Surrendering to the Termites--Again

I didn’t tell you this before Thanksgiving because, doughty soul that I am, I saw no reason to impose my troubles upon you. But now that you’re down to turkey sandwiches, I will tell you that the week before the holiday we were once again tented for termites.

A week or so after the first tenting in October, the contractor sawed open a rafter and there were little white wiggly things--the larvae that would grow into termites with jaws able to crunch ebony just as you would a cracker.

I called the termite company and screamed like a smashed cat. A friendly man came out and said, “Why with this high ceiling and the rafters, it should have been a 48-hour tenting.”

I pointed out that the first termite man sat under that high ceiling for one mortal hour while he explained in clinical detail the sex life of the termite, beginning with the habits of the insatiable queen. Was it possible he had been so swept away with the unleashed passion of his story that he had not noticed it was a high ceiling with rafters under which he told his smoldering tale?

The second man and the lady on the phone at the termite company said that the second tenting would be at no cost to me. Nothing was said about my friend, David Steinbacher, who had helped double-bag all the contents of the refrigerators, the pantry, the cupboards, the medicine chests and all those shelves of stuff you might need someday although you never have. And nothing was said about paying him.

David came over again and bagged everything Patsy and I had not been able to do. Also, when we got the bags filled and taped, we couldn’t lift them, so David put the stuff in our car trunks and back seats.

I made arrangements for Peaches to stay with her smart friends in South Pasadena and we sought a new place for two days for Mrs. Goldfarb the cat, wanting to keep her out of the clutches of the vet with the liver-test fetish.

This time, we did not approach the project with the high sense of adventure we had the first time. And when we finally drove down the driveway in separate cars after the truck arrived with the tent, we looked like a road show company of “The Desert Song” that showed every sign of folding in Buffalo. Let us say the romance had gone out of tenting. And of driving around while a quart of virgin olive oil silently spread over the carpeting in my trunk.

This time, we stayed with our friend Kay Murphy, wanting to spread the joy and gaiety of our presence to another Pasadena neighborhood.

When it came time to go to bed, I discovered to my surprise that I had carefully packed Peaches’ medications in my cosmetic case and left my medicine in Peaches’ traveling tote with her dish and kibble. By that time, I was weary of the entire project and took one of Peaches’ cortisone pills, which seemed to be the same as mine--or would rid me of fleas or settle my stomach, either one of which would be a plus.

Two days later, after we had 48 hours of peace at Kay’s with no one knowing where we were, we set off in different directions to pick up the livestock. Peaches was in fine fettle, having had a lovely time with her friends. The same cannot be said for Mrs. Goldfarb, according to Patsy, although this time her bill was less than $100 for two nights instead of almost $200 for one night.

She would not ride in the front seat with Patsy and was patently displeased. Patsy said she knew what Mrs. Goldfarb was thinking. “This is the last time I am getting in this car with this crazy woman. Every time I do, she takes me some place where they give me a bath. I have now had two baths in 10 days after 18 years without one.”

She is still skulking around behind chairs, only stopping to curl a lip from time to time to display her glistening teeth.

When we came home, we ran through the house, opening every window and door in the place to get rid of the chemical smell. By the time my hands were as blue and stiff as those of the little girl selling artificial flowers in the snow in front of the Metropolitan Opera House, I decided to turn on the furnace. It would not go on. The pilot was out.

I called the nice lady at the termite company and she said that no one could come and turn it on because the trucks were all out on the freeways with their tents billowing in the wind.

Obviously, we had to have heat because the radio had told me that the overnight low would be 38 degrees. I called the Southern California Gas Co., which will come out and relight a pilot light with a pleasantry and no charge. I called at 3:30 p.m., only to be told that all of the operators were busy but that if I would hold, I would enjoy an interlude of recorded music. I held but there was only an ominous silence followed by a dial tone. I tried until 4 p.m. but the line was always busy and at 4, all of the operators go away.

I called a heating company in La Canada and by 5, a man came to the door, announced himself, flicked a small lever requiring about five seconds including the walk from the front door and charged me $60.

I am thinking of calling Dr. Warren Thomas, my sterling friend who is the director of the Los Angeles Zoo and asking him to get me an aardvark because they look rather like pigs and Dr. Thomas is a pig authority.

Aardvarks love termites better than anything and I don’t think one would add any more confusion than the parade of people, including termite people and contractors and furnace men who have already upset my serene existence.

That snuffling sound in the sun room? Oh, that’s our aardvark eating termites. And if that doesn’t fill that awkward pause, you’re a hopeless social misfit.