Posts
Summer deck blues
For Sunday, June 29, 2008
I’m not supposed to be here right now. Something is wrong with this picture. You should be reading some generic, timeless backup article from my miscellaneous archives. I should be sitting under a tree somewhere in the smoke-free forest next to a tent, my wife, and a barbecue pit. I should be camping upwind of the fires. Instead I’m here at home. This was to be my summer of camping.
Yes, I went to Yosemite for a week. That was reserved, booked, boxed, locked. It was good. I got that far. But that was supposed to be only the first pearl in my summer necklace of fun.
I’m trapped at home, rebuilding my deck, still. Alas. Instead of exploring the California back roads and meeting interesting people with curiously troubled lives, I’m home with driller’s thumb, nursing a splinter wound. You don’t get to read about Dogwood Charlie or Loudmouthed Lucy of the Lowlands or whomever else I happen to meet and chronicle. You get to read about digging holes in clay and mixing concrete. Craps, everybody loses.
Let me address the flipside. I do not want to put down my new deck. Don’t want to disparage the hard work and responsible behavior associated with repairing a 30-year-old deck that could have collapsed at any number of our house parties, sending our dear guests crashing down through pointed shards of shattered wood and rusty nails onto our sloped hillside far below. Don’t want to begrudge the time spent saving lives and lawsuits by extracting the spongy joists and flaking floor boards.
When I moan that I would rather be swinging in a hammock next to a waterfall with a Pousse Café in one hand and a Steinbeck sleeper in the other, instead of fixing an age-old problem that could maim and irritate friends and family, it seems selfish, childish, spoiled. I should be glad I’m not out enjoying myself. I’m doing the right thing. My conscience is clear. I can sleep at night, mostly because I’m exhausted and sore.
If I had put off this deck repair and gone camping anyhow, I’d be miserable. I wouldn’t be able to relax. I’d be fidgeting with the fire. Pacing. Kicking pine needles. I’d be rolling in my sleeping bag, punching at lumps in the ground.
I should be happy I’m not off resting somewhere. Old wood is gone. Holes are dug. Concrete is poured. New 4x8” beams are leveled and close. On top sit new 4x6” joists. On top of them sit new redwood planks stained a pleasant off-orange color. I am four boards short of a floor. That will come tomorrow. And it’s solid. I could throw a dance party. I could store elephants. I could drop a pallet of fruit cakes from a helicopter.
When I limp up the hall to bed at night, reeking of wood preservative, wincing from back strain, grimacing as I squeeze the door knob between my blisters, I must think how appropriate it is that I’m not in a sauna sipping jasmine tea while having my feet rubbed and my ears massaged with warm apricot oil.
Wants and needs at odds again.
How about these fires? Man. I can’t see the neighbor’s refinery, only ours. The state is on fire, in a state of drought, in a state of debt, in a country in chaos, in a world filled with nightmares, war and doom. What do I have to complain about?
I will be free one day for a week. If I work quickly, I’ll be able to rest slowly. I’ll be like one of those cars that fly past me on the street that I catch up to at the next red light. Perhaps Susan and I will drive up to the fires. It won’t be a relaxing get-away, but I’m curious about the damage. I’m drawn to disasters. I hope it’s the journalist in me. I’d rather see a supermarket flattened by a tornado than a Broadway play.
Also on the bright side, I’m losing weight. In May my doctor instructed me to drop 20 pounds by August or go on blood pressure medication. Every day since the beginning of June I’ve labored in the hot sun from dawn to dusk, carrying heavy equipment, swinging heavy tools, nibbling fruits, vegetables, and bun-less burgers, gulping ice water. Day in. Day out. Relentless. I just hopped on the scale. I’m down six pounds.
Six pounds! That’s so depressing I want to bite a skunk. What does it take to lose weight, for cripes sake? Either I suck at this, or it’s just a lot harder than I imagined. I thought I could will the pounds away. That’s not working. Gino suggested I get salmonella once a week. “Just lick some mayonnaise off the sidewalk,” he suggested. “I guarantee it will work.”
For Sunday, June 29, 2008
I’m not supposed to be here right now. Something is wrong with this picture. You should be reading some generic, timeless backup article from my miscellaneous archives. I should be sitting under a tree somewhere in the smoke-free forest next to a tent, my wife, and a barbecue pit. I should be camping upwind of the fires. Instead I’m here at home. This was to be my summer of camping.
Yes, I went to Yosemite for a week. That was reserved, booked, boxed, locked. It was good. I got that far. But that was supposed to be only the first pearl in my summer necklace of fun.
I’m trapped at home, rebuilding my deck, still. Alas. Instead of exploring the California back roads and meeting interesting people with curiously troubled lives, I’m home with driller’s thumb, nursing a splinter wound. You don’t get to read about Dogwood Charlie or Loudmouthed Lucy of the Lowlands or whomever else I happen to meet and chronicle. You get to read about digging holes in clay and mixing concrete. Craps, everybody loses.
Let me address the flipside. I do not want to put down my new deck. Don’t want to disparage the hard work and responsible behavior associated with repairing a 30-year-old deck that could have collapsed at any number of our house parties, sending our dear guests crashing down through pointed shards of shattered wood and rusty nails onto our sloped hillside far below. Don’t want to begrudge the time spent saving lives and lawsuits by extracting the spongy joists and flaking floor boards.
When I moan that I would rather be swinging in a hammock next to a waterfall with a Pousse Café in one hand and a Steinbeck sleeper in the other, instead of fixing an age-old problem that could maim and irritate friends and family, it seems selfish, childish, spoiled. I should be glad I’m not out enjoying myself. I’m doing the right thing. My conscience is clear. I can sleep at night, mostly because I’m exhausted and sore.
If I had put off this deck repair and gone camping anyhow, I’d be miserable. I wouldn’t be able to relax. I’d be fidgeting with the fire. Pacing. Kicking pine needles. I’d be rolling in my sleeping bag, punching at lumps in the ground.
I should be happy I’m not off resting somewhere. Old wood is gone. Holes are dug. Concrete is poured. New 4x8” beams are leveled and close. On top sit new 4x6” joists. On top of them sit new redwood planks stained a pleasant off-orange color. I am four boards short of a floor. That will come tomorrow. And it’s solid. I could throw a dance party. I could store elephants. I could drop a pallet of fruit cakes from a helicopter.
When I limp up the hall to bed at night, reeking of wood preservative, wincing from back strain, grimacing as I squeeze the door knob between my blisters, I must think how appropriate it is that I’m not in a sauna sipping jasmine tea while having my feet rubbed and my ears massaged with warm apricot oil.
Wants and needs at odds again.
How about these fires? Man. I can’t see the neighbor’s refinery, only ours. The state is on fire, in a state of drought, in a state of debt, in a country in chaos, in a world filled with nightmares, war and doom. What do I have to complain about?
I will be free one day for a week. If I work quickly, I’ll be able to rest slowly. I’ll be like one of those cars that fly past me on the street that I catch up to at the next red light. Perhaps Susan and I will drive up to the fires. It won’t be a relaxing get-away, but I’m curious about the damage. I’m drawn to disasters. I hope it’s the journalist in me. I’d rather see a supermarket flattened by a tornado than a Broadway play.
Also on the bright side, I’m losing weight. In May my doctor instructed me to drop 20 pounds by August or go on blood pressure medication. Every day since the beginning of June I’ve labored in the hot sun from dawn to dusk, carrying heavy equipment, swinging heavy tools, nibbling fruits, vegetables, and bun-less burgers, gulping ice water. Day in. Day out. Relentless. I just hopped on the scale. I’m down six pounds.
Six pounds! That’s so depressing I want to bite a skunk. What does it take to lose weight, for cripes sake? Either I suck at this, or it’s just a lot harder than I imagined. I thought I could will the pounds away. That’s not working. Gino suggested I get salmonella once a week. “Just lick some mayonnaise off the sidewalk,” he suggested. “I guarantee it will work.”
