Argh—no building yet. The construction drawings for our new studio didn’t get approved. Nothing major, they just need a few tweaks. For starters, as it is now the studio sits on the property line we share with our next-door neighbors. Like, right on the property line: The fence that runs between our two properties forms the studio’s northern wall. Here’s a photo, taken from their back yard:

Back in 1983, when the studio was first built, this wasn’t an issue for some reason. Paul, the former owner of our house who built the studio with his son as a woodworking shop, asked the neighbors if he could build the studio there, they said no problem, and up the thing went. Well, not quite so straightforwardly: They all agreed to an easement, which is one of those things that when real-estate and builder types mention it, I tend to just nod my head rather than ask what it is. A property easement just means the owners of that property have agreed to let you use it for something—in our case, they agreed to let Paul use their backyard if he ever needed to fix that part of the studio. A bit odd to need a legal document, filed with the city, to codify the age-old process of knocking on your neighbor’s door and saying, “Hey dude, can I get in your yard for a second?” But where would bureaucracy be without filing fees and notary fees?

Another thing included in the old easement was the “right” to put up a rain gutter along that roof line. Take another look at that photo up there. See any rain gutter? The lack of one handily illustrates a little moral about preventative measures. Kind of like when the dentist counts up your new cavities and you think, “Damn! All these years I should have been flossing!” If someone had gotten around to putting up that missing rain gutter, our little carpenter ant problem wouldn’t be so epic. The more rain that drips off that north roof, the more moist and ant-friendly the soil underneath it gets, the more those vines grow into little ant jungle gyms, the more the studio’s wood siding softens up enough for ant mandibles to enjoy, the more our structure suffers. Alas, damn.

Here in 2007, though, that easement means diddly. Turns out the new studio will have to sit six inches back from the property line. Why? Because even though we had a standing legal agreement, previously approved by the city, with our neighbors to allow a gutter “on” their property, that’s no longer the case. We’re not entirely sure why things have changed; neither is anyone at the city’s planning office. But they have, and in order to put in a rain gutter—and set up a foundation drain—we have to make room for those things on our side of the property. Functionally, it’s not a big deal—it’s not like we have to take a whole building and move it back six inches. Just start building six inches in a different direction—whenever we get around to building, that is. But in order to get permits to build the new place, we have to resubmit drawings that show the building sitting six inches back. Which means the drafter, who charges by the hour, has to redraft what we’ve already got. And then we have to resubmit the plans, which means we have to wait—again.

Alas, damn. I’ll just be over here flossing.