work work work work work*

It's a pity I can't write too much about my work, because if I could, I'd talk about how the guy who insisted on planting the trees after first cutting them down, has saved, in his McMansion, a box of debris that he supposedly cleaned out of the stream, as evidence.  Yes, evidence.  He sat us down at his huge mahogany table in his enormous house, and then ran up to the attic, yes, I said attic, to get this box full of random stuff that could possibly have been grabbed from a garbage can, or a construction site, or the attic.

When my sister and I were little, like 8 and 10, we were completely obsessed with Harriet the Spy, and wanted to be her.  At least the her when she was sneaking around in dumbwaiters, happily spying on people, not the her at the end, when Ole Golly moved away and all her friends hated her because she kept notebooks about them.

At any rate, that's the kind of stuff I would do at, I repeat, age 8.  Collect a box of "evidence" of completely undetermined origin that proves absolutely nothing about a question that no one has asked.  I longed for an attic too, and if it were full of evidence, well, that would have been the best thing ever.

If I could write about it, I'd describe how the box contained bits of plywood, crushed beer cans, and a few old coke bottles.  Although I wasn't exactly sure what it was supposed to prove,  I feigned interest as I sifted through the contents.  My sister would have been proud, except for the fact that I didn't have my spy kit with me (the oatmeal container full of things like cornstarch, a magnifying glass, and other top secret stuff), which I would have used to conduct very important spy research.  She would have insisted that I wear gloves, too, because of Rule Number 1, which is Never Leave Your Fingerprints on the Evidence.

Yes, if I could write about it all, I'd also reveal an interesting new development.  While I was sifting through this box of junk, the person from the state explained that they would have required yet another permit for the planting, and since the work was done without this particular permit, it has become a criminal matter (the planting of 7 western red cedars on an island in a salmon-bearing stream), and the remedy would be to cut down another tree, and lay it near the streambank.  I maintained my focus on the box of evidence except for the brief moment when I looked up and blurted out, "you can't possibly be serious?"

Because did you follow that?  The man with the evidence of something cut down a tree.  The county made him plant seven to compensate.  The state was turf-ish about how they didn't get included in the original problem (cutting of the tree), so they were annoyed about the remedy (planting seven), and are going to require them to cut another tree as the remedy for planting the seven that were the remedy for cutting the one.   Um, okay then. 

I fear I must apologize for all the work blah di blah blah; R. says my blog has turned into one of those bad party situations where you get cornered by someone who won't stop talking about their stupid job.  Oh, I'm not for that.  Please talk amongst yourselves.