Lately, I crave silence.
The past several years of nonstop renovations on my street - houses beside me and across from me being ripped apart and rebuilt in the vision of their new occupants - have created a constant din along a once-quiet roadway. The whine of the rip saw, the percussion of the nail gun, the middle-of-the-lane conferences held between open truck doors, diesel engines running - this is the new symphony of the street.
We are equally to blame, of course, our own tear-downs and rebuilds adding to the decibels. It's all part of living in a house built 45 years ago.
When I lived in an 80-year-old house - with styrofoam packing peanuts being used as insulation behind the lathe and plaster walls - I thought of a 45-year-old house as relatively new. But evidently, to the thirtysomethings with far too much money who seem to be buying up all the houses on my street, it's just a gut-job.
Is it lake time yet?