, I was hoping for a more subtle, less fatal deterrent.
“Well, are you certain it’s a deer? What do the bite marks look like on the stalks, are they
a clean cut or rough?”
In my furor over finding the emergent garden buds all bitten off, except of course the Foxglove, I hadn’t had the instinct to inspect the stalks for smooth or ragged ends. But a thought dawned on me as I pictured the Foxglove flourishing in my garden, perhaps I could just plant a garden of poisonous plants. In the meantime, however, I still wanted to rescue my remaining flowering flora from nightly incisor damage.
The salesman at the Farmer’s Union was equally understanding. He had had numerous incidents with woodchucks and thought a rabbit or woodchuck more likely than a deer as I described the damage.
“Have you ever seen a woodchuck run? They are fast!” he mused while he led me to the display of Deer Away, Wolf Urine and other garden predator problem solvers. He also pointed out the Havahart traps hanging up which I could rent for just $5. Somehow, the cost was the least of my objections to attempting to catch a large woodchuck in a wire mesh cage. I just couldn’t picture myself transporting the crated creature in my car to some isolated location or even to some neighboring garden and opening the cage door. I actually would prefer not to come face to face with my opponent at this point.
So it was that as dusk settled last evening, I was circling my garden trying to imitate how a fox might pee. A small quantity at a time? Would he spray or make a small puddle? And is the potential presence of a fox really going to scare away a bold rabbit who has been dining nightly in my garden? I should have gone with the wolf urine, I thought wistfully, as I held my nose to keep from inhaling the noxious smell. Wolves are much more intimidating than foxes.
Then in the middle of the night I was woken suddenly, no not by a rush of wild animals fleeing from a fox, but by a torrential downpour. So much for the fox pee.
Tentatively I crept to my garden this morning to see if the newest flower buds had been preserved for one more night. Yes, success! Well, for one night at any rate. Maybe if we get a nightly deluge I’ll have balloon flowers and lilies in bloom before summer ends. Or possibly I could put a real fox on a leash and create my own guard fox. Now that would add more interest than a bird bath. But without rain in the forecast, I imagine that instead of continuing to plot against my four legged adversaries, I'll simply wait until next spring and plant a lot of foxglove.
My first stop, True Value. I found a sympathetic clerk.
“I need something to eliminate a predator methodically munching through my garden,” I lamented.
“Try a .22”, she responded quite seriously.
Somehow I hadn’t been picturing facing off against Bambi with weaponry, I was hoping for a more subtle, less fatal deterrent.
“Well, are you certain it’s a deer? What do the bite marks look like on the stalks, are they
a clean cut or rough?”In my furor over finding the emergent garden buds all bitten off, except of course the Foxglove, I hadn’t had the instinct to inspect the stalks for smooth or ragged ends. But a thought dawned on me as I pictured the Foxglove flourishing in my garden, perhaps I could just plant a garden of poisonous plants. In the meantime, however, I still wanted to rescue my remaining flowering flora from nightly incisor damage.
The salesman at the Farmer’s Union was equally understanding. He had had numerous incidents with woodchucks and thought a rabbit or woodchuck more likely than a deer as I described the damage.
“Have you ever seen a woodchuck run? They are fast!” he mused while he led me to the display of Deer Away, Wolf Urine and other garden predator problem solvers. He also pointed out the Havahart traps hanging up which I could rent for just $5. Somehow, the cost was the least of my objections to attempting to catch a large woodchuck in a wire mesh cage. I just couldn’t picture myself transporting the crated creature in my car to some isolated location or even to some neighboring garden and opening the cage door. I actually would prefer not to come face to face with my opponent at this point.
So it was that as dusk settled last evening, I was circling my garden trying to imitate how a fox might pee. A small quantity at a time? Would he spray or make a small puddle? And is the potential presence of a fox really going to scare away a bold rabbit who has been dining nightly in my garden? I should have gone with the wolf urine, I thought wistfully, as I held my nose to keep from inhaling the noxious smell. Wolves are much more intimidating than foxes.Then in the middle of the night I was woken suddenly, no not by a rush of wild animals fleeing from a fox, but by a torrential downpour. So much for the fox pee.
Tentatively I crept to my garden this morning to see if the newest flower buds had been preserved for one more night. Yes, success! Well, for one night at any rate. Maybe if we get a nightly deluge I’ll have balloon flowers and lilies in bloom before summer ends. Or possibly I could put a real fox on a leash and create my own guard fox. Now that would add more interest than a bird bath. But without rain in the forecast, I imagine that instead of continuing to plot against my four legged adversaries, I'll simply wait until next spring and plant a lot of foxglove.
Taking a Daughter to Camp
Today camp began. Each year our drop-off has gotten a bit less outwardly emotional, although I still return home feeling a bit hollow. But I have come a long in the five years since I first took my older daughter to camp. Preparing for her first summer at camp was easy; meeting the reality of a good-bye was exceedingly difficult. I wanted a bear hug and “I’ll miss you Mama.” She wanted a quick hug and a kiss and a chance to melt into the new found group of girls.
It seemed the snow bank was still knee high at the end of our driveway the day she began packing her trunk. Each afternoon after completing her homework, she’d ask, “Can I go up and pack now?” The first several times she asked, I quizzically responded, “But your trunk is packed.” “Not the new socks you bought me,” she’d reply. Or, “I have a newly sharpened pencil to pack.” And so it went for an entire month of anticipation. Each day pulling everything out and rearranging the entire contents as the newly acquired item always seemed to need to be packed on the bottom of the trunk.
The day before we were to drop her off, she became very quiet. Perhaps the reality was beginning to settle on her. By lunch the day we drove to camp, her vocabulary had diminished to “No thank you” and “I’m not hungry.” I made her favorite meal for lunch— she managed to eek one noodle from her fork to her mouth before uttering, “I’m not hungry.” The butterflies were gathering.
When we got to camp the first stop was a check in with the nurse. The nurse, being friendly, asked what Rachel was looking forward to doing at camp this summer. “Making a friend,” was her quiet reply. Tears filled my eyes; this would certainly be a difficult good-bye. Would she make a friend? Would she be happy? Would her counselor put her covers back on when they fell off at night?
At her cabin she selected her bunk without any fuss and although I wanted to help her unpack and get settled, she simply wanted to change into her uniform and head to the playground with 2 other girls in her cabin. I worried when she only put one blanket on her bed (it gets cold in Maine at night!). I wanted to arrange the photos that she had brought from home and hang up her laundry bag and bathing suits and towel. She quickly changed, selecting footwear to match her cabin mates and headed out as a camper. We followed, her sister and father and I, and although we were close behind we watched her move farther and farther from us, finding her own way, understanding the need to belong and looking for a way to belong.
In many ways that distance has shrunk each year she’s returned to camp. For now, although she retains her confidence and independence for camp life, she also realizes the value of strong family bonds and shares her camping enthusiasm with her family. She may have moved farther from us in her independence, but she has moved closer to us in her need to share her new experiences and see how they fit into the greater web of her life.
It seemed the snow bank was still knee high at the end of our driveway the day she began packing her trunk. Each afternoon after completing her homework, she’d ask, “Can I go up and pack now?” The first several times she asked, I quizzically responded, “But your trunk is packed.” “Not the new socks you bought me,” she’d reply. Or, “I have a newly sharpened pencil to pack.” And so it went for an entire month of anticipation. Each day pulling everything out and rearranging the entire contents as the newly acquired item always seemed to need to be packed on the bottom of the trunk.
The day before we were to drop her off, she became very quiet. Perhaps the reality was beginning to settle on her. By lunch the day we drove to camp, her vocabulary had diminished to “No thank you” and “I’m not hungry.” I made her favorite meal for lunch— she managed to eek one noodle from her fork to her mouth before uttering, “I’m not hungry.” The butterflies were gathering.
When we got to camp the first stop was a check in with the nurse. The nurse, being friendly, asked what Rachel was looking forward to doing at camp this summer. “Making a friend,” was her quiet reply. Tears filled my eyes; this would certainly be a difficult good-bye. Would she make a friend? Would she be happy? Would her counselor put her covers back on when they fell off at night?
At her cabin she selected her bunk without any fuss and although I wanted to help her unpack and get settled, she simply wanted to change into her uniform and head to the playground with 2 other girls in her cabin. I worried when she only put one blanket on her bed (it gets cold in Maine at night!). I wanted to arrange the photos that she had brought from home and hang up her laundry bag and bathing suits and towel. She quickly changed, selecting footwear to match her cabin mates and headed out as a camper. We followed, her sister and father and I, and although we were close behind we watched her move farther and farther from us, finding her own way, understanding the need to belong and looking for a way to belong.
In many ways that distance has shrunk each year she’s returned to camp. For now, although she retains her confidence and independence for camp life, she also realizes the value of strong family bonds and shares her camping enthusiasm with her family. She may have moved farther from us in her independence, but she has moved closer to us in her need to share her new experiences and see how they fit into the greater web of her life.
House Painting, only House Painting
Our house painter is an outstanding painter; unfortunately he’s a poor horticulturist. At least from his lack of respect for greenery I presume he’s untrained as a gardener; I’ve never actually seen his gardens. This doesn’t matter much when he’s painting the interior, but for exterior work it’s definitely a detriment.
His fastidiousness as a painter extends to the care he shows his employees. For instance, he doesn’t hire cheap labor that will climb unsteady ladders to dizzying heights uninsured. No, he has his father and other relatives working for him, and apparently he cares for all of them as he insists on renting (at our expense) a large cherry picker to reach the highest parts of the house. Okay, so I wouldn’t want to climb up a ladder to those heights either which is one of the reasons I chose not to paint the house myself.
The bright orange cherry picker comes with its own high pitched beep which is activated every time the arm supporting the basket is moved as we and all of our neighbors discovered at 6 am the first morning the painting began. Apparently the painters hold their paint brushes still while moving the basket slowly back and forth to paint. Consequently there is pretty much a continuous beeping echoing around our house.
As I come around the corner to our house, I do a double take. No, that isn’t a 10 ton vehicle parked on our lawn! Yes it is. Well, the painter must have mused, if the cherry picker worked so well above the driveway, it will work equally well on the opposite side—just need to drive it across the lawn. Here’s where his lack of a green thumb is most evident. Did he put down some planking to distribute the weight of the 10 ton vehicle? No, he just drove right over the curb, across the sidewalk, leaving deep welts in his wake, and right on across our beautiful lawn! And then he leaves it parked there overnight as he claims the wear and tear on the lawn will only be intensified if he drives off and on again (why not just drive off and stay off?!) Why can’t I stand up to my painter and tell him I don’t appreciate how he treats the greenery in my yard? Why does he intimidate me just because he knows so much about painting? This is ridiculous.
So instead of saying anything to him, I fume quietly to myself, okay and to my husband, about the deep welts that are now in the middle of our front lawn and will likely need reseeding come fall. Sigh. Yes the painting does look excellent—just don’t get the wide angle view that takes into account the lawn.
Next time he comes to paint I will disallow the cherry picker on my lawn—I will resolve to stand up for my lawn and my garden. I will. I will. I think I will. I hope I will. We’ll see.
His fastidiousness as a painter extends to the care he shows his employees. For instance, he doesn’t hire cheap labor that will climb unsteady ladders to dizzying heights uninsured. No, he has his father and other relatives working for him, and apparently he cares for all of them as he insists on renting (at our expense) a large cherry picker to reach the highest parts of the house. Okay, so I wouldn’t want to climb up a ladder to those heights either which is one of the reasons I chose not to paint the house myself.
The bright orange cherry picker comes with its own high pitched beep which is activated every time the arm supporting the basket is moved as we and all of our neighbors discovered at 6 am the first morning the painting began. Apparently the painters hold their paint brushes still while moving the basket slowly back and forth to paint. Consequently there is pretty much a continuous beeping echoing around our house.
As I come around the corner to our house, I do a double take. No, that isn’t a 10 ton vehicle parked on our lawn! Yes it is. Well, the painter must have mused, if the cherry picker worked so well above the driveway, it will work equally well on the opposite side—just need to drive it across the lawn. Here’s where his lack of a green thumb is most evident. Did he put down some planking to distribute the weight of the 10 ton vehicle? No, he just drove right over the curb, across the sidewalk, leaving deep welts in his wake, and right on across our beautiful lawn! And then he leaves it parked there overnight as he claims the wear and tear on the lawn will only be intensified if he drives off and on again (why not just drive off and stay off?!) Why can’t I stand up to my painter and tell him I don’t appreciate how he treats the greenery in my yard? Why does he intimidate me just because he knows so much about painting? This is ridiculous.
So instead of saying anything to him, I fume quietly to myself, okay and to my husband, about the deep welts that are now in the middle of our front lawn and will likely need reseeding come fall. Sigh. Yes the painting does look excellent—just don’t get the wide angle view that takes into account the lawn.
Next time he comes to paint I will disallow the cherry picker on my lawn—I will resolve to stand up for my lawn and my garden. I will. I will. I think I will. I hope I will. We’ll see.
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