That's Life: Sour Sounds of Summer Construction

By Phyllis McGuire
iBerkshires Columnist
09:52PM / Monday, August 03, 2009

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The morning air is cool so I have opened all the windows in my condo unit, and the sweet sound of birds chirping caresses my ears.
 
But soon, whatever the weather, I will keep the windows shut in an attempt to prevent the noise of construction from assailing my ears.
  
I was not shocked when the board of trustees announced at the annual condo meeting in July that a construction project would be undertaken; I suspected a couple of weeks earlier that something sinister was afoot as I had observed surveyors planting stakes on the property.
 
An engineer, hired by the condominium board, explained at the meeting that all previous measures to prevent rain water and ground water from invading the basements and subsequently causing window wells and stairs to rot and collapse had proven ineffective. So a new plan, which involves excavation and construction, has been devised to solve the drainage problem.
 
As much as I dread hearing the words assessment and construction uttered at a condo meeting, I will have to bear both if I want to continue living in my unit.
 
Thankfully, I will not need to empty my savings account to pay the assessment levied on unit owners to defray the cost of the project. I would prefer, however, spending that money on "Just because I love you" gifts for my grandchildren and perhaps something for myself - a new dress, a digital camera.  But woe is me, all I actually will  have to show for my money is a canceled check.
      
I asked a few questions of the board members, with reference to the project, but only one brought a laugh. "If the noise is unbearable, will you put me up at the Orchard's?"   
 
It may seem that I am overreacting to the situation, but I am haunted by memories of virtually being driven from the house in New York where my husband and I had lived contentedly for 20 years.

Then the "powers that be" decided the Long Island Expressway should be expanded, which would bring it close to our home.  The rat-a-tat of  pneumatic drills was disturbing, but dynamite ignited to blow up boulders not only created a deafening noise but jarred us from our bed as well.
 
The first time it happened, I cried out, "It's an earthquake"

My husband calmed me, momentarily, saying, "No, they're just  blasting." It was only 6 a.m., and my husband suggested I get back in bed.

But, I thought, OK it's not a natural disaster, it's JUST a manmade one - either way I want to get out of here. Not long after that we put our house on the market.

Since moving to the condo in Williamstown, I have suffered through a few projects. Beside assessments, I incurred another expense - the money I spent in order to escape from the noise by shopping or going to a movie and eating lunch out. How many dresses, pairs of shoes can a woman buy in the time it takes workmen to replace decks on a condominium or to repair the roof, you ask? Well, I can only speak for myself: "As many as it takes to keep me out of the house from 9 to 4 p.m."  
 
It has been my experience that workers begin hammering, drilling, sawing and blaring their radios first thing in the morning, but since I am unable to function before I eat breakfast, I am trapped at home until I gulp cereal, tea and toast and then dress. 
 
One Friday during the period that decks were being replaced, I read a book and snacked until 2 a.m., thinking that, at least, on Saturday we would be blessed with the sound of silence and be able to sleep in.
 
Saturday morning, my husband I were awakened by a racket that turned our home into a torture chamber. I threw a raincoat over my nightgown and marched outside to see what was happening. On our patio, I saw a hefty worker using a cement saw cutter and slicing the patio as if it were butter. "You shouldn't be doing that now," I said. "The notice we received said work on the patios would not begin until Monday."

"I was ordered to trim the patios today and that's what I'm going to do," the man said. I trudged to the bathroom, swallowed two aspirin and stuffed my ears with cotton.
 
If I believed in reincarnation, I would take comfort in picturing myself returning as an old-time American Indian. I would live in a wigwam, where there would be no roof to re-shingle, no driveway to resurface, no decks to replace and no basements in which water would collect.

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