There’s also the possibility of a less violent injury — the kind of back pain which results from three hours of sawing away at a branch (okay, I admit it — a tree trunk) that has no intention of giving up its life for the sake of your need for sunshine. This is when it’s important to know when it’s time to give up. We have come to like the strange, lopsided wooden bear face which has resulted from my fruitless attempts to eliminate a moderately large extra trunk on a flowering tree.
Then there’s the interior work. We’re not particularly handy, but a studio must be created. Luckily, we have a friend who knows what he’s doing. But those warnings on the wood-stain cans about working with sufficient ventilation? They’re there for a reason.
I came home on several nights to discover the love of my life surrounded by a cloud of stain fumes propelled by an air conditioner and a couple of fans.
He looked at me blearily and wondered why I was clutching a cloth to my face and dragging him outside.
“I’m okay,” he protested. “It’s not a big deal.”
Then he stood for awhile and tried to remember who I was.
I decided to help out and put in a little insulation.
“Where are your gloves? Where’s your mask?” he asked.
“It’s fine. If it bothers me I’ll stop.”
Ten minutes later I was standing by the sink, hoping that enough water would wash away the shards in my throat.
We’ve been sliced, bitten, poked and smooshed. Fingers and toes have taken a particular beating.
We’ve narrowly avoided serious injury when murderous windows slammed down of their own volition. A massive treetop came down during a storm and just missed the roof. I mean just missed it.
Is it possible the house is fighting back? I hope not. If we survive, it’s really going to be a nice place.
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