This remodel on Shirley, for Alan, is a long, twisted, dirty novel that is taking some work to get read.

There are convoluted chapters, hairpin curves, a cast of characters that belong in a Louisiana swamp.

This job is not one you want to bring a friend to, but a friend is the only one who will show up day after day and help you put a nice shade of ruby lipstick on an old tired pig. As little money as possible has been spent on this house over the decades and the guiding principle has always been too use a band aid when a tourniquet was needed.

This project is almost done. You keep showing up day after day until there is, finally, a quitting point.

For me, this might be my last rehab. Stan, one of my best friends, says he has ” another nineteen years, two hundred and five days, three hours and two seconds to go till he retires. ”

With this property turned princess finished, dressed for the King’s ball, I am going gator hunting in the bayou and eat fried fish in a tin shack restaurant with sawdust floors and a cooler full of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer by the old fashioned manual cash register.

Next week, Stan, Stan’s brother Sid , Floyd and I are playing golf.

Golf beats working no matter how we score.

 

 

 

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