Last week, after months of contradictory but mostly just plain wrong banking-required compliance information, we finally managed to deposit our flood insurance refund check, while at the same time freeing up the funds so that we could actually use the money to buy materials and pay labor costs in order to begin repairs on the cottage resulting from its December 23 flooding.
It has been an arduous, angering, fatiguing, and needlessly frustrating trek through an inane maze of bureaucratic ignorance and laziness. And like so many such ordeals, was eventually solved by finally managing to talk to the right person who not only was willing to take on the responsibility of the issue and getting it completely and correctly resolved, but knew just were to look for the appropriate procedural guidelines information. In fifteen minutes, from start to finish, the cash was in our account and available, with no strings attached.
Myladylove, currently a branch manager with another financial institution—and having spent most of her professional career involved in money matters—was giddily overjoyed. I was greatly relieved to know that in the not-very-distant future, I wouldn't have to choose between committing a variety of felonies, or seeking brain-numbing asylum through the liberal consumption of alcohol. Trust me, it was coming down to one or the other.
Now, of course, the redo work can begin…that is, it can begin just as soon as the weather breaks and spring finally makes up its mind to settle in for the long haul.
Yes, we've had a couple of nice days since the equinox made the season official—including one last week in the low-70˚s F. But not lately. A couple of mornings ago the thermometer read 14˚F at breakfast time, when Moon and I stepped out for a look-see around the riverbank after I gave the dooryard pair of Canada geese their morning scoop of cracked corn. The day before that it snowed a pure blizzard—flakes swirling and blowing so thick I couldn't see the island across from the cottage. True, none of the snow stuck…but it didn't look or feel much like spring out there either. And the truth is, even our recent sunny days—few and far between as they've been—have not felt spring-like. Early crocus remain tightly furled, and hints of vernal green remain elusive.
When spring will truly come remains a mystery—just as when we'll finally be able to start setting out the sawhorses outside for cutting and painting, is anyone's guess.
Soon I hope. I have lots of work to do.