Tick-tock. Time dashes on, and our flooded-out cottage renovation in England is progressing. Shortly, I'll be gone. Every minute counts. Nobody worked for four days at Easter -- more time lost; the cottage MUST be finished by April's end. It will be a near thing.
But there are setbacks. Some hurt. Running confidently along the path to the front door I forgot to remember a substantial stair-level change. Stepping into thin air, I fell head-over-teakettle, landing in an undignified sprawl on a lower stone landing. My tumble must have been spectacular; workmen came rushing up to see what was left. Bruised and embarrassed, I checked for limb-wobble -- nothing amiss, thank goodness -- gathered the shreds of my dignity and carried on, scraped and dented, like the car (from constantly miscalculating absurdly teeny British parking space allotments). The painter, distracted by my fall, spilled a gallon of emulsion on the driveway; the electrician pulled an arm muscle jumping off his ladder to help, and one carpenter, seeing that I'd live, waved his saw and joked, "You'll no' be needin' my services, then, eh?"
Plaster- and stone-dust-coated boxes crammed with various goods, utensils, etc., are piled everywhere. I still have no heat, and only one hard-working plug. Finding my worker-shifted toaster is always interesting. Today it's parked under the dining table in the sunroom, and has to be tipped over and shaken to eliminate plaster bits. The poor coffeepot gasps and puffs, nearly overwhelmed. There is absolutely nothing I can do about it. Dusty thou art, and dusty thou shalt remain, for probably one more week.
Today the vital washing machine coughed and died with a squawk; I immediately ordered an inexpensive, reconditioned one. The eager merchant promised delivery and installation in just an hour; plus, he'd haul away the dead one, if I'd have a check ready. Done.
I look like a chocolate-smeared, powdered doughnut; covered in plaster dust, I sport an oak-stained nose and hands from wiping wall surfaces and staining. I keep teams of men -- electricians, carpenters, plumbers, painters, gas men -- supplied with tea and sweets, and help where I can.
Today, applying brown stain to the exterior garage wall, I looked up to see a beautiful red fox sitting on a clump of snowdrops, watching me curiously, from perhaps 15 feet away. (Bryn Garth Cottage is in a forest, Helen's Wood, where hunting is forbidden, so its inhabitants aren't as wary.) Then, suddenly ignoring me, he stared intently down his pointed nose into the foliage; 45 motionless seconds later he pounced on something three feet away from his forepaws. A mouse, lost in thought, lost his life. The fox ate the mouse headfirst, in a few gulps; the wee tail flicked for a second, like a last wave, from the side of Reynard's mouth. Then, shooting me a glance, he yawned and disappeared over a rise, before I could grasp what had happened. There was just the faintest rustling, then, a blink later, no fox ...
Helen's Wood is a photographer's dream. Hundreds of thousands of colorful wildflowers blanket its leaf-rich ground and steep hills. The narrow, winding path beckoned. Enchanted, and needing to dim the death of the mouse, I put down my brush and succumbed to the magic. Limping awkwardly along in dappled sunlight through perfumed air, amid ancient, budding trees and nesting birds, I mused that the mouse was probably young, and definitely foolish. (Do wild mice ever get old?) But then, aging doesn't matter that much, unless you are a cheese. It's how well you live, not how long, isn't it? Hmmm ...
Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are at 325 Sixth St. in Traverse City. Visit her Web site, www.deeblair.com for more information.
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