When you live in a developed neighborhood, it is understood that there will be utility easements with which you will have to contend. Like, if you want to spit in your own yard, you need to get a permit, call OUPS for utility markings, submit a drawing of where you are going to spit, and wait for final approval before you launch your loogie.
If any of these steps are skipped, you will be fined for public expectoration with a possible sentence of one to two days of community servicev…vfor spitting in your own yard.
Well, because there are so many easements on our little square of land, if you want to plant a garden, put up a shed, or add some landscaping, it will inevitably encroach on an easement of some sort.
A couple of decades ago, the wife became very interested in gardening and planted a perennial garden right on top of the biggest knot of utility cables this town has ever seen. I mean, one misplaced tulip bulb could send our community into a total blackout, the likes of which it has never seen.
Well, last January I was upstairs showering when I heard the wife scream at a decibel level that could break glass. Even Mariah Carey couldn’t hit those notes.
“What’s wrong?” I yelled, dripping wet, running downstairs.
When the wife saw what they had done to her garden, I seriously thought she was going to explode in a mushroom cloud of apocalyptic proportions.
“There are men digging in my perennial garden! Get down here quick and confront them.”
“But I’m wrapped in a towel…” I said.
“I don’t care! They are digging up my bulbs! My precious bulbs! I’m letting the dog out!”
“Don’t,” I shouted.
Too late. Charlie, our shepherd mix, bounded out at break-neck speed, barking all the way.
Let me say here, that if you ever want to get grown men out of your garden real fast, just let your 60-pound dog out the door.
The scattering of utility men was instantaneous. One ran north, one ran south, two went over the fence and the fifth ducked down in the 6-foot hole he had dug in the middle of the wife’s perennial garden, head sticking up like a canna bulb about to be planted.
When the wife saw what they had done to her garden, I seriously thought she was going to explode in a mushroom cloud of apocalyptic proportions.
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? My irises, my daffodils, my butterfly bush, my forsythias … all gone,” she said, then looking at me, “Say something.”
“But I’m in my towel,” I whimpered. “I’m not sure I would be taken seriously. And it’s only 38 degrees.”
The frightened men all pointed at the dog who was by then peeing on the discarded forsythias.
“Why is this happening to my garden? Somebody, say something,” the wife demanded.
It turns out, none of them could speak English. A call to an English-speaking supervisor gave her the answer.
“We’re installing a new cable line, ma’am. Your garden is right on top of the easement. We have a right to be here. Sorry. Oh, and sir, could you tighten up that towel? There are plenty of exposed tulip bulbs as it is,”
“Right,” I said tightening my towel, “Let’s go in, dear. They’ll get it all put back together in a few days. And what they can’t fix, we’ll plant new.”
It’s June now, and the wife’s perennial garden looks better than ever. And as I peruse the rest of the yard, I am still trying to decide where is the best place for me to spit.
A couple of decades ago, the wife became very interested in gardening and planted a perennial garden right on top of the biggest knot of utility cables this town has ever seen.
Raul Ascunce is a freelance columnist for the Sentinel-Tribune. He may be contacted at [email protected].
