Our neighbourhood is full of noise and big trucks, orange caution fences and signs that say ROAD CLOSED. Main gas lines are being replaced – a very big job. There is a large hole in our back yard next to the house, where the gas workers have prepped for the change. It is covered with a piece of plywood and encircled with barriers and orange plastic fencing.
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Right now there is a massive truck in the middle of the cul-de-sac that has unfolded a long long green arm over the houses and into someone’s back yard, channeling concrete from a big concrete mixer truck, also in the middle of the cul-de-sac, its drum rotating. Gears grind. Motors grumble and roar. Back up alarms beep incessantly. And a “concrete specialist” stands guard on the truck, pushing buttons on a handheld wand.
It will be an obstacle course for anyone wanting to leave their driveway today.
My imagination conjures up four little grandsons sitting on the thickly padded iron bench I keep in the bay window, watching, pointing, grunting. BIG is a favourite word in Bright’s and Sunny’s limited vocabulary. They love to say it, over and over.
All that noise. And yet …
If I tune my ears to the back garden I can still make out the birds warbling to their heart’s content. No roads closed in their winged world. Man-made noise and God-made noise, blending into a modern day symphony. This is life in my little corner today.
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The best thing I read all week was an excerpt from Margaret Atwood’s poem, UP:
Now here’s a good one:
you’re lying on your deathbed.
You have one hour to live.
Who is it, exactly, you have needed
all these years to forgive?
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