Singing the Blues
Edith Cook
Dear Friends,
Yesterday I realized, you haven’t heard from me for three months. There’s a reason I’ve been silent; it’s to do with a couple of adverse events. Last time I wrote you, I was in high spirits: I’d moved to Saratoga, Wyoming, where I had friends—some recent, some long-standing—and where I visited the famous hot springs, open 24/7 and free of charge.
The
drawback? The house I bought is 50 years old; its windows needed
replacing, and it had no garage. However, since the house I sold was quite a
bit larger, I had a bit of extra cash for improvement. I ordered new windows
that, I was told, would take four months to arrive at the installers, who then
had to schedule the work. Then I got together with a local construction company
to build a freestanding one-car garage in my backyard--fortuitously,
it opens onto a street. I
put down a deposit and the builder promised to start in early November with the
cement pad.
Meanwhile I learned the house needs insulation, including sealing the hole in the wall where the previous owners self-installed a one-room air-conditioning unit. In December I found the portion of the unit that protrudes into my bedroom covered in icicles.
The builders failed to stick to their commitment. They dinked around until freezing temps made it impossible to do anything in 2022. Any garage or lean-to will have to wait until April or May of 2023. I emailed and talked so angrily, they returned my deposit.
Now I was having to start from scratch. I hired another local builder with, I’d learned, a stellar reputation. After its owner completed his calculations, he said the pad and garage (12x20) would cost $58,000.
I just about fell over. “I know Saratoga is a pricey place to live, but I can’t afford that kind of expense,” I told him. Then I prepared for my annual winter trek to Texas.
“It looks like you’ll be doing without a garage,” said the son at whose place I’m currently “snowbirding.”
“That sounds simple enough,” I said, “but you should see the snow piling up around my house, burying my yard and my car, with no end in sight until April!”
“We know what it’s like,” he said. At one time he and his family had lived in Albany County, Wyoming, at 8000 feet. They lived there for ten years.
“You had a snow plow of your own,” I shot back. “I’m too old for that.”
I’ll need to return to my Saratoga home by mid or late February. The windows will have arrived and the installer will want to get the work done. It means a couple of days of cold while the old windows are taken out and new ones put in; I’m not looking forward to that.
All in all, not an auspicious beginning. I’m singing the blues. So do many others, I know—even my cousin in Germany complains about high prices when we talk—but that’s scant consolation.
Edith Cook