Read Online Cottage for Sale, Must Be Moved by Kate Whouley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kate Whouley
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done, it can be done.” Mr. Hayden almost smiles as he makes this pronouncement. Meanwhile, I am wondering, who is the missing subject of his sentences? Me? I need a crane? I need to get Baxter over here? Is he telling me to have Baxter figure it out, or is he telling me he’ll have Baxter figure it out?
“But what do you think?” I ask him.
“Need a big crane. I’ll call Baxter. You around?”
“Early next week?” I suggest. I am trying to get the hang of speaking to him in his own language.
“Be in touch,” he says, as he heads for his car.
“Thanks for coming out,” I say to the distance between us, wondering whether it is he or I who will be in touch.*
* “ THAT’S THE CRANE that will lift my cottage,” I say, when Tony shows me the pictures. It is huge and red, and it says BAXTER in big block letters on the boom. Mr. Hayden brought Mr. Baxter over to see my site just before I left for my most recent San Francisco trip. John Baxter, who introduced himself with his first name, was friendly and chatty. In his presence, Mr. Hayden seemed a little more approachable. We paced out the landing site and John made calculations. He had a blue binder with him, full of charts and numbers. Distances, heights, ratios. Picking up a house with a crane—and landing it successfully on a new foundation—requires a lot of math.
I showed them where the cottage would sit and asked about the two big spruce trees between my house and my neighbor’s driveway. Erika’s father had managed to get Darcy from Conservation to make a site visit the week before. “What a nice spot,” she’d said when she got out of her truck. “Not too many places like this left on Cape Cod.” Her next remark was the one that worried me: “Those are gorgeous spruce. You won’t have to lose those, will you?”
They are beautiful trees, as old as the house, maybe older, at least fifty years. They are planted below the house, near the base of the hillside that leads down to the bog. At their widest point, the trees are about eighteen feet apart (we measured this). From the house, you see into the treetops, or tree-middles to be more precise, and often you can spot a cardinal, poised on the edge of a branch as if he were posing for a Christmas card, red against evergreen. When it snows, I feel like calling Hallmark.
“Is there any way to do it without taking down these spruce?” I ask the men now. “Conservation may want them to stay.”
“Excuse me?” Mr. Hayden says, loudly, indignantly. “Aren’t these trees on your property?”
“Yes, but they’re in that buffer zone. I need their permission to take them down.”
Mr. Hayden, disbelieving, shakes his head, grumbles something unintelligible and nasty about town government. John Baxter makes some fresh calculations, takes some more measurements. “If we had to,” John says, “I think we could do it. We can swing the cottage up this way—he gestures to indicate the long side of the cottage would move through the trees—and then swing it around ninety degrees to make the landing. But it wouldn’t be easy.” The cottage is sixteen feet wide. It would be a very tight fit.
We walk back up the hill and designate the trees that will have to come down, no matter what—a few small oaks, a larger one by the corner of the house. “I can’t make any guarantees,” John says, looking back at the spruce closest to us. “It would be better to take one tree down, probably this one.”
“You can cut it down ahead of time, or we can knock it over with the cottage.” Mr. Hayden clarifies. I let that image lie.
“If they both stay, I could end up hurting both of them during the move.”
“Killing ’em is another way they could come down,” Mr. Hayden says. It’s clear he is still mad at the unavoidable regulators of my backyard.
“It would be a lot better to take this one down.” John Baxter repeats his message. “Besides, you’ll have to cut it way back, won’t you? It
“But what do you think?” I ask him.
“Need a big crane. I’ll call Baxter. You around?”
“Early next week?” I suggest. I am trying to get the hang of speaking to him in his own language.
“Be in touch,” he says, as he heads for his car.
“Thanks for coming out,” I say to the distance between us, wondering whether it is he or I who will be in touch.*
* “ THAT’S THE CRANE that will lift my cottage,” I say, when Tony shows me the pictures. It is huge and red, and it says BAXTER in big block letters on the boom. Mr. Hayden brought Mr. Baxter over to see my site just before I left for my most recent San Francisco trip. John Baxter, who introduced himself with his first name, was friendly and chatty. In his presence, Mr. Hayden seemed a little more approachable. We paced out the landing site and John made calculations. He had a blue binder with him, full of charts and numbers. Distances, heights, ratios. Picking up a house with a crane—and landing it successfully on a new foundation—requires a lot of math.
I showed them where the cottage would sit and asked about the two big spruce trees between my house and my neighbor’s driveway. Erika’s father had managed to get Darcy from Conservation to make a site visit the week before. “What a nice spot,” she’d said when she got out of her truck. “Not too many places like this left on Cape Cod.” Her next remark was the one that worried me: “Those are gorgeous spruce. You won’t have to lose those, will you?”
They are beautiful trees, as old as the house, maybe older, at least fifty years. They are planted below the house, near the base of the hillside that leads down to the bog. At their widest point, the trees are about eighteen feet apart (we measured this). From the house, you see into the treetops, or tree-middles to be more precise, and often you can spot a cardinal, poised on the edge of a branch as if he were posing for a Christmas card, red against evergreen. When it snows, I feel like calling Hallmark.
“Is there any way to do it without taking down these spruce?” I ask the men now. “Conservation may want them to stay.”
“Excuse me?” Mr. Hayden says, loudly, indignantly. “Aren’t these trees on your property?”
“Yes, but they’re in that buffer zone. I need their permission to take them down.”
Mr. Hayden, disbelieving, shakes his head, grumbles something unintelligible and nasty about town government. John Baxter makes some fresh calculations, takes some more measurements. “If we had to,” John says, “I think we could do it. We can swing the cottage up this way—he gestures to indicate the long side of the cottage would move through the trees—and then swing it around ninety degrees to make the landing. But it wouldn’t be easy.” The cottage is sixteen feet wide. It would be a very tight fit.
We walk back up the hill and designate the trees that will have to come down, no matter what—a few small oaks, a larger one by the corner of the house. “I can’t make any guarantees,” John says, looking back at the spruce closest to us. “It would be better to take one tree down, probably this one.”
“You can cut it down ahead of time, or we can knock it over with the cottage.” Mr. Hayden clarifies. I let that image lie.
“If they both stay, I could end up hurting both of them during the move.”
“Killing ’em is another way they could come down,” Mr. Hayden says. It’s clear he is still mad at the unavoidable regulators of my backyard.
“It would be a lot better to take this one down.” John Baxter repeats his message. “Besides, you’ll have to cut it way back, won’t you? It
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