Here’s some of the highlights of the past fortnight:

Money became very tight the day before we moved, and no buyer
for the bike in sight. Then one showed up at the door of the
apt., asking if the bike in back was mine and for sale. He
paid cash, $800. I was willing to let it go that low because
the carbs needed pulling apart and cleaning, badly, and I
didn’t have time to do it.

So. Moving day came, and Sam, Zelda, and Jake came to help load. UHaul gave us the wrong size truck, a 17′ instead of 24′. Creative use of space enabled us to move a much-overladen truck by 7pm that night. Zelda tried for some dysfunctional interaction, but I didn’t have time to play and she finally left in mid afternoon.

Othello and I rode the truck, Bridgette drove her mom’s van loaded with the garden and the birds and the cats. We bought FM walki-talkies that day, 22 channels and 2 mile range, to facilitate the drive. GOOD IDEA. Those things are seeing much
use, muchmuch. It’s nice to not have to stop every time ideas need exchanging, and to know just what is going on in the other vehicle.

We drove until 11 and got to Roseburg, where we decided to eat … which led us to decide to sleep at Bridgette’s folks’ house. We started up again Sunday, arrived at Greenleaf Drive in Eagle Point at about 1pm.

The old tenants were not gone.

Dolores, Bridgette’s mom, has been telling Bridgette what Bridgette wants to hear, telling Mike (her husband) what he wants to hear … and telling the tenants what they want to hear. Specifically, “you don’t have to pay rent for a month, so you
can afford to move, and take your time getting out.”

I disabused them of that last part. Not my place, not my authority, but I didn’t let that stop me. I talked with Mike (NOT Delores) and got his permission to boot them, and then did so in a smiling, helpful, and gentle fashion. “I appreciate
your position, but you have another place rented already, haven’t paid rent for six weeks, and are living in the house I’m paying for right now. Since you haven’t paid rent, if you aren’t out in 72 hours, I will have the sheriff remove you.”

That was the last time they spoke to me. I’m okay with that.

They knew they were leaving. They had another place rented for two weeks before I got there. They had moved NOTHING over there. They had packed NOTHING. And, in seven years of residency, they had cleaned NOTHING. It took them a week to move out, and this last Sunday was the first time we could clean.

I’ve lived with, literally, trails through the garbage piled knee-deep in the living room when I lived with Zelda in Salem. I have had floor boards rot out from under composting fruit crates. And I have never seen filth like what these two left. We have been working three days on cleaning the kitchen, and are
finally willing to cook in it. Both bathrooms have cobwebs in the bathtubs on the spigots and showerheads — black with age, smoke, and grease. Othello, who lives in his own filth and grew up with the Clan, entered the house and wrinkled his face
up in disgust, backing out as quickly as he entered. The washing machine drain was clogged, had been for a long time, and fountains when the washing machine drains. Sez the tenants, “Oh, it always does that.” They just let it fountain
onto the floor.

I thought the kitchen walls were a mustard-tan color with brown gunk all over them. The walls are white. I was telling Bridgette we needed to replace the black-brick hearth with a lighter stonework, and she told me that /that/ was white. Under the crap, it was. We started pulling up carpet and gagged at the smells that were being held in reserve. None of us were willing to use the bathrooms in the house last week — Bridgette peed in a bucket rather than sit on those toilets, which are piebald earth tones inside the bowl. I ran water
into the sink in the kitchen, which forced a rush of fetid air out of the drain that knocked senseless a dozen flies feeding on the bloated corpse of a rat melting into the sink from the drainboard.

Okay, the air was nasty in that drain, but I made up the part about the rat.

There’s something like 20 empty metal drums that once contained some unidentified chemical from Cynamic Chemical; possibly a pesticide/herbicide, possibly horse-related, certainly not a cleaning compound. There’s a dozen old tires. piles of ash as high as your waist. Wasp nests by the dozen, right around the house. The deck is falling into final ruin, and is only safe to walk on if you
watch which board you step on. The foundation is cracking in places, and will need to be jacked up and backfilled. Everything needs to be cleaned and painted and sealed before the stench of the old people is gone.

I seem to think it’s heaven. When I drive up to the place, I grin like an idiot. I get testy when I can’t work at cleaning it up each day. Bridgette and I ripped through some truly disgusting filth Sunday and agreed that we had rarely had that
much fun while in a standing position. All three of us work all day, with breaks here and there, and then dine well and watch an episode of Buffy to wind down and go to bed.

This is the longest Othello has ever gone without five hours of TV a day, and about as much computer time. He is sleeping well, something he hasn’t done in years, and has no more acid reflux. He is working his ass off, and doing so without whining or attitude. He is also, very obviously, enjoying the way Bridgette and I both interact with him, and the sorts of things we think are fun to talk about and play with. I’ve proposed that he stay, or come back to stay, and he’s probably going to decide not to … but will change his mind after some
more time living with Zelda and Troll.

We rented a 10 yard dumpster, which we’ve filled with old carpet, old tile, and refuse from around the place. We could fill it a couple more times, but that’s the bulk of the stuff, and will do for a start. We’re just about ready to put the
house back together, right after we get contractors out to fix the concrete pad foundation.

Monday I started my new job with Homeland Security, preparing a federal report for the Josephine county identifying PTE (Potential Threat Elements) and defining the county’s ability to respond to various WMD based threats. Wow. I’m at a desk in the basement of the Sheriff’s department, just down the hall from the evidence lock-up, the poly-graph room, the SWAT and detective station, and the interview room where they take informants. I’ve learned that a significant number of missing persons in Josephine county will be missing forever, as they are missing due to their having pissed of the Los Vagos motorcycle gang, which is the weapons-and-drug connection from here to Roseburg. The Vagos apparently take no chances with forensic evidence; they run their victims through meat grinders and spread the refuse for the birds, which take care of the rest.

I’m learning all about the sheriff dept outlook (”You gonna be there for the search & rescue on that old lady up on Savage?” “Naw. She ain’t there. If she was there, the stink would have got her found already.” “Get a clue. In this heat, she’d already be dried out and stopped stinking. Jeez.”) and crime and stuff, and am sitting at a desk with all the necessaries to create my own set of sheriff dept ID.

I’m glad I wasn’t presented with an opportunity like that 20 years ago. I couldn’t have considered consequences, I’d just have made an ID … and stored the needful stuff for a few dozen more. Today, I look at them wistfully, but I have Things To Do at home, and getting arrested would interfere with that.