Julie Andrews like to whirl around in an Austrian meadow and sing about the hills being alive with the sound of music. In our neighborhood, lately, the hills have been alive with the sound of hammering–and it’s nothing to sing about.
Two workers have been building a one-story wooden house about 100 yards from our front door. On every non-rainy day, starting at about 6 a.m., we are treated to a hammering symphony as they put up the structure and pound away as if their lives depended on it.
It’s made me wish for rainy days.
Hammering is a uniquely annoying sound. It make a sharp noise, it’s repetitive, and it echoes and reverberates against the nearby hills, which just amplifies the irritation factor. I’ve gotten to the point where I distinguish between the individual hammering style of each of the workers. One guy uses four strokes of increasing force — bam, bam, bam, BAM — to get the nail flush with the planking of the roof. You find yourself cringing inwardly as you wait for that inevitable fourth hammer blow to fall.
Oddly, on some days you don’t notice the hammering . . . until you do. And then, once you do notice it, you can’t consciously unnotice it again. You just hope that the workers will take a break at some point soon and let your brain cycle back to non-hammer-focused mode again.
I’m all for commerce, and it looks like the little house will be a nice addition to our neighborhood. But I will be immensely grateful when the house is built and that infernal hammering ends.