That Old House

Lady next door never could bring herself to admit she had a hearing problem. You could hear her television out on the street and she was always complaining that people talk too softly. She has a problem? No; other people have problems, but not her.

Her house was not in the best of shape, either. As far as I know, the roof didn’t leak, but I don’t think you could balance a coin on any part of any floor. The place was being held up by the good graces of whoever takes charge and looks out for old widows.

She’s gone now and, on Monday, her house joins her. The main implement of residential euthanasia was unloaded Friday afternoon and sits there in her driveway like some prehistoric creature waiting for its prey to come out from behind a bush.

Actually, in front of its scoop is a garbage can and lid, looking for all the world like the famous scene in Tiananmen Square. “No,” her garbage can says, “you are not going to take down this old house. As it was written: ‘Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
But spare your country’s flag, she said.’

“Flatten, if you must, this old gray bin,
But this widder’s house we oughter win.”

Resistance, by Chinese student or dented garbage can, will ultimately prove futile. (By the way, I prefer “few-tile” to the more common “few-till.” The latter just doesn’t have any class.) More on Monday.