It Never Rains, But It . . .

. . . never rains.

There's no middle ground this summer.  It's wet, for days.  Or it's dry, for days.
We are in the middle of one of those dry hot spells.  Our grass is beginning to be tinged with brown.

Look - it's turning into rocks!

"Now, Cass," I hear you say, "you are just being silly.  Those rocks used to be your cellar floor!"

And as always, you are right.

See this dude?

That is Mr. Jack Hammer, and he's been up to some pretty big mischief downstairs at That Old House.

Howard ventured downstairs and snapped some pics this morning.

At the foot of the kitchen stairs:

In the boiler room:

Although there is good news.

Clearly I won't be doing laundry today!

There are piles of dirt and rubble all over the cellar, and jack-hammered-out ditches.

And yes, we have a radiator in our basement.  Two, in fact.  We don't know why; old houses are loaded with goofiness. It's naturally warm in winter; after all, it's where the boiler lives! Perhaps some slick radiator salesman came through 95 years ago.  One of the radiators is on the ceiling.  Weird.

By the end of the day, the ditch and the piping should be covered over,

and all should be back to normal.  Or so they say.  Keep your fingers crossed.

This is where I just have to say to myself, "These guys know what they are doing."

If having the French drain system installed is not enough fun and games for one day

at That Old House, the folks who built our conservatory will be coming by to clean and adjust it.

They were supposed to do this 2 days before the wedding, but it poured rain and they said

it was too dangerous to be up on the glass roof when it's wet. Wimps.

Weak as water, I tell you. Weak as water!

That Old House says she's ready for a rest.  For the past two months she's been poked and prodded, cleaned and painted, fixed and refurbished, and she's had enough fussing!  Although she did kind of like that hand scraping of her clapboards by those nice young men . . . .

*********************************

I toddled out onto the porch this morning to snap the cement chunks picture.

And in common with 99% of his brethren, our dog Dion figured I was gone, and never coming back.

 Look at that worried face.

I'm right here where you can see me, you silly mutt!

So now he's sleeping right behind my desk chair.

I'm trapped.

Have a lovely Tuesday

I had plans to finally join Marty's Cloche Party, but A) I don't have a cloche and

B) I don't have a part of my house I'm willing to photograph for pretty stuff this week!

But you can go visit; click the link above.  -- Cass