Right here is the most recent evidence that we are back in our house, and home to stay. This spot of un-snowed earth, and dry leaves, and the tracks leading away through the snow are the only remaining signs of the port-o-potty (“sweet pea” as the sign on the side called it) that has sat on our boulevard lawn since January.
It was in regular use during the construction. Each week it was refurbished, and refreshed with paper products, urinal cake bits, and some intense odor fighting agent that permeated one’s skin and mucus membranes instantly on entering. And for 10 months (after we moved out) it stood as the ever present reminder that we were not living, nor even able to live, in our home.
Now it’s gone, except for the bare spot commemorating it’s existence. Now with each armload of boxes we bring into the house, and each time we drive up onto the parking pad with the car, we pass this spot and are reminded that we’re no longer exiled. Like the statue of a deposed political leader being torn down in the streets — the absence of the “sweet pea” speaks volumes about the changing social landscape around it.
Goodbye delux refugee camp. Goodbye wood-chip-and-cigarette-smoke carpenters, painters, electricians, plumbers and tile guys. Goodbye single bin wardrobe. And goodbye “sweet pea”, you overly-good-smelling stinker.