Gazebo Days

Yesterday I helped my grandfather empty his gazebo. We did this to make room for a new addition on his house. As it is, the house has two bathroom: two upstairs and none on the main floor. The washer and dryer are also downstairs. Bedrooms: upstairs. This might not be an issue had my grandmother worn a good pair of house-slippers instead of the bad ones, if she had not tripped in the living room, fell and broke her ankle in two places. She is 85. My grandfather is 73. Twelve years difference between them. The disparity in age seemed meaningless when they were married: both in their pusedo-prime and decades from becoming dependent on one another for basic needs.

The gazebo became the place for storage almost a decade ago. Every time some part of the ranch was fixed, upgraded, moved, etc. all the scrap and leftovers made their way into the gazebo. We backed up the horse trailer and three hours later, it overflowed with wood, sheeting, siding scraps, tin, old motors, tables, a front seat of an old car, broken broom handles, metal poles, cardboard, shingles, tar paper, two wooden benches, and more junk. He wants to keep it all, trained as he is with Depression era ethic: Use it up, Wear it out, Make it through. But the gazebo is not empty. Only the most valuable of possessions remains.

Instead of calling an architect he drew up the plans for the remodel himself. There will be a hallway connecting the old house with the new apartment. A long hallway, 12 feet long, 8 feet high will bridge. The gazebo's new home will be out in the pasture, next to the electronic watering trough. Once relocated, I imagine everything inside of the horse trailer will make its way back; nothing will be wasted.

My grandmother believes that she won't live to see the new addition. It is a risk he takes, trying to please and accommodate her. It is hard to see them get old enough now, that even a trip to the bathroom could take their life, that stairs become impossible, broken ankle or not.