The upturned root structure of one of the giant longleaf pines felled by Hurricane Ivan has become a gentrified bungalow for some critter family.
I almost didn’t see the five wild turkeys feeding in the early morning fog. Maggie froze, one foot up in a point. The big birds saw us, too. “Whuh, whuh, whuh,” their wings carried them slowly into the tree cover.
Seeing this broken tree, I was amazed by its resemblance to the concrete truck boom here last Saturday.
This has been a whirlwind week, the new realities of living in the midst of a construction site becoming ever more evident. Our cottage has become headquarters for a stream of suppliers and would-be suppliers, branch office for our builder, and coffee shop. One day our builder came in the door at 7:45, a tile guy with a proposal at 10 and Todd Oliver, the Pella fella, to discuss the window and sliding glass door order at Noon. Buck and I scarfed down half a tuna sandwich, then headed to town to look at fireplaces and insulation.
The framer came in on Wednesday to go over the plans and clear up a few last minutes changes, then was back again on Thursday to mark up the slab. Friday brought truckloads of trusses, hundreds of 2×6 inch studs, and yet another pile of red clay — this one for the porte cocherre (a fancy car port) foundation. The framer, John, and his crew spent all day Friday sawing and moving the studs into counted-out piles in stacks laid out at the various spots on the slabs where they will be needed. Saw horses were built and are in place for the hammering and nailing to begin on Monday morning.
John will be annoyed that the dump truck spilled all that red clay so close to the pretty trusses.
Meanwhile, Buck and I are beginning to long for a cool, dark cave to hole up in. . . . maybe we’ll find a Holiday Inn room, king leisure, down and out.