I was working around the house a bit today, and it reminded me of something Gramps said when I was a kid. Whenever he had to do something homeowner-ish, he'd call out to me. "Dodge! Come here! I have to show you something!"
I always knew that whatever it was, it wasn't going to be fun. He'd show me how to snake a toilet. How to put in the fuses for the air conditioning (or the fuses in the basement, for that matter). How to tile a floor. And if I ever offered resistance, which I often did, he would say, "When I'm gone, you'll have to do this."
The only problem was, he kinda sucked at anything more complicated than switching out fuses. That tiling job, for example. He did such a lousy job that he was still around when we got tired of looking at it and ripped it back up to return the kitchen to its original tiles. So I guess I learned how to do things around the house badly. Maybe not the lesson he wanted to teach me.
He's been gone since 2016. While I was still physically capable, I did my best to work on the house. I also had dreams of fixing the hole in the garage's roof. Those survived even after I got my left foot all fucked up. But then Grandma wanted to tear down the garage entirely. I miss that garage, especially on winter days when I have to brush my fucking car off.
And it wouldn't have mattered, anyway. We're losing this house soon. I doubt I'll be here when Thanksgiving rolls around. We might as well have left it up as an eyesore that the bank would have to deal with. We've already decided that the property taxes aren't getting paid, that the bank will have to pay them. Because fuck the bank.
And I'm still packing my books. Those are the most important of my belongings. If I lose everything else, I guess I'm fine with that. I'd not like it, but I can let it go. But those books are important. And the bank is the reason I'm packing them up. So double fuck the bank. And why not? Triple dog fuck it.
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