(Classic Mackinaw Bridge-themed license plate found in Socotra Garage.)

Alert Readers have asked if the famed Socotra work ethic has fallen off the cliff. The staff here at the Daily is eager to reaffirm their commitment to the daily blather; this has been a daunting trip to the Northland, and with each act here in the Little Village by the Bay, another series of separate actions is manifested, equally compelling.

Standing in the kitchen with some object in hand- the little machine that cuts perfect circles being one of them- another cascade of actions becomes evident, the parallel cascades running simultaneously- does the circle cutting machine have any intrinsic value? If so, should it go to the garage for later sorting, or just get pitched?

The Library remains stacked up with objects- I don’t know what the goal is. The closets in the living end of the main house are cleaned out, the walls pristine and freshly-painted.

The workmen are all paid and the project is done. Gary, the oily general contractor, has the last of his cash, and promised to give me an estimate for re-shingling the roof of the garage.

Thankfully, the good contractor recommended a fellow named Scott, who came by in his giant truck to clamber about the eaves of the detached structure and pronounced the shingles good for another year, at least.

He threw his ladder up and peeled back the lowest level demonstrating that the underlying sealant was still good, and although the lower edges were curling up, the underlying layer was sound.

“See,” he boomed down from above “The shingle is actually three courses long. Two thirds of it is just fine underneath.”

“Will it last the winter?” I asked, thinking of the chill blast off the frozen bay.

As a professional, Scott was reluctant to commit to anything specific and flexed his massive tattooed arm as he pursed his brow. “Nothing is for sure, but I think you could get a year or two out of it without a problem.”

“OK,” I said. “I will inform the Trustees that we can defer another capital expense this calendar year and with luck we will keep the enterprise afloat long enough to care for Raven and Big Mama.”

“Who are they?” asked Scott.

“The senior Trustees,” I said. “The ones we have to take care of. I will commit to doing this next year if you will do it yourself.”

“I was going to cut the work to the general contractor, but if you want me, I can get a guy to help and I will.”

“I would rather have you than that Gary guy,” I said. “I don’t trust him.”

We agreed to exchange e-mails, and Scott rolled his giant truck out of the driveway. There were eight things to be done, so I decided to do a ninth. Annook had advised where in the great stack of boxes in the garage the lawn mower might be found, and there was a smidgen of gas left, maybe enough to keep the machine turning through the rich crop of native grasses that had sprung up from the rains of June.

The old lawn guy had disappeared, and I cast about for a new lawn service to keep the place from looking too bedraggled in the uncertain gaps in Trustee presence at the residence. One of the several calls that morning was to identify a replacement; two calls were dry holes: “Not taking any more work,” Said the first and second voices on the list, but the second kindly added: “You might try Alice, though.”

I actually think people turning away business in this economy was actually good news for the village, and I was just pushing the lawn mower into the garage when the woman herself appeared in a much smaller pickup than Scott. She was a pleasantly tanned young woman with a good smile.

She walked the ground, inspecting the potential task. She walked back to me and said “$30 a cut.” I thought for a moment, comparing the work with the price of my pasture guy down in Brandy Station in Virginia.

“Done,” I said. “Use your judgment on how often. “ I scrawled my contact information on her clipboard and shook her hand. She had a strong grip, and I felt good about her.

Then back to carrying magazines and boxes out of the house to the trunk of the rental car or to the garage for later survey. I worked steadily until dinner time, and broke down the mass of cardboard boxes in the staging area to the main house.

I did not know what to do about the years and years of accumulation of HazMat stuff- the paints, solvents, automotive fluids and chemicals from Raven’s days as a high-functioning photographic hobbyist. It looked like scary stuff, and that accumulation would have to be a matter for another day.

I ran the simple stuff- cardboard and plastic on a trial run to the recycling center behind the Bay Mall to see the level of difficulty, cooked some dinner, and ran the numbers for the younger members of the Trust on the construction project.

Thank God the new roof can be deferred. This was a near thing, and money is a real and depressing factor. It has already resulted in the siblings addressing each other by their formal roles in the Trust.

I punched the note out to those concerned, with the total bill and how it had been paid. Then I poured a tall vodka and looked out at the blue waters of the Bay. I get to start home, and I felt as guilty as usual at the rising joy I felt for the prospect of not being in a place I love.

Here is an example. Since Big Mama has become unstuck in time, she drags Raven down to lunch sometimes an hour or more before they begin serving. The other morning I walked in and saw that he had been hungry enough to attack the little bowl of Smuckers-Brand jellies in the middle of the table.

He can no longer negotiate the little plastic tab at the corner that opens the top to the little tub of apple butter or grape jelly, so he has taken to simply putting them in his mouth and chewing. There were neat arcs of jam and brown apple butter across he table cloth, and he had neatly placed the gnawed packages back in the bowl.

Cripes, I thought, as I cleaned him off with a moistened towelette. Who is going to shave him when I am gone? And man, I want to be gone.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com