Life here is remarkable. There are more hills than I experienced in San Francisco. More rain, in all forms, too. The windows of this building were supposed to be washed yesterday, yet a 30-mile-per-hour wind barreled across Puget Sound, up Vine street and blew over an ancient tree on the corner.
And, the owl, the plastic one that has planted itself on the shelf below the sixth floor apartment, it finally moved. Three feet west and then back two feet east. Head remains buried in the sawdust.
So, Friday the windows will be washed. Yesterday, in spite of the weather and wind, the building across the street got its windows washed. Three men, all dresses like Zorro, hung on ropes and squeezed the dirt off the glass wind-breakers that adorned the side of the building. This morning, the sun was dazzling as it reflected off the early morning building.
Why didn’t our building get serviced? Were the men afraid to hang from the side in the wind? Didn’t want to get dressed up like Zorro, and trip up and down a 12-story building? I don’t know. Friday, when they do appear, I’ll ask. How will I ask, I’ll have to practice how to ask without hurting any feelings.