Then, suddenly, they came: cranes, bulldozers, dirt-removing machines and trucks, equipment resembling sad, slow beasts and dinosaurs with the grrr sucked out of them and tamed by men in their club of yellow hats. The silly sad lot that sticks around never had a chance: the infamous squirrel-killing telephone pole was removed like a wart from a troubled complexion; the crater—scene of recent squirrel annihilation—was dug into and expanded. For six days a week for the last several months our little NoHo condo has shuddered and been shook as the lot next door sank under the weight of progress. The shaking in our home has resembled earth tremors and once, just when I was starting to get used to the walls speaking their new language and the floor adding comment and the dishes in the sink chiming in, just when I put T down for his morning nap, the real earth joined in with its own 5.8 quake that halted the workers and had the sleepless mother out on the balcony with her bleary-eyed son in her arms, exchanging a shaky thumbs-up with the crew.