It was 99 degrees outside when I first lit my fire pit, because apparently my ability to make sensible decisions doesn’t account for weather.
Night after night this summer I sat beside an open flame, dripping with sweat and drinking water from a jug large enough to prepare me for a medical procedure. Anyone looking over the fence would have been justified in calling for a wellness check… but I have a termite metropolis to burn.
We accumulated several cords of wood from eight trees we had to have cut down but didn’t have enough occasion to burn it. Hubby never got the chance to split the trunk pieces, so they have been decaying and composting for a while. When I got the bill to install a chemical border wall to protect the house from termites now living in my dirt, burning the logs was no longer recreation — it was pest control, home maintenance, and revenge.
Better yet, it allowed me to do absolutely nothing while still being productive; the Holy Grail of adulting. I sit quietly with a book and watch damaged logs disappear while crossing something off my mental to-do list. The summer light stays late enough for me to read until nearly 9pm, the backyard is pretty quiet, and for a little while, nobody needs anything from me.
There are still wobbly car brakes and termites and a damaged roof and contractors and insurance companies and people who would very much like me to sign something today because this special price is only available while their truck is in my driveway. More reasons to miss Hubby.
He was wonderfully useful in these situations. I could present whatever problem had just landed on my desk, along with the proposed solution and its alarming price tag, and he would generally have an answer before I finished explaining it. Sometimes it was well-pondered legal analysis and sometimes it was a quick, “That’s stupid. We’re not paying for that” and both were extremely helpful.
I miss having someone right there who could cut through the noise and tell me what mattered. So somewhere between feeding another termite condo to the fire and reading my way through a stack of justice with competence novels, I realized I have need of a replacement advisory board: Sherlock Holmes, Jack Reacher, and Alex Cross.
Sherlock, of course, is in charge of evidence. He would take one look at the rate of decay in my tree stumps, rub some sawdust between his fingers and announce that three of the eight trees never needed to come down in the first place.
“The arborist knew that, of course.”
“He said they were dying.”
“Yes. I imagine he did. You paid by the tree?”
“…yes.” “Thought so.” Then he would glance at the termite damage and explain it occurred after the trees were cut and was entirely preventable, at which point Watson escorts him from my property for his own safety.
Reacher handles car salesmen and contractors. As a 6’5″ former Army policeman who travels with no luggage, owns practically nothing, and has a particular dislike of those who prey on people they think won’t fight back, I feel confident I would only have to say, “They want how much for the roof?” Reacher would look at the estimate, stare at the contractor, and that would pretty much be the end of that.
Finally, I have Alex Cross, James Patterson’s detective and forensic psychologist who specializes in uncovering dirty secrets and occasionally elbow-smashing people trying to keep them. I am assigning him the substandard and overpriced bathroom remodel. This may not be the traditional way to manage a household, but I see very few drawbacks.
So, while I once had a resident judge to consult about life’s assorted nonsense, I’ve since assembled a replacement advisory board consisting of a Victorian cocaine enthusiast, a homeless former military policeman, and a detective with family issues. Hubby would probably find this completely reasonable, although he would likely also point out none of them actually have a law license. Then he’d look at whatever estimate was sitting on the kitchen counter and say, “That’s stupid. We’re not paying for that.” And, really, that’s the only voice I’m trying to channel.
Meanwhile, the woodpile is getting smaller as daylight saving time comes to an end. Texas will finally stop trying to cook me, and sitting beside a fire will cease to be evidence of mental instability.
As It turns out, I rather like sitting quietly while solving problems. I just have to outsource some of the thinking to fictional people. Sherlock can size up the mechanics’ levels of honesty, Reacher can intimidate the contractors, and Alex can terminate the bathroom remodel.
And even though I only saved the house from pests, and not the whole planet from destruction, I’ll celebrate like Project Hail Mary’s much more adorable fictional geniuses, Grace and Rocky, and wobble around the fire pit, hollering: “AMAZE! AMAZE! AMAZE!”