Sometime in December, I found one of those “do-not-disturb”-style signs hanging from my doorknob.  It had a lengthy message explaining that work crews would be in the area to replace / improve certain components in our local gas system.  The flier advised that the crews would be working on this project for four-to-six weeks, and that the project might involve turning the gas off (which necessitates calling the gas company to have a different crew come out to turn it back on), or irregular street parking rules.

To repeat: That was December.

The crews are still in the area.

To be fair, they haven’t been on my street in a few weeks.  In their wake, however, are muddy, lumpy, straw-topped yards formerly covered with grass, as well as poorly patched holes dug daily bulging out from previously smooth streets.

Despite the unappealing aesthetics of the aftermath of the work, I reserved comment on the quality of the project.  After all, I know absolutely nothing about gas line improvements.

But after not giving it much thought, I noticed something among the many spray-painted lines and symbols of various colors also left as markers by the work crews:

Wait . . . what?

Unless I’m very much mistaken, this means that a “professional” looked at the underground set-up of the various lines, shrugged, and basically said, “I dunno.  Water?  Gas?  Fiber-optic?  Power?  Not sure.  Moving on . . . ”

A six-week project taking three months is one thing, but this is scary.

These hieroglyphics don’t exactly instill confidence in me that I won’t come home one day to find that my beloved house has been replaced by a smoldering crater.

After all, the last time I saw markings like that was . . .