Deck Revisited

       Last December I reported on the nascent efforts to build a mammoth deck.  I didn’t realize it was a mammoth at the time.

     Here it is nearly six months later, and the deck still isn’t finished.  Part of the problem has to be my Scot heritage.  I didn’t know I had a Scottish ancestor either, but it must be so.

     When we visited Scotland oh so many years ago, we toured the castle on the hill overlooking Edinburgh.  A highlight was the firing of the cannon at 1 p.m.  Why did they fire the cannon at one instead of twelve noon? The guide asked the question, and provided the answer: “Typical Scots’ meanness,” meaning stinginess or thrift.  If they fired at twelve noon, they would have to fire twelve times.  Wait till one and expend only one shell.

      Something there is in me that hates to turn loose of a greenback. (At my age, I need to get over that and soon.  Better I spend it than my kids!)  Pressure treated dimension lumber is expensive.  With double 2 X 8’s for support beams

2 X 6’s for joists,

and 2 X 12’s for rim joist,

making the support structure was expensive.  That finally all got done in January.  Next came the varmint block, or “hardware cloth.”

      Next, the step challenge.  In exploring the cost of permanent-finish railing, it became apparent that running a continuous set of steps would be less-expensive (cheaper) than putting up a railing.  This step idea didn’t work.

  It required running 2 X 4’s, two per step, the full length of the deck.  No savings there.  Code requires a step stringer every foot when using composite decking.  That requires 2 X 12’s and a pad to rest the stringers on.

     A new piece of sidewalk is necessary to accommodate the “new” front door location.

      Most of the step stringer pad, I could do with the little mixer and Sakcrete.

      But the sidewalk was a little too large for the old mixer and the old man crew of one.  Bring on the Ready-mix and a crew of two.

      Next week, the steps.

April 2014

     Spring has sprung.  Oh fickle April.

      Nothing wrong with your eyes or the photograph. Whiteout on Sunday April 13, 2014.

So we went to “Fiddler on the Roof” presented by Colby Community College with lots of help from community players.

     A half dozen young men in the cast are or have been part of the barbershop group, so I thought we should go.  Bravely (foolhardily?) we ventured out into the snow storm.  A check of the radar showed no snow in Colby. Sure enough, about ten miles south and we were out of the snow.

     Dan and his three sons all joined the barbershop group last fall.  He played the would-be, soon-to-be-jilted, suitor for the oldest daughter.  His wife Lois played the violin and clarinet in the three-piece orchestra (keyboard and bass).  Son John was the fiddler, Brock a townsman.

      Matt played the rabbi, Luke (Dan’s youngest son), the rabbi’s son, and Andy the show’s star, the impoverished father of four daughters  Those folks worked hard and did a good job..  It was a pleasant way to while away an unpleasant weather afternoon.  

      In other news, Neighbor Lee called to say the Dutch kissing dolls were safe.  What?!  They almost got decapitated, he said. 

     He was driving along when he noticed a cloud of dust emanating from our CRP patch.  Then he saw the three guys living on the Ratliff place out in the yard looking around, so he stopped in to see what was up.  They heard a loud boom and they thought one of their trailers must have blown up a water heater or something.

     The cloud of dust was from a blade from old number 117 hitting the ground.  They figured the blade must have struck the tower to make that loud a noise. 

     I went up to rescue the dolls.  There were guys there “inspecting” they told me.  They had reinstalled the gate and were in the process of locking it.  They didn’t want me to go in there, but I told them I would just grab the dolls and get out.  So they waited for me.  I didn’t have time to check on the tulips.  Que sera sera.

      I planted a bunch of trees (replacements) and was too tired to sneak up there and take a look after they left.  

    Back to Kansas and the deck.

    I am hopeful I can finish that story one of these days.

The Basement

     “It’s ugly!  It’s depressing.”

      Cobwebs cling to the open 2X10 floor joists. You never get them all.  Romex, copper and plastic pipes snake across the “ceiling” beneath the joists.  I've been in high class restaurants where such a "ceiling" is called ambience and it adds $50 to $100 to your bill.

     The uncovered cement floor reflects the aesthetics of any garage.  But seeing the floor is a bit of a problem.  The floor is covered with “stuff” except for the major walkways and the sitting area in front of the wood burning stove.

     Describing the “stuff” that clings to our lives and the floor would be tedious.  So “one picture is worth a thousand words.”

     Note:  the “stuff” here is my stuff.  It takes up a relatively small portion of the basement.  My stuff is the acme of the tip of the iceberg.  Because my desire is to protect the Goodwife from the indignities of a homicide investigation, I have determined that the iceberg must remain submerged in murky waters.  So, imagine a man on top of a boxcar with a probe in hand.  He jams the probe through the access in the top of the car down to the floor of the car, twists the handle to open the probe gates, twists again to close the probe gates, removes the probe and empties its contents into a can.  He has a sample.  Consider the above photos to be a sample, not the whole box car load.

       In the cold weather, I build a fire, grab a cup of tea and sit in front of the stove.  A high back office chair with arms suits my back.  It’s probably ugly, too, but it fits right in with the décor.  I can sit there quite a while without wearing out, like you do on a kitchen chair.

     I usually start the day there, and end the day there.  Since there is no ceiling to contend with, my neck traction device hangs directly above the chair.  It’s remarkable how fifteen minutes in traction relaxes you and straightens out the day’s stress.  I haven’t been to a chiropractor since I began “hanging” myself.

     Note:  That’s not a selfie.  The fire extinguisher sat in for me.

     I can haul wood to the stove without worrying about what I’m doing to the floor.  If my shoes have a little dirt on them, oh well.  Thirty seconds with the broom and dust pan takes care of the wood crumbs and the dirt.

       You can drink a glass of wine or eat down there without fear of spilling.  It’s no big deal if you do.  If it stains the floor, it will wear off over time.

      The basement is not quite as attractive in the summer time when you are not looking for a warm place.  But it is nice to retreat from 100-degree heat to a cool basement and drink a beer.  Especially if the air conditioner isn’t working. 

     Of course the basement is not a place you take guests.  That’s what the “parlor” is for.  There, it doesn’t matter that your attempt to relax with a drink and a snack is somewhat thwarted by the fear of  spilling the drink or the chip dip, or that the couch and chairs aren’t terribly comfortable. Usually, you don’t want your guests to stay that long anyway.

     The basement is reserved for your intimates, your family and only your closest friends.

      The truth is, I can do anything I want to in the basement except two things—cook (no kitchen) or play the piano.  I can live there and be myself without putting on airs.  It’s comfortable and very low maintenance.

     I’d say the basement is a true man cave, except for the fact that better than 60% of the space is given over to sewing machines, sewing tables, counter tops devoted to quilting devices and shelves and shelves of material and patterns and such like.  But I see I’m edging ever closer to the iceberg.  Must take a lesson from the Titanic.  Don’t want that to rip a hole in me.

    Besides, I don’t mind sharing.  I don’t require much space.  When I’m sitting in front of the stove (it’s probably ugly, too) I can’t see much of the rest of the basement.

      Here’s to the basement (don’t worry if you spill your drink while toasting).  Did I mention it’s low-maintenance?

      

Fever

      I cut step stringers dozens of times and never got any done.  Over and over again I visited with our neighbors about our well.  Many times I started to help the delivery driver unload the decking boards, wore out after a board or two and had to quit.

     Then I would wake up. Fever dreams.  I would doze off, and start on some other repetitious, unending job.

    The higher the peaks, the lower the valleys.

    I’ve been on some highs recently:  new grandson (first and only, to date), barbershop annual show.  Plus some stress in other facets of life.

     It’s a pretty deep valley when you are having fever dreams.

     Eventually, the thought enters your head that you won’t get any job done, ever.  Which jobs really matter?  Plenty of time to consider.  Nothing like a fever to help you prioritize.

     The fever lasted a week.  When I didn’t get over it last weekend, I resorted to medical advice on Monday.  After a blood test and a chest x-ray, the advice was, probably a virus, stick it out till Wednesday.  So home I went, where I put in the time taking Tylenol, eating (appetite not diminished, just didn’t need to eat all that much), drinking lots of liquids, reading when my burning eyeballs would allow, and napping (“to sleep, perchance to dream.  Ay!  There’s the rub,” to quote Hamlet).

      Then on Tuesday the clinic called.  Somebody else read the x-ray and determined I may possibly have a spot of pneumonia on my lower right lung.  So, a five day round of Azithromycin.  On Friday, I called the clinic to report, as requested, little or no result from the antibiotic.  The new advice, take prednisone, a steroid. 

      One job I had to get done was change the car’s oil.  I would have enough energy to do that, or I could spend my energy going to the drug store and doing other errands about town.  The Goodwife had several things to do, so she volunteered to make the trip.  That would warm up the car and I would have enough energy to change the oil when she returned.  

     It was about 11 a.m. when the clinic called to report I could pick up the pills.  The Goodwife left about 2:30 p.m. and returned about 4:30.  The prescription said take three tablets on day one.  That would be one about every two hours, so I put it off for Saturday.

     In the meantime, I realized I had gone nine hours without Tylenol.  Could it be?  Perhaps the virus diagnosis was accurate.  Put the steroids on hold.  I may want to play professional baseball or take up cycling.  Can’t have steroids showing up in my system!    

     So I may be on the mend.  No Tylenol for 24 hours.  Only an hour in bed on Saturday.  Maybe by next week I’ll have something worthwhile to say.