Foundation

Three of us stand before a ruddy, variably deep pit.
Etched with claw marks down the side, 
a mom could easily mistake the vertical pattern 
for evidence of an overly-eager toddler 
who'd wielded their newly erupted incisors 
to sheer scalloped bites off a plate of unattended butter,
before leaving the stick for dead on the dining tablecloth, 
then blaming the family dog.

Our architect speaks, piercing a yawning silence 
like our GC's excavation subs 
had this week broken through ground: 
"You see that concrete jutting out?"

Six eyes stare into what, 
as drawn on the county-approved blueprints, 
was to be an eight-foot pit.
We nod slowly, each mind wandering.

Our architect's irises roam wide with interest
as he nods with his whole torso, 
shoulders engaged vigorously, poised, focused;
a surfer sizing up the next righteous set waves.

My STEM-ish brain combines geometry and vibes:
I wager the miniature excavator 
hit an inclusion four or five feet down.
Meanwhile, another portion of my cortex 
scans for fossilized dinosaur bones, 
perhaps an Astrodon, our state's official Cretaceous creature.
Which, I am disappointed, I fail to identify
amidst the Mars red upturned mountain heaped 
on what used to be the prior owner's 
failure-to-thrive-yet-too-spiteful-to-perish azalea beds.

[I live in the woods. 
It is dark and dank and hard to grow more than mushrooms, here.
I accept that.
The Would-Be Constant Optimist Gardners? They, perhaps, did not.]

My husband's frontal lobe seems to be in Mechanical Engineer overdrive:
lighting up on my imaginary fMRI machine,
I can almost see his neurons firing, 
computing weight-bearing tolerance —
and the going rate for an emergency weekend Structural Engineer consult.

"That's not supposed to be there." 
The architect continues. 
What we have is a 'divergence.' 
We should be looking at a smooth solid wall into the earth. 
We're looking at a few stacks tall of cinder. 
That's a footing, that big messy over-spill of concrete?
That looks like a random plateau?"
[We keep nodding]
"And — it's too high; they poured it at four feet. 
The original builders...
They should have dug all the way down, like there."

He points to the normal-height area of our basement:
the workshop a/k/a, the scary room where the spiders live.

"This is fascinating! It's a mystery.
It's as if the 1970's construction crew just stopped!—"

"—Because, Jinkees! They were high?" I quip.

"Absolutely." He nods, keeping cadence. 

"So....help me with sizing. How big of a deal is this?" 
My partner cuts in, aiming to minimize at least one weekend SME invoice.

"We, 
well your GC and their subs, 
will need to underpin this area. 
It will take iterative efforts."

Our heads bobble along with his index finger:
"Here, and here, then there, then there, then here."

My partner's and my glances shift from clay death trap to each others'.
I grasp for his palm, sensing a contingency expense arising from the chasm.
Our minds go: Money pit, and money pit, then money pit, 
then money pit; then money pit.

Standing on the literal edge of an abyss 
while absorbing bad news 
is perhaps not the best course of action for the impulsive.
I consider feigning my own demise, 
but realize my coordination deficit would likely end in it.

I clap my hands together, swift, percussive.
"Okay! Well. We didn't need window treatments or flooring anyway. 
Pin the unders! I sing.
Pour the extra concrete that's tariffed at forty percent.
We're going to have the best tiny basement on the block!"

Our SME puts on his spiritual cap and intones:
"That is 'ultisol' you're looking at —
that's what's left after the glaciers ground down, down down
on bedrock for millions of years, 
all the while removing all the organic materials 
and compounds from the soil, leaving only inorganics. 
What you see down there is almost fully iron oxide — rust. 
It's sturdy stuff. 
When you leave this clay out in the sun, it becomes bricks. 
You are on solid ground. This is perfect subgrade."

He clocks my involuntary side-frown, 
so he doubles down, undaunted:

"This Maryland red clay 
— and all that rock that'd overtaken 
their significantly less powerful machines fifty some years ago —
it all makes for one strong foundation. 
Rocks and clay are great for supporting a home.
Your house isn't going anywhere!"

[And either are we! Winter Break trip to Japan? Cancelled.]

His glowy assuredness radiates an energy that defies anger.
It's hard to put a damper on that level of enthusiasm.
My husband explodes into laughter; 
he wagers the expert a 6-pack of beer 
on the final price tag for this undersides project.

I feel the gravity of adulthood pulling me over the edge —
but reclaim my sense as my flip flops teeter on a plywood runner.

Okay, okay fine. I tell myself.
Let's breathe it in.
'Strong foundation.' 
Where bricks meet rockhead. 
'Sturdy stuff.'
Is this, then, like, the epitome of 'good bones*?'
There's something in that — let's hope.










*Thank goodness Maggie Smith went with 'Good Bones' and not 'Sturdy Stuff.'