Things overheard: the blast of the compressor and the nail gun. Silence. Some shuffling steps. A window is opened and then a second one. ‘I beg your pardon. I never promised you a rose garden’. He’s singing out loudly, this man from Puerto Rico. He and Lynn Anderson have joined forces over the cables, board and the compressed air. ‘Along with the sunshine, there’s got to be a little rain sometime’. I come down the stairs and chime in. Together, we’ve gone temporarily country. I try out an opera voice, all wobbly and shaky fun. He can’t pick a key and stick with it for love or money.
He starts up again, ‘I beg your pardon. I do what I want in my garden’. He gives the country tune a final punch as he belts out his own interpretation and heads down into the cellar.
‘Those aren’t the words!’ I yell after him. He laughs uproariously. ‘Whatever! La, la, la…I do what I want in my garden…’ His voice and all the machine noise fade away as another door slams. Then, somewhere at the bottom of the house I hear the whrrrrrrr of the miter saw.
Carry on Lynn Anderson.
690 Saint Paul 