There are six homes being built or rebuilt on less than a mile of South Westgate Avenue. I hear it all. Were this pile-driving, back-up beeping and machine-gunning done at the same tempo, at least I could cut a track and write something mellifluous over it, like Ode to Construction, or, C-rap.
Most of the workers are great guys, who skid away at five p.m., Miller time. But the Three Houseketeers up the block never stop. I’m convinced their grandmothers needle-pointed “busy hands are happy hands†because as late as eight p.m., and all day Sunday, I hear the hammers.
On my best day, I’m grumpy, and have been since estrogen closed. But I’ve breathed deeply, I’ve meditated and burned sage. I’ve left six of my world-class, sour cream cinnamon-raisin coffee cakes, with and without nuts, at the construction site. I even went to Mass on Rosh Hashanah. But I still hear the hammers.
Because of my hormonal challenges, I’m far from th
e ideal candidate to call 311, and hold for a week for the city building inspector to answer. Therefore, I need a volunteer with a fresh Valium prescription to step up. While you’re at it, please ask about the forms we have to complete in order to satisfy our collective neighborhood craving for another three-storey airplane hangar, like the lovely one on Chenault.
