Friends and Neighbours

Part 4

In the morning, I called Bobbi. As my real estate agent, she knew a thing or two about my house and as my neighbour, she had a husband who knew how to fix things. Ira came over, and I took him down to the basement to show him the water pump. He said it looked like a good pump and it was quite new, so he tried to prime it, but no luck, it just kept running and still no water. He talked to me as he worked, and I only understood half of what he said. He was the first of my Nova Scotian neighbours I’d met. Bobbi, his wife, my realtor, was from Tennessee, so she had that great Southern drawl. Ira spoke in true Cape Island speak. He suggested we go out to check the well. I nodded and smiled as I processed the words I heard, into words I know. We went outside to the little house that is the well. Lifting off the roof, we peered over the edge. 

On my first walkabout of the property, I peered in the well, deep, dark and scary. Layers of stacked rocks lined the sides and waaay down was water. Barely a light reflection. I was afraid to lean over at all. There are stories of people falling into wells, usually kids. As the depth gave me vertigo, I pictured myself falling down the hole and no one finding me for a long time, already drowned. I tried to erase the thought and replaced the roof, thankful there was not going to be a need to look in there often.

Ira stood aside as I lifted the roof off. We both looked over the edge. He said, “That’s your problem. You have no water.” At least that’s what I heard him say. I put the roof back on. I had enough drinking water for a day or two, but that was it. As Ira was leaving, he told me it was supposed to rain and that should fix it. He also told me about the municipality having programs that help people whose wells dry up. I used my precious data to Google it and sure enough, there were laundry and shower facilities available, and water to fill cisterns. There was also a drinking water program, where the fire department will give each person 16 gallons of drinking water, once a week. The only problem was, that I was only on my third day of quarantine and couldn’t leave my house. Even having Ira over was against the rules. The fire department was sympathetic and delivered me 16 gallons of water to my back door. Thank you Barrington/ Port La Tour Volunteer Fire Department!

The next day it rained and as promised, the water came back. This time, I was careful. I had gotten the name of someone who delivers firewood, and the name of the garage that delivers furnace oil, and called them both. I left a message with the wood guy and called the garage. 

“Sorry, deer hunting season just started, Jason’s gone ’til next Thursday”, I was told. That was a week away. When I told the woman at the garage about the wood guy, she said, “Oh, I think Dennard’s gone with ‘im.” So no wood or oil for a week. I still had my little space heater in the one room, and I was busy with the living room anyways, working up a sweat. Kitten hadn’t left the bed other than at night when he ate and used his kitty litter. Bobbi texted and asked if I was ok. I told her that I couldn’t get oil or wood until next week because of the start of deer hunting season. The next morning, she and Ira came with a load of wood to last a week. 

The mornings were bright and sunny and sunlight flooded the kitchen, dining room and my studio. 

All week I worked hard and the living room came together. Patched and rough, but clean and fresh, wallpaper removed, the walls mudded and sanded, the ceiling and walls painted and all holes and gaps sealed. Two full contractor-sized garbage bags of wallpaper came off the walls, and the daddy long legs made haste and left for another room right at the get-go. I gave the floor a good cleaning and moved the air mattress, my clothes, and Kitten into the living room. Back under the covers he went. At least now he was able to roam more of the house if he chose. He didn’t choose to. He spent so much time under the duvet that I was sure he would suffocate himself. I checked on him throughout the day and he would just look up at me with big eyes and scootch farther back, under the covers. ‘He’ll come around,’ I thought, ‘He’s done this before. And this is the last time we move.’

During the week, I stopped for a break in the kitchen and heard a knock at the side porch door. I opened it to an older gentleman, in his 80’s, tall and quite distinguished for a rural area such as this, wearing a mask and holding a paper plate of goodies. He introduced himself as Frank and told me he lived around the corner. 

He said, ”I just came from the church. We buried a friend today and there were lots of treats left over at the reception. I thought you might like some.” He gave me his card and told me if I needed anything, just to let him know. Frank was a Strang, lived down Strang Lane. Much of the land around here was Strang land. Bobbi told me about Frank; that his wife had died a couple of years ago and he was on his own. She mentioned that she sometimes goes over and does puzzles with him.

I ate some good, sugary treats and went to work on my studio, the room we’d been sleeping in. It was painted a garish yellow, and again, the walls were covered with layer upon layer of wallpaper. A few big holes in the plaster were easily fixed and filled and I was thankful it was a smaller room. The light was beautiful. The built-in cabinets and window seat gave the room even more character. I wasn’t expecting a room like this. It was perfect. I envisioned sitting at my drawing table, working, and lounging on the window seat, reading and writing.

By the time the oil was delivered the next week, I had finished the studio, and painted it a good green, for growth and peacefulness of mind. I was almost through the dining room, which I decided did not warrant removal of much wallpaper and was not in really rough shape. There were some big wood pieces hanging on the walls; a corner shelf and a much bigger mantel from what must have been a fireplace in the living room where the stove now stood. I could see the outline on the wall where it was filled in with drywall. The corner shelf came off just fine, but there was no removing the mantel without creating a fair bit of damage to the wall, so I decided to leave it where it was. It was kind of cool, but I painted it the wall colour so it wouldn’t stand out so much. 

If there’s anything that drives me crazy, it’s a bad paint job. A good one makes subsequent painting easier. A bad one is twice the work to correct. The entire house was painted badly, with the paint going over the edge of the door and window frames. And big gaps in the plaster between the wall and the ceiling. Gaps drive me nuts. Poor edges are just lazy. I am a good painter. Many years of experience. 

When my daughter and I moved to Squamish, BC, I didn’t realize how difficult it would be to find a job there. After a couple of weeks of looking, I answered an ad in the Squamish Chief newspaper for a painter, needed immediately. The owner asked me about my experience and I told him that I was a sign painter and illustrator and had worked with interior designers in Arizona, creating murals and decorative work on high end homes and businesses, and had done a lot of farm work, working with horses, so I was strong. He told me to come by the worksite where the new university was being built in the highlands.

In the morning, I met the crew, and started. I quickly became known for my steady hand and ability to produce quality work at a good pace. I was paired with David, a small guy, with lots of good energy. He and I worked really well together, laughing a lot and singing loudly along to Mountain Phlegm (otherwise known as Mountain FM), a Squamish station and the only radio station we could receive. I was the only woman on the crew which didn’t surprise me. Construction is a man’s world. I did come across one female electrician, named Barbie. She was a beautiful young girl who knew exactly what she wanted from life. I envied her clarity and confidence. David and I could finish a two bedroom university residence suite in one day, ceilings included. At first, I would arrive at 9 am, as I had to drop off my daughter at school, where she was in grade one. I had to leave work at 3pm in order to pick her up at school. 

The daycares I looked into were just too expensive, so I had to work a short day in order be there for my girl. I remember standing on the school playground with the other moms, who were dressed in their Lululemon yoga gear, while I likely smelled and was covered in drywall dust and paint. I remember the looks I got. And then the backs turned to me. Only one woman, also on her own, buried in a book, until I asked what she was reading, extended her friendship, and Cristin and I have since shared many Christmases and Easters, she with her two boys and me with my girl, and spent countless hours talking about possibilities. The saying goes you only need one good friend in this life, and I am so blessed to have at least one in every place I’ve lived.

The oil was delivered by a big guy, in a big truck, who didn’t talk much. The wood came the following day, delivered by a really pleasant, nice-looking man in his pickup and trailer. He backed the trailer right up to the woodshed and I helped him open and secure the back trailer doors so he could dump the load onto the grass. We chatted and he told me about deer hunting and how he’s a lobster fisherman, living on the island (that’s Cape Sable Island), but also cuts wood and likes to keep busy. As he lowered the trailer, I noticed one of the back doors had opened and was bending under the weight of the trailer being lowered. I yelled for Dennard to stop, and he came out to look. It was the door that I was supposed to have secured, but I mustn’t have locked it in properly. Now, it was bent at an angle. 

“Oh my God,” I told him, “I’m so sorry. That was completely my fault. I’ll pay to have it fixed.”

“No, no,” he said, “ I should have checked it. Anyways, this is nothing. I let someone borrow my trailer once and he broke the hydraulics when he got it caught under a roof as he was lowering it. Took out part of the roof too. I fixed that, I’m sure I can fix this.” He managed to use his brute strength to bend the door back to a position where he could close and latch it. At the same time I was feeling so guilty, I couldn’t help but be impressed by his manliness, as he bent metal with his bare hands: the hearty hands of a lobster fisherman, used to hauling in a catch out on the cold, rough sea.

Anyways, he texted me when he got home to let me know it was all fixed. I can’t wait to order more wood.

Now I had a cord and a half of wood piled by the side of my house by the woodshed door and a storm was coming. I went to the woodshed door and for the first time, realized it was screwed shut. Dammit if I didn’t bring the tools I needed to get the door open! The clouds rolled in and the wind picked up. I would have to bring it in through the side porch, and down the hallway off the kitchen into the woodshed that way. So I picked up as many pieces as I could and cradled them in my arms as I made the long walk all the way around inside. 

Five or six sticks at a time, and I was getting tired pretty quick because of my anxiety over the storm, and all the wood getting wet. If worst came to worst, I would secure a tarp over the pile before the rain soaked it, but the goal was to get as much of it inside first. Six sticks and then five sticks and then another six sticks, over and over and I was brought back to the night before the move here in the basement, wringing facecloth after facecloth of water in bucket after bucket, until I had gotten an inch of water off the floor. I just got it done. With the wood, I just made trip after trip, stacking the wood in the shed as I went and as the stack got larger, the pile never seemed to get smaller. On one trip outside to get another six sticks, I saw my next door neighbour walking across the yard towards me.

“Looks like you got some wood,” he said. “And looks like there’s some weather coming,” 

I told him yes, and I couldn’t open the wood shed door so I was having to haul it inside the long way. He said, “Hang on a minute, I’m gonna grab my son and some tools and we’ll get that door open for you.” I took another couple of loads in before he came back. I grabbed my ladder so he could get to the screws holding in the top of the door. We lifted the door off and now the wind was really blowing and it began to spit lightly. He said,” Let’s just pitch this in before the rain comes. The three of us should get it done pretty quick.” He said,” I like to just get it all in there and then I can take my time stacking it later.” I agreed, so we started pitching and talking. Greg, my neighbour, said his wife Cindy grew up in my house and that his great uncle built a part of it. He asked if I was flipping it or staying and I told him to get used to seeing me because I was staying. His son, Josh had a 3 year old boy who I’d seen through the window, playing next door in their front yard. This was the first year Josh was going lobstering. Greg didn’t go anymore. It was rough he said and he was getting too old. Before I knew it, the wood was in the shed and the rain started for real. 

I thanked Greg and Josh and told them as soon as I was out of quarantine, I would have them over. They walked back across the yard to their house, and I got out of the rain and started a fire in the stove.

Next: Out of Quarantine