Shortly after we moved to our new home — a three-bedroom townhouse on two floors — construction began on our eight-unit building; two units (not ours) were having basement leak issues, so the weeping tile had to be replaced. No small task.
So, our lawn — the first time in years that either of us had an actual lawn attached to our residence — disappeared under the treads of orange-coloured machinery. (I said to Jennifer as a bulldozer pushed earth outside our living room window one afternoon, “I’m having an Arthur Dent moment here.” She understood.)
For a week, we had a deep trench along the front of our building; our front entrance was taped off like a crime scene. It’s since been filled in. Now our front yard is a field of dirt — bare until the grass, seeded Thursday, begins to sprout.
Presumably they’ll start work on the back half next week, at which point we’ll have to move the car to the front and abandon the back.
Not exactly the nicest thing to deal with when you’ve just moved in and were looking forward to enjoying a bit of grass, but the place is nice enough in other ways that I can put up with it. (I also like the fact that the landlords are willing to pay for this kind of maintenance; it’s a good sign, but I know these folks well, and I know what their standards are like.)