I’ve been working with a contractor for several months now to complete some work done on my home due to hail damage.
If you’ve been reading, you know that my contractor has been a gracious and kind man, helping me with the steps Robb would have done.
If you haven’t been reading, then simply insert here lots of anxiety and reassurance. That’s pretty much how it went.
My contractor moved out of state. Or rather, he went home. He was here for a short bit, earning money for his family as quickly as he could during the summer and early fall, and now he has gone back to his home state. (It happens to also be my home state. A quick shout out to the scarlet and grey.)
Which meant I no longer had a contractor here.
Which meant I no longer had someone on my side, a liaison between me and the roofers and painters and power washers.
Now we were dealing with time changes from his home to mine, explanations without visual cues, and more of that anxiety without as much reassurance.
I called a number I happen to have. They go by a different name, but I call them The People Who Make Sure The Widow Doesn’t Get Scammed.
I called and left an assertive message to say, “I need this project finished. We are nearing colder weather, and I’d like to have this finished, cancelled, or postponed until springtime. Enough with the I-don’t-know-what’s happening.”
I mentioned a bit about withholding payment, about taking my home insurance funds elsewhere.
And would you believe? It seemed to light a fire under them. Still nobody called me back, but silent things began to happen all around me. Perhaps the work of glittery fairies.
The paint samples disappeared from the front door, where they had been left for someone to pick up.
A power washer showed up and began doing his mighty, powerful scrub down of the places I can’t reach. (And let’s be honest. I barely wash my dishes, let alone my house.)
Plastic covered the windows.
Masking tape lined the trimwork.
On Friday morning, I sat at my kitchen table, cozy in my jammies, drinking coffee, and eating a donut (pumpkin spice with cream cheese, so delicious it needed a description here).
I glanced out the window, a mere six feet away, and there was a man on a ladder, painting around my sliding glass door.
Well, good morning, Sir from Mexico. That’ll startle the cozies right out of me, I’ll tell you.
(Good thing I wasn’t sitting there naked. For so many reasons, really.)
All weekend long, my home has swarmed with dozens of men who work with a fast hand, a sharp eye, and not a lick of English. We had a heck of a time communicating what color my garage door should be. I went with blanco, not azul.
So there you go. The windows are still covered with plastic, the masking tape still lines all the edges, but I do believe this project will be finished before snowfall.