But not — it seems— out of Forest Hill…
This little gem of a parkette is located about 5 minutes from our apartment at the end of a tranquil little street off Ben Gurion. Naturally, we were charmed by its direct connection to our neighbourhood in Toronto, and then we noticed that it also has some modest historical significance. (Actually it’s the shack, still on site, that has the importance, since it was a base of operations of the Hagana and the Civil Guard for 10 years before the state of Israel was established.)
Yes, we are back!! With sunny days and temperatures in high twenties we feel as though we have been plunked right back into the middle of a Toronto summer, minus the late sunset. The sun goes down here around 5:45 at this time of year, and tonight the clocks go back, so soon it will be more like 4:30. Like many people, I fail to see the use in this exercise. Why not just keep daylight savings all year round? Nightfall on the Mediterranean should not be before 5:00. That’s okay for Scotland, but not here.
On our return, we found that our invasive fiddle head “tree” had grown another foot and was once again threatening our windows. The hole in the roof had continued to expand on all sides. It had rained recently and the usual bits of white plaster had accumulated in front of our door. The upcoming winter rainy season was looking risky.
And then, a few days later, we were awoken by a ferocious noise right above us — was the roof finally falling in? The noise gradually morphed into regular banging, and to our astonishment we realized that the hole was being fixed!! And a few days later a truck pulled up, with an enormous crane, to hoist stacks of new membrane to the roof, much to the dismay of the line of cars trapped behind it . The elusive “house committee” had been infiltrated by our next door neighbour, and he was going for a permanent fix, not the usual “duct tape and hope” approach. Bless him.
And to paraphrase Dr. Suess, “that is not all — oh no — that is not all.”
Between the roof banging, and the arrival of the new roof membrane, another surprise was in the offing. One afternoon, noticing that our least favourite tree was shaking and swaying a bit more than usual, Mike went and looked out the window. “Lil, come look!” There, leaning out of a window in the apartment below us was a very tall guy, using what looked like an extendible golf ball retriever equipped with a scythe-like saw at its end. It looked vastly unequal to the job, but he was methodically cutting back branch after branch after branch. And then — be still my heart — he came up to our place and cut a bit more.
My inner lumberjack and trusty saw are now officially retired. The air flow is better, the light is better, and the neighbours have a much better view of our bedroom.
It is good to be home.
P.S. Perhaps I should not have tempted fate with this post. The air conditioning just broke. I cannot help but feel that the work on the roof has something to do with it.