Of Soldiers and Buildermen

     

     Change is ever on the horizon and this time it sends a clear, audible message in its resounding refrain. The sound of hammers and mitre saws knotted together with the occasional profanity blows in from the garage on a wind of determination and virility. It's called the renovation and it upsets more households than I could shake a tape measure at.

     I check the kitchen clock. He's been at it for five hours. Any minute now he'll push through the back door with an accomplished whistle on his lips. Right on cue the entry door wheezes, releasing pent up pressure from the belly of the newly caulked and sealed garage. I rush to my position near the doorway, rag in one hand, banana bread in the other. He grins and slaps first his right hand then his left against the faded blue of his trousers. A thin nebulous fog of drywall dust escapes into the air drifting downward, settling on my freshly vacuumed floor. I throw him the rag.

     He accepts the baked snack too and moans with the first bite. He's earned it and intends to give his gut fair warning of the reward before it arrives. I watch him, pallid with sawdust and drywall smears. His hair, previously pulled back into a severe ponytail, is now framing his face in the manner of dandelion fluff about to take flight. He looks older in this light, the white dust filling the cracks of every laugh line and facial crease, pink lips like a Coka-Cola Santa Clause amidst a forest of white goatee. He licks the last absconding chocolate chip smudge from middle finger smacking as the accompanying dust turns to glue on his tongue. “Water,” he pleads, one eyebrow raised forming a question mark that ends at the rosebud dot on the tip of his nose.

     I move swiftly to the kitchen for a water bottle shaking the image of Old Man Winter in my back entry, the very man we're working to beat to the finish line, to banish to the Siberian prison outside our fortress of insulation and weatherstripping.

     “Why don't you call it a day?” I advise. The confession in my eyes eludes to a longing for peace and quiet.

     “I'm on my last sheet. It'll be a doozy with the cuts required. What time's supper?”

     Supper. I hadn't given it a thought. “Six.” My head races through a quick inventory of he-man-worthy cuisine in my Mother Hubbard pantry. Saturday grocery shopping, usually his domain, has fallen unwittingly into my lap since the renos began, along with an army list of household provisos.

     I glance at my watch. Four fifty-three. Still time to hit the deli at Bigway Foods and pull off the impression of doting wife. The fall chill takes a bite out of my cheeks and I ward off an attack of yellowed windswept leaves. I shrink to safety behind the wheel of my Buick and the radio voice of Shelagh Rogers. Resolute movement behind dirty glass windows, lined up like dominoes along the top of the garage door, reminds me that the tenacious never stop in the battle for dominance over a fierce Manitoba winter.

     “Onward ho!” I proclaim with renewed fortitude. The soldier is weary and the soldier must be fed.