The house went on the market yesterday. This is starting to feel excessively real. The list of projects is dwindling and the sorting has taken on a frenzied pace.
I really am going to miss my neighbor Bill, who is always up for a spur-of-the moment home improvement project, especially if it involves power tools. From limbing trees to jumping cars, he has always been there for me, willing to help out for nothing more than a slice of chocolate cake or random rice crispy treat. And so it was with the basketball hoop.
He offered to take stuff to the dump for us (I told you, he truly is an amazing neighbor), so he backed his truck over and we loaded up the defunct street lamp, warped easel and antique folding picnic table that I should have left in the junk pile where I found it in the first place. I then looked up at the basketball hoop and over at Bill. He didn’t look thrilled in the least, but he also didn’t put up a serious protest. I headed out back to the shed for the ladder and by the time I returned he was there with a socket wrench set. I tried the bolts, but this was one of the specialties of the previous owner—it could politely be called excessive engineering, but I have come to regard these home improvement hurdles with disdain. In the event of a giant earthquake, the entire house would be in a rubble heap, yet there would be the basketball hoop, securely fastened to the eve of the house. After several attempts by Bill and I, he packed up his socket set and exchanged it for his metal cutting saw. I moved my car and we protected the driveway with a few cardboard boxes so it wouldn’t crack the concrete when it came crashing down. I did a power lifter move in an attempt to keep the hoop from taking off siding on the way down (and have been eating ibuprofen like a champ ever since). And then we ate well deserved chocolate.
Thank you, Bill, for everything (trying not to cry here…add this to the list of the stuff that’s not so fun about moving to England).