Our Old House

Our sidewalks are being dug up. City workmen are putting in gas metres on the outside of each house. A few days ago, when I walked past one of the workmen, I asked him what they were doing on the street. He said, "Oh we're putting in a beer line, direct from the brewery to your house. Everyone gets a tap. You just turn it on and out comes beer. You want yours tapped to Labatt's or Molson's?" I said either is fine, just make sure it's cold.

This morning, I heard drilling and rumbling outside. When I came out, our car was covered in white dust. There was a retactangular hole in our sidewalk.

When The Boy came home from a shortened school day, he saw the workmen on our front lawn, sitting beneath the tree having their lunch. Some were sitting on our bench beside the flowers.

Ours is a nice looking, welcoming front. Not so pristine clean and pesticided you fear stepping on it would damage the grass or you. It says come rest here abit. When you come upon it, it's like finding the perfect camp site - it's rough, but looked after, shady but dry, casual but not shabby. Really, I think our house exudes friendliness.

I am honoured the workmen chose our lawn to lunch on.