They're digging a well down the street. The ugly house on the corner. Only ugly because the previous owner had it painted that eye-catching--not in a good way--turquoise.
Anyway, I am hearing the rhythmical pounding. A huge truck sits in the front yard, its wheels on planks so as to protect the lawn. Those guys--and they're not young--are working very hard. Very hard. One guy in front, one in the back chest deep in a hole. It looks very complicated.
I don't often see anyone there at that house, but why would I? I wave at the woman when I do see her. She was in the back yard as I drove home from Curves today, watering the lawn with the hose. And I see her little plot of flowers back there, brightening the place. It had been quite barren looking. Lawn, but not healthy.
It was Mrs Lindell's home, and I know her children came in and cleared a lot of stuff out after they moved her into a "place." I think they are responsible for the color choice, too, although the house was painted and re-roofed while she lived in it. I do not remember when she left.
Yikes! This whole thing is starting to make me feel sad. Better quit.
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