Daunting cycle of property maintenance in Cayucos

August 11, 2025

Editor’s Note: The following series, “Life in Radically Gentrifying Cayucos by the Sea,” to be posted biweekly includes the notes, thoughts, and opinions of an original American voice: author Dell Franklin. 

Franklin’s memoir, “The ballplayer’s Son” and “Life on The Mississippi, 1969” are currently on Amazon.

I cannot afford to hire a house cleaner or gardener because I am an 81-year-old with limited funds and thus have had to grind through the daunting cycle of maintenance in a life-long struggle which, over the years, has transitioned into a kind of phobia when facing and executing this so-called due diligence.

And now, at this advanced age, as I grow poorer and creakier and more prone to injury and more incompetent and just plain lazy, I have found I am in danger of hurting myself when confronted with the unmanageable mess I’ve inherited. And I’m finally dealing with it after a month of dread-fueled postponement.

Well, I dealt with it. Yesterday was such a day.

Let me tell you about the concrete porch and steps that lead to the street below me: Wild vegetation sprouts from the neighbor’s fence, through the cracks, and some are stalks of wild anise that reach as high as 6 feet and eventually sag and drift across the stairway, clogging the smooth area of the path and merging with these plants creeping from the cracks.

The flora streaming from the cracks blooms up and abroad and is accompanied by stringy weeds that eventually create a kind of slippery carpet.

Of late, I’ve been swatting at this stuff to get in and out of my place.

Normally, a neighbor kid, with a weedeater contraption that is quite noisy, cut the wild growth on the other side of the old cottage I rent, and took care of the stairway and porch and area behind the porch for a fair amount of money and a 12-pack of Corona. But his family moved, and since that time I have found out that any professional wants well over four bills to do the grunt work that I cannot perform or afford.

I lived for almost two decades down south in apartments with no lawns or vegetation, but up here, on the Central Coast, every place I have rented since 1986 has had yards and plants and weeds. And yes, in the beginning, certain neighbors became peeved when I allowed the mess to get too far out of hand, especially when I lived for almost five years on Pacific Avenue, which is our Riviera.

While there, I was chastised properly by a neighbor across the street who lived in a fairly palatial home along the shore. I was on an old dilapidated sofa out front with my long-suffering girlfriend at the time as we enjoyed coffee and muffins, and I was miffed when she did not defend me, but thanked the man for hopefully “motivating me.”

Most of the time I used an old rusty push mower which no longer exists, but since I’ve moved to the place I now dwell 17 years ago, I have been using a sort of scythe/weed whacker I purchased long ago at a hardware store. This scythe is somewhat rusted and the blade is no longer sharp, but still, once I get started, it hacks pretty well, though I cannot get into certain crevices, which I have to live with.

I’m not a person obsessed with perfection when it comes to the cycle of maintenance and believe such a trait leads to madness. Nothing wrong with a trifle of disarray. It is only, like I said, when it becomes offensive and dangerous that I go into action.

The difficulty in this process is that I often hurt myself. I mean, I can still play almost any demanding sport, like tennis, and even basketball, and never get hurt. But hacking around with that scythe on a slope or an uneven surface can spell disaster.

I could lop off a toe or even a foot.

For instance, yesterday, at the beginning of my tackling the porch, I somehow slammed the side of the scythe against my shin and produced a cut that would not cease bleeding. I had to retire amid the sweat and pain, and journey to the bathroom to clean and plug the wound, and realized that my other shin was also bleeding. Both my white socks inside my sneakers were badly stained, as are several other pairs from other various accidents.

Today, there are extra large band aids (I keep a big supply from the Dollar Store) on both my shins and they’re still oozing blood. My wrist, which I tape for tennis arthritis, now pains me in a different way from wielding the scythe.

This hacking motion is not good for my back, elbow or shoulder. Everything hurts. I rely on Ibuprofen.

Then there is the process of stooping—over and over again. Picking up the debris and shoving it in the trash can. I’m still able to bend over and hit a low shot in tennis, but constantly bending and stooping to waste myself in the cycle of maintenance fills me with savage loathing at having to do this shit!

I am not averse to throwing profane fits of rage when overcome by such labor.

But I got the job done. Lately I’ve been on a kind of roll—for me. On the same day I hacked at the vegetation and swept the stairway and porch and filled the trash can, I re-baited the box with rat killer in my garage and swept the kitchen with one of my two brooms, and dusted my bookcases which hold around 500 books.

I’m telling you right now, without those brooms and the duster my ex-girlfriend gave me 15 years ago, things would be in a lot worse shape and the day hardly passes when I don’t use them.

A few days ago, I did a thorough job of washing my car down on the street as strollers, dog walkers, golf carts and cars slowly inched past, realizing it was a disaster area, but dammit, I had to wash my car, because I could no longer see out of it.

There’s always something.