I live in a war zone. I coined this phrase several months ago when the builder in our development opened up a new phase of construction. That is exactly what it looks like when a new group of townhomes is ready to become an actual home.
Brand new lumber is strewn all over the streets. Broken glass is scattered in this mess. Building materials are stacked in plastic. Sawdust is tossed by the winds that come blowing down from Paris Mountain.
There is an ongoing beeping sound of large construction vehicles backing up. My ears are often assaulted by a caravan of concrete trucks driving past my home heading to the washout area.
Hammers careen against lumber, roof shingles are pounded into place, and power saws whine in typical construction music.
Then there is the mud, the copper-colored mud found here in South Carolina. It easily gets caught in the spaces on the bottom of my shoes, rain or shine. It stains everything it comes in contact with the color of my hair, a bright copper red.
Welcome to the war zone.
Rosie, my sweet dog, eats her dinner and knows we will walk the neighborhood when she finishes her kibble. I leash her up, grab my phone and a plastic bag to gather any leavings she might drop along the way, and we are off.
She knows the route. I barely have to hold the leash or guide her. As we leave the area of already constructed homes to enter the war zone, her ears perk up. I ask myself, what does she hear? Is it a Coyote, I have seen several running through the fields?
We keep walking down a long road that will be filled with townhomes sometime this year. As we walk, I ask myself, how will they ever fit more homes on this road. Should I take longer strides as I walk of about three feet in length to gauge the possibility?
Rosie stops to sniff discarded trash. I pull her away and I say to myself the workers really should be throwing their trash in the dumpsters, my God there are three big dumpsters here. I know my nose is wrinkled up at the sight of it.
We keep walking and my thoughts go to the sun that is setting in the west and I notice the birds have even begun to settle down. The chirps that greet us every morning have gone quiet.
All the construction noise has stopped for the day. I can hear the music playing from my phone, as we turn to walk back to the pretty place as I call it. The pretty place is where we live.
The project manager told me the other day there is about a year to go on this development, a year of living in the war zone until all the homes are built, and the sod is in place. I wonder if I will miss the noise and the scent of sawdust, the Hispanic music that played all day, and the debris.
I decided I won’t.