Wednesday, May 31, 2000
Entry doors have personalities ranging from friendly to frightened, cheap to opulent, artsy to severe. Today my job is to remove a pair of double doors that convey neglect and indifference. In their place I'll install windowed doors, warm and tasteful.
The building is a rather ordinary 1940's-era house that was converted to an office. It's located in downtown Menlo Park, just across the street from a popular gourmet grocery called Draeger's Market.
It's a sunny day, pleasant. People are strolling on the sidewalk carrying grocery bags with french bread and lacy green carrot tops sticking out.
Normally I would order pre-hung doors. Then I can simply pop out the old casing and pop in the new. With pre-hung double doors, I could avoid all the fussing and fitting required to line up two oversize, very heavy entry doors. This time, however, the building inspector warned that if I remove the old door casing, I will be "breaking the shell" of the exterior. Once broken, he can require that the entire old building be brought up to code including all the new handicap-access rules. The inspector almost drools, imagining all the violations he could cite.
So naturally - as instructed by the landlord - I'm not going to break the shell.
I'm in public view of the street, working alone though not unobserved. Sidewalk superintendents stop, watch, move on. Construction work is entertaining; it has a basic story arc: destructive beginning, hard-working middle, satisfying end. It's visual and easy to understand. You don't get that by watching somebody work at a desk.
I like to set a rhythm, working alone. There's an intensity, a kind of hypnosis of routing, chiseling, drilling, screwing, lifting.
As I begin painting the newly-installed door, I hear "Hooray!" accompanied by hands clapping. Four passers-by, standing on the sidewalk, are applauding!
Maybe it's the paint, a dramatic cobalt blue. Maybe it's the satisfaction of a familiar plot, freshly presented. Or maybe they simply hated those old weather-beaten doors.
Whatever the cause, they've broken my shell. I'll take it, the one and only time I've been applauded as a carpenter. Thank you, Menlo Park.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
Memorial Day
Monday, May 30, 1983
On a weekend job in my truck, I drive north on Interstate 280. It's a jam of camper trucks, RV's, trailers towing dune buggies and motorboats.
From the freeway there's a view of the valley of the San Francisco Bay, the airport, the ring of mountains. Just before passing through a riot of shopping centers, one can look down and see, among the rows of headstones, an old woman in her Sunday coat. She's on her knees in front of one particular grave.
We've lost them by the thousands. We grieve them one by one.
We remember people for who they were. Our frame of reference - inevitably, for better or worse - is who we were when we knew them.
Denny was a freckle-faced, jug-eared, left-handed kid in my high school in Maryland. Thin as a whip. He wasn't great at sports, but he was scrappy and he was fun. We played baseball, football. We weren't friends. I only knew him through sports and seeing him at school, where he hung with a different group.
Denny and I were practically the same age - just two days between us.
I never saw him after high school, so all I know is what I learn from The Wall. I went to college in Missouri. Denny moved to Colorado and, a couple years after high school, was drafted.
On May 2, 1968, I would have been preparing for junior year final exams. The musical Hair had just opened on Broadway. On May 2, Denny began his tour of duty with the 101st Airbourne. It didn't last long.
On August 5, 1968 I was camping in a pup tent on Bainbridge Island near Seattle, Washington, exploring the USA with my girlfriend in a Volkswagen beetle. Richard Nixon was being nominated at the Republican national convention in Miami. On August 5, in Thua Thien, South Vietnam, Denny was a "ground casualty, hostile," caused by "other explosive device." His body was recovered.
In a couple more weeks, Denny would have turned 21. A couple weeks later I drove through Chicago passing truckloads of National Guard troops, who were pouring into the city for the Democratic national convention. Near Rochester, New York I turned 21 and (legally) bought a bottle of champagne. The woman in the liquor store said, "Is that your driver's license?" She turned to another woman and pointed at me. "My, my, that little thing's twenty-one."
Different tours, different outcomes.
Two day's difference in birthdays, another lottery number in the draft, a different sense of obligation, it might have been me. I honor you, Denny, for the choices you made and the price that you paid. I remember you. Rest easy, forever.
On a weekend job in my truck, I drive north on Interstate 280. It's a jam of camper trucks, RV's, trailers towing dune buggies and motorboats.
From the freeway there's a view of the valley of the San Francisco Bay, the airport, the ring of mountains. Just before passing through a riot of shopping centers, one can look down and see, among the rows of headstones, an old woman in her Sunday coat. She's on her knees in front of one particular grave. We've lost them by the thousands. We grieve them one by one.
We remember people for who they were. Our frame of reference - inevitably, for better or worse - is who we were when we knew them.
Denny was a freckle-faced, jug-eared, left-handed kid in my high school in Maryland. Thin as a whip. He wasn't great at sports, but he was scrappy and he was fun. We played baseball, football. We weren't friends. I only knew him through sports and seeing him at school, where he hung with a different group.
Denny and I were practically the same age - just two days between us.
I never saw him after high school, so all I know is what I learn from The Wall. I went to college in Missouri. Denny moved to Colorado and, a couple years after high school, was drafted.
On May 2, 1968, I would have been preparing for junior year final exams. The musical Hair had just opened on Broadway. On May 2, Denny began his tour of duty with the 101st Airbourne. It didn't last long.
On August 5, 1968 I was camping in a pup tent on Bainbridge Island near Seattle, Washington, exploring the USA with my girlfriend in a Volkswagen beetle. Richard Nixon was being nominated at the Republican national convention in Miami. On August 5, in Thua Thien, South Vietnam, Denny was a "ground casualty, hostile," caused by "other explosive device." His body was recovered.
In a couple more weeks, Denny would have turned 21. A couple weeks later I drove through Chicago passing truckloads of National Guard troops, who were pouring into the city for the Democratic national convention. Near Rochester, New York I turned 21 and (legally) bought a bottle of champagne. The woman in the liquor store said, "Is that your driver's license?" She turned to another woman and pointed at me. "My, my, that little thing's twenty-one."
Different tours, different outcomes.
Two day's difference in birthdays, another lottery number in the draft, a different sense of obligation, it might have been me. I honor you, Denny, for the choices you made and the price that you paid. I remember you. Rest easy, forever.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
The Chewing Gum Teacher
Friday, May 29, 1998
Zeke has that gift with children. Rapport. Leadership. Empathy. Especially with boys. He has a boyish face himself - I doubt he could grow a beard if he tried. He used to coach my son's AYSO soccer team and managed to keep it fun and non-competitive. He has three children of his own - all boys.
When you meet Zeke, he offers you a stick of gum. He's got several packs in his pocket. He's a salesman for Wrigley's, so he's well-supplied. Cynically, you might think it's like a drug dealer offering free samples - and I tease him about this - but with Zeke it really seems like a friendly offer. Zeke's a friendly guy.
Zeke's wife has hired me to install a hot tub. Today it will be delivered. Zeke is here to help. A truck with a crane will have to lift the heavy tub to their second-floor deck.
While we wait for the truck, Zeke and I chat. I ask how he came to be in the chewing gum business.
"I didn't exactly plan for it," Zeke says. "I got a degree in Education. When I got back from 'Nam, you look at the starting salary of a teacher. And you know what happens."
"It's a waste, Zeke. You have such a natural talent with children. You should teach. You selling gum is like Michelangelo selling paint at Home Depot."
"Michelangelo never went to 'Nam."
"What was it like?"
"I was on a PBR. You know about them?"
"Yes. I had a cousin. He served on one." PBR stood for Patrol Boat, River. The boat had a two-foot draft and could go up shallow rivers through weeds without getting stuck. They had machine guns, a grenade launcher, and they were speedy. They were also sitting ducks for Viet Cong snipers hiding in trees along the shore.
Zeke is frowning. "Your cousin died?"
"No. He came through."
"Drinks a little too much? Wakes up in a sweat? Maybe some drugs?"
"I don't know about sweat."
"I never did the drugs," Zeke says. "Half my unit used heroin. Can't blame them, but my one and only goal was to survive. Drugs always seemed like another way to die. Casualties for river patrol were eleven percent a month. That's each month, eleven percent. In twelve months, not good odds. Got a little better after they started dropping Agent Orange. It cleared some space around the river's edge."
"Sounds like you could teach math."
"You want kids to hear that?"
"Yes."
Zeke shows me his arm. Little spots, like mini-boils. "I get these. Hundreds of them. Little fatty growths under my skin."
"Agent Orange?"
"Can't prove it."
A truck arrives with a crane. Zeke and I go out to meet it at the head of the driveway. As we walk, Zeke says, "I wouldn't want to scare them. If I taught."
"Maybe they should be scared."
"Maybe. I just want to forget."
"Can you?" It's been almost 30 years.
"Not yet." Zeke smiles. Turning to greet the driver of the hot tub truck, Zeke offers him a piece of gum.
Zeke has that gift with children. Rapport. Leadership. Empathy. Especially with boys. He has a boyish face himself - I doubt he could grow a beard if he tried. He used to coach my son's AYSO soccer team and managed to keep it fun and non-competitive. He has three children of his own - all boys.
When you meet Zeke, he offers you a stick of gum. He's got several packs in his pocket. He's a salesman for Wrigley's, so he's well-supplied. Cynically, you might think it's like a drug dealer offering free samples - and I tease him about this - but with Zeke it really seems like a friendly offer. Zeke's a friendly guy.
Zeke's wife has hired me to install a hot tub. Today it will be delivered. Zeke is here to help. A truck with a crane will have to lift the heavy tub to their second-floor deck.
While we wait for the truck, Zeke and I chat. I ask how he came to be in the chewing gum business.
"I didn't exactly plan for it," Zeke says. "I got a degree in Education. When I got back from 'Nam, you look at the starting salary of a teacher. And you know what happens."
"It's a waste, Zeke. You have such a natural talent with children. You should teach. You selling gum is like Michelangelo selling paint at Home Depot."
"Michelangelo never went to 'Nam."
"What was it like?"
"I was on a PBR. You know about them?"
"Yes. I had a cousin. He served on one." PBR stood for Patrol Boat, River. The boat had a two-foot draft and could go up shallow rivers through weeds without getting stuck. They had machine guns, a grenade launcher, and they were speedy. They were also sitting ducks for Viet Cong snipers hiding in trees along the shore.
Zeke is frowning. "Your cousin died?"
"No. He came through."
"Drinks a little too much? Wakes up in a sweat? Maybe some drugs?"
"I don't know about sweat."
"I never did the drugs," Zeke says. "Half my unit used heroin. Can't blame them, but my one and only goal was to survive. Drugs always seemed like another way to die. Casualties for river patrol were eleven percent a month. That's each month, eleven percent. In twelve months, not good odds. Got a little better after they started dropping Agent Orange. It cleared some space around the river's edge."
"Sounds like you could teach math."
"You want kids to hear that?"
"Yes."
Zeke shows me his arm. Little spots, like mini-boils. "I get these. Hundreds of them. Little fatty growths under my skin."
"Agent Orange?"
"Can't prove it."
A truck arrives with a crane. Zeke and I go out to meet it at the head of the driveway. As we walk, Zeke says, "I wouldn't want to scare them. If I taught."
"Maybe they should be scared."
"Maybe. I just want to forget."
"Can you?" It's been almost 30 years.
"Not yet." Zeke smiles. Turning to greet the driver of the hot tub truck, Zeke offers him a piece of gum.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Bombland (Dream Two)
Saturday, May 28, 1983
Sometimes the monsters aren't imaginary. Nineteen years before the mandap, on a Memorial Day weekend, this happened:
Sometimes the monsters aren't imaginary. Nineteen years before the mandap, on a Memorial Day weekend, this happened:
Bombland
She of four years, nine months,
wide eyes, fragile bones,
wakes screaming, runs through
the dark house. I catch her.
She says, "I can't stop thinking about bombs."
I hold her. Hot flesh. Rabbit pulse.
"I just couldn't stop thinking."
We share a lap, a cuddle, a cup
of hot chocolate. She says,
"They scare me.
You know where they come from?
They come from Bombland .
I hope they always stay there. I
hate the people who make bombs."
Friday, May 27, 2011
Spooked (Dream One)
Wednesday, May 27, 1981
Twenty-one years before the need for a mandap, my daughter awakes in the night screaming with terror. From a sound sleep I'm up and in her room. She's two and a half. She's clutching her special blanket.
"What is it?"
"An ookie spookie monster was coming in the window."
I check the window. Closed. Peering out, I say, "It's gone now."
I wait until she's calmed down, sleeping, then return to bed.
A half hour later she's screaming again. Before I can get up she runs to the bed and climbs in. "It came back," she says. "I heard it."
She stays until morning.
At breakfast I talk about how sometimes, especially at night, we think we see or hear things that are really only in our imaginations. Ideas get planted in our minds. Sometimes in the daytime we see something, and it stays in our mind, and then later at night we think about it. Did somebody read a story about monsters yesterday?
"But I heard it," my daughter says. "With my ears."
"It might've been branches. The wind can blow them and they scrape against the house."
"Ookie spookie branches."
I can't argue with that.
After dropping her at school, my morning job is to install a dryer outlet at a little bungalow in Redwood City. The owner left me a key and warned me: "I've got a restraining order against my husband. Do not let him in. He's trying to get the Bosendorfer."
"Uh... The what?"
"The piano. And you really don't want to know about all that."
It's a quiet morning in a quiet neighborhood. As I put the key in the lock, from inside the house I hear somebody playing a piano. An atonal scale. Modern junk. I open the door a crack. "Hello?" I call.
The piano stops. No answer.
I stick my head inside. The shades are drawn, but I can see the piano. Nobody there.
"Hello?" I call again.
The house is silent.
Okay I admit: I'm spooked.
There's a flash of motion, a gray blur over the rug.
It dashes between my feet: a kitten. And it's gone.
Twenty-one years before the need for a mandap, my daughter awakes in the night screaming with terror. From a sound sleep I'm up and in her room. She's two and a half. She's clutching her special blanket.
"What is it?"
"An ookie spookie monster was coming in the window."
I check the window. Closed. Peering out, I say, "It's gone now."
I wait until she's calmed down, sleeping, then return to bed.
A half hour later she's screaming again. Before I can get up she runs to the bed and climbs in. "It came back," she says. "I heard it."
She stays until morning.
At breakfast I talk about how sometimes, especially at night, we think we see or hear things that are really only in our imaginations. Ideas get planted in our minds. Sometimes in the daytime we see something, and it stays in our mind, and then later at night we think about it. Did somebody read a story about monsters yesterday?
"But I heard it," my daughter says. "With my ears."
"It might've been branches. The wind can blow them and they scrape against the house."
"Ookie spookie branches."
I can't argue with that.
After dropping her at school, my morning job is to install a dryer outlet at a little bungalow in Redwood City. The owner left me a key and warned me: "I've got a restraining order against my husband. Do not let him in. He's trying to get the Bosendorfer."
"Uh... The what?"
"The piano. And you really don't want to know about all that."
It's a quiet morning in a quiet neighborhood. As I put the key in the lock, from inside the house I hear somebody playing a piano. An atonal scale. Modern junk. I open the door a crack. "Hello?" I call.
The piano stops. No answer.
I stick my head inside. The shades are drawn, but I can see the piano. Nobody there.
"Hello?" I call again.
The house is silent.
Okay I admit: I'm spooked.
There's a flash of motion, a gray blur over the rug.
It dashes between my feet: a kitten. And it's gone.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
The Mandap (Part Two)
Sunday, May 26, 2002
A wedding is a construction project. Sunday morning we make a convoy of pickups and cars. At the wedding site, like a crew of rock and roll roadies we erect the mandap and finish decorating it with flowers and paper wrapping. Helped by our friends, we string lights on the railing, place candles and vases, and wire speakers into the sound system. We are at Harbor House, a hall with a deck which overlooks Princeton Harbor and the famous Maverick's surf break.
Back home, we dress. Tux for me, suits for my sons.
And here we go. Returning to Harbor House, there is fog with occasional mist - Pacific coast weather. The mandap is put to immediate use: first thing, everybody writes a message on a yellow ribbon and tacks it among the flowers and ivy. Mine, “Be fruitful and multiply!” Not that I'm pressuring them or anything...
Hors d’oeuvres are artfully presented on the deck, but I’m too excited to eat. At 4:30 the groom arrives astride his steed - the white Mustang convertible - music blaring, aunties dancing, guests blowing bubbles. Before the bride can greet the groom, the aunties and mother-of-the-groom wrap her in a shawl, pinned just so. And bury her in jewelry.
Krishna, who is a pharmacy student, serves as punditji and conducts the ceremony in the mandap. There are rituals to perform, all a mystery to me. My wife and I, sitting in chairs, notice the ugly green wine glass that was intended to be stomped - that we have hated for years - on the altar, filled with rice. Now it can't be stomped; it's a sacred vessel. I turn to Mark, knowing he’ll understand because he's Jewish, and say, “Quick, find a light bulb and wrap it in a napkin.” He returns and says, “Don’t look in the bathroom.”
Fishing boats chug in and out of the harbor, passing our little ceremony. Rock music from a bar band floats over the water.
If you grow up in a Christian house and later find yourself playing a major role in a Hindu wedding, just do what you're told. Sip water when instructed, toss petals, sprinkle rice, chant prayers. At one point, unexpected by me, I am asked to put some folding money out as a donation. This rented tuxedo has endless secret pockets. Which one has my wallet? As I fumble, I'm thinking that I brought a wad of hundred-dollar bills to pay the catering crew in cash, something they greatly appreciate. Do I have small bills? The folding money that I donate at this moment will later be tossed into the ocean as some sort of offering. Will I have to toss hundred-dollar bills into the ocean?
Still fumbling for my wallet, I mutter “I hope I have some,” and then to the punditji I say “Do you take credit cards?” which gets a good laugh from the audience. At last I find the wallet - and some dollar bills. Whew.
I smudge a red spot on the bride and groom’s foreheads.
Suddenly in the middle of the ceremony the aunties in their colorful saris interrupt, crying "No no no!" Shouting in Punjabi dialect, they climb over chairs and swarm into the mandap rearranging icons and instructing the pharmacy student/punditji on what should happen next. The bride and groom have tried to streamline the ceremony, which in a true Indian wedding can go on for hours, but the aunties aren't buying it. After some negotiation, all handled in dialect I can't understand, a few more rituals are added. The aunties, satisfied, take their seats. Imagine this scene at Christian nuptials. My friends are all smiles. This is the most entertaining wedding they've ever attended.
Of course what I'm thinking is: what do the aunties have to say about the mandap? Does it meet their strict standards? Will they berate me after the ceremony? They seem like warm and wonderful people, great dancers, but now they scare the crap out of me.
The punditji tells me to toss petals at the couple: “Big toss. Lots of bless.” The bride and groom stand and read a variant of traditional American vows. No “obey” and no “I do.” But recognizable. Then after several stomps (it’s a small bulb), the groom breaks the glass.
Hours later after dinner and toasts and more dancing, it’s over. The bride and groom depart in their white Mustang for their hotel and, tomorrow, a flight to Paris with certified passports in hand. We disassemble the mandap. Flowers and ivy are still fresh, seemingly nourished by the misty breeze. The structure held.
Next morning, returning for a final garbage pickup, I install a new light bulb in the bathroom.
Later, we gather with the guests for a final goodbye. One by one, the aunties take me aside. Each says the same thing: "It was a beautiful mandap. The best."
(The story continues here, eleven years later.)
A wedding is a construction project. Sunday morning we make a convoy of pickups and cars. At the wedding site, like a crew of rock and roll roadies we erect the mandap and finish decorating it with flowers and paper wrapping. Helped by our friends, we string lights on the railing, place candles and vases, and wire speakers into the sound system. We are at Harbor House, a hall with a deck which overlooks Princeton Harbor and the famous Maverick's surf break. Back home, we dress. Tux for me, suits for my sons.
And here we go. Returning to Harbor House, there is fog with occasional mist - Pacific coast weather. The mandap is put to immediate use: first thing, everybody writes a message on a yellow ribbon and tacks it among the flowers and ivy. Mine, “Be fruitful and multiply!” Not that I'm pressuring them or anything...
Hors d’oeuvres are artfully presented on the deck, but I’m too excited to eat. At 4:30 the groom arrives astride his steed - the white Mustang convertible - music blaring, aunties dancing, guests blowing bubbles. Before the bride can greet the groom, the aunties and mother-of-the-groom wrap her in a shawl, pinned just so. And bury her in jewelry.
Krishna, who is a pharmacy student, serves as punditji and conducts the ceremony in the mandap. There are rituals to perform, all a mystery to me. My wife and I, sitting in chairs, notice the ugly green wine glass that was intended to be stomped - that we have hated for years - on the altar, filled with rice. Now it can't be stomped; it's a sacred vessel. I turn to Mark, knowing he’ll understand because he's Jewish, and say, “Quick, find a light bulb and wrap it in a napkin.” He returns and says, “Don’t look in the bathroom.”
Fishing boats chug in and out of the harbor, passing our little ceremony. Rock music from a bar band floats over the water.
If you grow up in a Christian house and later find yourself playing a major role in a Hindu wedding, just do what you're told. Sip water when instructed, toss petals, sprinkle rice, chant prayers. At one point, unexpected by me, I am asked to put some folding money out as a donation. This rented tuxedo has endless secret pockets. Which one has my wallet? As I fumble, I'm thinking that I brought a wad of hundred-dollar bills to pay the catering crew in cash, something they greatly appreciate. Do I have small bills? The folding money that I donate at this moment will later be tossed into the ocean as some sort of offering. Will I have to toss hundred-dollar bills into the ocean?
Still fumbling for my wallet, I mutter “I hope I have some,” and then to the punditji I say “Do you take credit cards?” which gets a good laugh from the audience. At last I find the wallet - and some dollar bills. Whew.
I smudge a red spot on the bride and groom’s foreheads.
Suddenly in the middle of the ceremony the aunties in their colorful saris interrupt, crying "No no no!" Shouting in Punjabi dialect, they climb over chairs and swarm into the mandap rearranging icons and instructing the pharmacy student/punditji on what should happen next. The bride and groom have tried to streamline the ceremony, which in a true Indian wedding can go on for hours, but the aunties aren't buying it. After some negotiation, all handled in dialect I can't understand, a few more rituals are added. The aunties, satisfied, take their seats. Imagine this scene at Christian nuptials. My friends are all smiles. This is the most entertaining wedding they've ever attended.
Of course what I'm thinking is: what do the aunties have to say about the mandap? Does it meet their strict standards? Will they berate me after the ceremony? They seem like warm and wonderful people, great dancers, but now they scare the crap out of me.
The punditji tells me to toss petals at the couple: “Big toss. Lots of bless.” The bride and groom stand and read a variant of traditional American vows. No “obey” and no “I do.” But recognizable. Then after several stomps (it’s a small bulb), the groom breaks the glass.
Hours later after dinner and toasts and more dancing, it’s over. The bride and groom depart in their white Mustang for their hotel and, tomorrow, a flight to Paris with certified passports in hand. We disassemble the mandap. Flowers and ivy are still fresh, seemingly nourished by the misty breeze. The structure held.
Next morning, returning for a final garbage pickup, I install a new light bulb in the bathroom.
Later, we gather with the guests for a final goodbye. One by one, the aunties take me aside. Each says the same thing: "It was a beautiful mandap. The best."
(The story continues here, eleven years later.)
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
The Mandap (Part One)
Saturday, May 25, 2002
For the first 54 years of my life, I've never even heard of a mandap. Now I'm supposed to build one for my daughter's wedding. (It's pronounced "mun-dup," by the way.)
I call the father of the groom. A lovely man. He has a soft voice, an Indian accent. We are at the mercy of crappy cell phone technology long distance to Minnesota. I think he says that a metal structure is preferred but that I can substitute wood if I must. I also think he says that wood is considered ugly in Indian culture, so every inch of the mandap should be covered with flowers. (None of this is true, but that's what I think I hear at the time.)
Then I watch Monsoon Wedding with Aunt Lila. Half way through the movie, Lila elbows me and whispers, "You're in deep trouble." The Indian wedding depicted in that film would require years of preparation.
For our situation, the design for the mandap has to allow pre-cut and pre-drilled pieces to be quickly assembled on the morning of the wedding, then easily disassembled after the ceremony in a facility we are renting for one day only. Further, the mandap should be light-weight but sturdy enough to stand 8 feet tall with a 12 foot span supporting a heavy load of flowers.
I come up with a plan of 2x2 posts, one at each corner, supporting a top frame of doubled 1x3's, one on each side of the post with short pieces of 2x2 blocking along the middle. I'm a little nervous about that 12 foot span of doubled 1x3's. I wouldn't want some impetuous teenager to try to do chin-ups. For flowers, though, it should hold.
I buy clear heart redwood for the posts, clear select redwood for the beams. I stain it with a wash of white, rendering it light in color with the grain still visible.
Meanwhile, since a wedding party will be held at our home, I have a self-imposed deadline to finish the construction of a house I began building in 1979. What remains is what we call "the powder room," which is simply a half-bath (why do people call a room with neither shower nor bath a half-bath?). With help from my son - plus heavy doses of ibuprofen for my back - I finish the job two days before the wedding. It's taken 23 years, a major earthquake, a furnace fire, a termite infestation, several falling trees, the damage of 3 dogs, the life cycle of 3 pickup trucks, the raising of 3 children, and now a wedding to complete this house. But it's done, with a mandap for a bonus.
Flowers must be cheaper in India. There is no way we can afford to cover this mandap with blossoms. We do buy a truckload of color for the ceremony and the mandap combined. What we also have - in wretched excess - is English ivy, an invasive species that has overwhelmed our redwood forest and our own yard in particular. The deep green leaves of ivy will look wonderful when twined among the flowers. Our friends Heidi and Richard gather ivy from the yard and wrap experimental arrangements around the 1x3's, weaving blossoms.
Other dramas unfold. Indian custom has the groom arriving at the wedding astride a white horse. Many phone calls fail to overcome problems of logistics and insurance and such simple questions as who will clean up the rented facility after the horse is gone? Finally I have a suggestion: could the groom arrive in a white Mustang convertible? Everyone embraces the idea. The white Mustang is rented.
Another last-minute drama involves an expired passport, frantic phone calls, copious amounts of money, the wrong shipping label on a FedEx overnight, the package lost in Memphis, more phone calls - and hours before the wedding, the passport is delivered. Whew.
Now I have a truckload of partly flower-and-ivy bedecked lumber, each a separate piece, ready to assemble tomorrow. Tonight is the mehndi party.
A wedding is the joining of two families. In this case, it is the joining of two cultures as well. Tonight is Punjabi culture. We are guests of the groom's family, entering a different world. An Indian mehndi party involves gifts of jewelry, henna designs painted on hands.
The groom's entire extended family is here. The aunties are high-spirited live wires. There is Indian music, exuberant dancing - again, the aunties are wild - singing, food, drink, joy. These folk know how to celebrate a marriage.
My only worry: will the mandap, the focal point of tomorrow's ceremony, be acceptable? Will it even stand?
(The story continues here.)
(And then there's a postscript here.)
For the first 54 years of my life, I've never even heard of a mandap. Now I'm supposed to build one for my daughter's wedding. (It's pronounced "mun-dup," by the way.)
I call the father of the groom. A lovely man. He has a soft voice, an Indian accent. We are at the mercy of crappy cell phone technology long distance to Minnesota. I think he says that a metal structure is preferred but that I can substitute wood if I must. I also think he says that wood is considered ugly in Indian culture, so every inch of the mandap should be covered with flowers. (None of this is true, but that's what I think I hear at the time.)
Then I watch Monsoon Wedding with Aunt Lila. Half way through the movie, Lila elbows me and whispers, "You're in deep trouble." The Indian wedding depicted in that film would require years of preparation.
For our situation, the design for the mandap has to allow pre-cut and pre-drilled pieces to be quickly assembled on the morning of the wedding, then easily disassembled after the ceremony in a facility we are renting for one day only. Further, the mandap should be light-weight but sturdy enough to stand 8 feet tall with a 12 foot span supporting a heavy load of flowers.
I come up with a plan of 2x2 posts, one at each corner, supporting a top frame of doubled 1x3's, one on each side of the post with short pieces of 2x2 blocking along the middle. I'm a little nervous about that 12 foot span of doubled 1x3's. I wouldn't want some impetuous teenager to try to do chin-ups. For flowers, though, it should hold.
 | |
| Napkin sketch of the mandap design |
I buy clear heart redwood for the posts, clear select redwood for the beams. I stain it with a wash of white, rendering it light in color with the grain still visible.
Meanwhile, since a wedding party will be held at our home, I have a self-imposed deadline to finish the construction of a house I began building in 1979. What remains is what we call "the powder room," which is simply a half-bath (why do people call a room with neither shower nor bath a half-bath?). With help from my son - plus heavy doses of ibuprofen for my back - I finish the job two days before the wedding. It's taken 23 years, a major earthquake, a furnace fire, a termite infestation, several falling trees, the damage of 3 dogs, the life cycle of 3 pickup trucks, the raising of 3 children, and now a wedding to complete this house. But it's done, with a mandap for a bonus.
Flowers must be cheaper in India. There is no way we can afford to cover this mandap with blossoms. We do buy a truckload of color for the ceremony and the mandap combined. What we also have - in wretched excess - is English ivy, an invasive species that has overwhelmed our redwood forest and our own yard in particular. The deep green leaves of ivy will look wonderful when twined among the flowers. Our friends Heidi and Richard gather ivy from the yard and wrap experimental arrangements around the 1x3's, weaving blossoms.
Other dramas unfold. Indian custom has the groom arriving at the wedding astride a white horse. Many phone calls fail to overcome problems of logistics and insurance and such simple questions as who will clean up the rented facility after the horse is gone? Finally I have a suggestion: could the groom arrive in a white Mustang convertible? Everyone embraces the idea. The white Mustang is rented.
Another last-minute drama involves an expired passport, frantic phone calls, copious amounts of money, the wrong shipping label on a FedEx overnight, the package lost in Memphis, more phone calls - and hours before the wedding, the passport is delivered. Whew.
Now I have a truckload of partly flower-and-ivy bedecked lumber, each a separate piece, ready to assemble tomorrow. Tonight is the mehndi party.
A wedding is the joining of two families. In this case, it is the joining of two cultures as well. Tonight is Punjabi culture. We are guests of the groom's family, entering a different world. An Indian mehndi party involves gifts of jewelry, henna designs painted on hands.
The groom's entire extended family is here. The aunties are high-spirited live wires. There is Indian music, exuberant dancing - again, the aunties are wild - singing, food, drink, joy. These folk know how to celebrate a marriage.
My only worry: will the mandap, the focal point of tomorrow's ceremony, be acceptable? Will it even stand?
(The story continues here.)
(And then there's a postscript here.)
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Bad Toilet
Tuesday, May 24, 1977
Have you ever been furious at a toilet? Has it ever become personal? Have you ever shouted "FLUSH EVERYTHING AT ONCE!" to a contemptuous ceramic crapper? Have you ever completely disassembled and reassembled a commode, replacing every replaceable part, and the damn thing STILL LEAKS?
The particular loo that inspired my poem turned out to have an invisible hairline crack.
Meanwhile, my dog Quinn used to have a fascination with those same devices:
One day, alas, Quinn investigated too deeply. From the other room I heard a splash, a flush, a hollow bubbling sound - then silence. No one ever saw that dog again.
Just kidding...
Have you ever been furious at a toilet? Has it ever become personal? Have you ever shouted "FLUSH EVERYTHING AT ONCE!" to a contemptuous ceramic crapper? Have you ever completely disassembled and reassembled a commode, replacing every replaceable part, and the damn thing STILL LEAKS?
The EnemyOr as one of my ex-pat British clients said to me, "This loo ain't worth a shit."
I have fixed water closets
for six years
but this particular piece of china
simply squatted there,
insolent white porcelain
leering
leaking
mocking my deadlines
flushing with a hiss and gurgle
that I swear was saying
Piss on you, Plumber.
The particular loo that inspired my poem turned out to have an invisible hairline crack.
Meanwhile, my dog Quinn used to have a fascination with those same devices:
One day, alas, Quinn investigated too deeply. From the other room I heard a splash, a flush, a hollow bubbling sound - then silence. No one ever saw that dog again.
Just kidding...
Monday, May 23, 2011
The Plumb Bob Diploma: Cheap Labor (Part Five)
Monday, May 23, 1977
(This is the final episode of a saga that took place over several months, ending in May of 1977. It begins with Part One followed by Part Two and Part Three and Part Four.)
I dealt with the plumbing when Edgar was away at his lab. I also dealt with repairing the stucco - more outside work, more sunshine. Troweling the sloppy, sandy mix into stucco wire wasn't a newfound pleasure as some of the other tasks had proved to be, but it was another skill acquired. Late in the afternoon Rhoda would come home with the two kids and complain to me about the schedule slipping further and further behind - and about her husband seeming further and further away from his own kids. I came to dread the sight of her. She felt safe nagging me as a substitute for Edgar.
When Edgar was around, he wanted me to help him with carpentry - some additional framing, installing a window, hanging some doors. He seemed to enjoy banging nails. Maybe, like me, he needed more in his life than brain-work; he needed the satisfaction of working with his hands. He even cracked a joke once - the only one in the four months we worked together - something about substituting a Polish nail for a Finnish one. Finish nail, get it? Neither did I until he explained.
One door that I hung by myself turned into a botch. Edgar became upset and said he would dock me an hour's pay.
One of the "lost" carpenters dropped by when Edgar wasn't around. He asked if I'd seen a metal pry bar. As it happened, I had. It was in Edgar's tool closet.
"Unbelievable," the carpenter said. He grabbed the pry bar. "It's mine. I left it here by mistake. I didn't miss it until now. He never called me, never asked if I wanted it back. He just put it in his closet. He was gonna keep it. What's he paying you?"
"Seven dollars an hour."
The carpenter laughed. "Oh my God! And does he dock your pay if you make a mistake?"
"Yes."
"That's hilarious." The carpenter was guffawing. "Here's a word of advice. When you quit - and you will quit - don't tell him until after he's paid. He still owes me forty bucks."
The job dragged out. Edgar would tell me not to come for a week while he had many experiments to run. He didn't want me doing too much unless he could keep a watchful eye on me. He couldn't trust anybody.
I was happy to stay away. I had other jobs to do, for which I'd increased my rates. I knew a rate increase wouldn't fly with Edgar.
One Monday in May, the building inspector came for a plumbing inspection. He rejected everything. The drain system, planned and installed by the lost plumber, was undersized and used an S trap which was illegal. The vent system was unworkable. It needed a separate vent for the sink, another for the shower - another legacy of bad planning by the lost plumber. The water system was puzzling - "Why for the love of God did you use steel pipe?" - but legal except that the house needed a main shutoff valve. Edgar in his cheapness had never installed one, requiring me to traipse 30 feet across the lawn to the underground street valve, then 30 feet back every time I needed to shut off the water.
When the inspector departed, Edgar was dejected. Soon his wife would be home, and I didn't want to be there. "You owe me for twenty-seven hours last week and today," I said.
Silently, Edgar wrote out a check. Handing it to me, our eyes met, and we both knew I wasn't coming back. He didn't say I was fired; I didn't say that I quit. We both knew it was over. None of the shortcomings of the plumbing were my fault; I had simply inherited them. But I would be blamed.
I went straight to Edgar's bank and cashed the check before he could commit any hanky-panky. Only as I cashed it did I realize he'd paid me for 26 hours. He'd docked me one hour. When I'd told him he owed me for 27, I'd already docked myself down from 28.
Edgar owed me $7. He still does. I never went back.
After the bank I stopped at a house where I'd checked out a yard sale over the weekend. A man had been offering 200 square feet of tongue and groove knotty pine for $50. Now, this Monday, I was in luck. The man was there, and so was the knotty pine, unsold. We haggled. The man said he'd rather burn the wood than sell it for $5. Immediately his wife said she'd toss gasoline on it herself right this evening if he didn't get rid of it. I bought it for $7.50. On a whim, without haggling I also bought an old plumb bob for 25 cents.
I could be as frugal as Edgar. I could only hope I was more sensible.
I drove the truck home loaded with pine. In one hand I was cradling the plumb bob. It felt so solid, so simple, so honest. In some sense I was cradling my diploma. With my instincts plus a few tools, I would find what's plumb and true. Waiting at home were my wife, my infant child, my old dog.
I was a graduate of cheap labor.
(This is the final episode of a saga that took place over several months, ending in May of 1977. It begins with Part One followed by Part Two and Part Three and Part Four.)
I dealt with the plumbing when Edgar was away at his lab. I also dealt with repairing the stucco - more outside work, more sunshine. Troweling the sloppy, sandy mix into stucco wire wasn't a newfound pleasure as some of the other tasks had proved to be, but it was another skill acquired. Late in the afternoon Rhoda would come home with the two kids and complain to me about the schedule slipping further and further behind - and about her husband seeming further and further away from his own kids. I came to dread the sight of her. She felt safe nagging me as a substitute for Edgar.
When Edgar was around, he wanted me to help him with carpentry - some additional framing, installing a window, hanging some doors. He seemed to enjoy banging nails. Maybe, like me, he needed more in his life than brain-work; he needed the satisfaction of working with his hands. He even cracked a joke once - the only one in the four months we worked together - something about substituting a Polish nail for a Finnish one. Finish nail, get it? Neither did I until he explained.
One door that I hung by myself turned into a botch. Edgar became upset and said he would dock me an hour's pay.
One of the "lost" carpenters dropped by when Edgar wasn't around. He asked if I'd seen a metal pry bar. As it happened, I had. It was in Edgar's tool closet.
"Unbelievable," the carpenter said. He grabbed the pry bar. "It's mine. I left it here by mistake. I didn't miss it until now. He never called me, never asked if I wanted it back. He just put it in his closet. He was gonna keep it. What's he paying you?"
"Seven dollars an hour."
The carpenter laughed. "Oh my God! And does he dock your pay if you make a mistake?"
"Yes."
"That's hilarious." The carpenter was guffawing. "Here's a word of advice. When you quit - and you will quit - don't tell him until after he's paid. He still owes me forty bucks."
The job dragged out. Edgar would tell me not to come for a week while he had many experiments to run. He didn't want me doing too much unless he could keep a watchful eye on me. He couldn't trust anybody.
I was happy to stay away. I had other jobs to do, for which I'd increased my rates. I knew a rate increase wouldn't fly with Edgar.
One Monday in May, the building inspector came for a plumbing inspection. He rejected everything. The drain system, planned and installed by the lost plumber, was undersized and used an S trap which was illegal. The vent system was unworkable. It needed a separate vent for the sink, another for the shower - another legacy of bad planning by the lost plumber. The water system was puzzling - "Why for the love of God did you use steel pipe?" - but legal except that the house needed a main shutoff valve. Edgar in his cheapness had never installed one, requiring me to traipse 30 feet across the lawn to the underground street valve, then 30 feet back every time I needed to shut off the water.
When the inspector departed, Edgar was dejected. Soon his wife would be home, and I didn't want to be there. "You owe me for twenty-seven hours last week and today," I said.
Silently, Edgar wrote out a check. Handing it to me, our eyes met, and we both knew I wasn't coming back. He didn't say I was fired; I didn't say that I quit. We both knew it was over. None of the shortcomings of the plumbing were my fault; I had simply inherited them. But I would be blamed.
I went straight to Edgar's bank and cashed the check before he could commit any hanky-panky. Only as I cashed it did I realize he'd paid me for 26 hours. He'd docked me one hour. When I'd told him he owed me for 27, I'd already docked myself down from 28.
Edgar owed me $7. He still does. I never went back.
After the bank I stopped at a house where I'd checked out a yard sale over the weekend. A man had been offering 200 square feet of tongue and groove knotty pine for $50. Now, this Monday, I was in luck. The man was there, and so was the knotty pine, unsold. We haggled. The man said he'd rather burn the wood than sell it for $5. Immediately his wife said she'd toss gasoline on it herself right this evening if he didn't get rid of it. I bought it for $7.50. On a whim, without haggling I also bought an old plumb bob for 25 cents. I could be as frugal as Edgar. I could only hope I was more sensible.
I drove the truck home loaded with pine. In one hand I was cradling the plumb bob. It felt so solid, so simple, so honest. In some sense I was cradling my diploma. With my instincts plus a few tools, I would find what's plumb and true. Waiting at home were my wife, my infant child, my old dog.
I was a graduate of cheap labor.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Threading Pipe: Cheap Labor (Part Four)
April, 1977
(This is a continuation of a saga that took place over several months, ending in May of 1977. It begins with Part One followed by Part Two and Part Three.)
In April I began plumbing for Edgar. He'd "lost" his previous plumber, so I was picking up in the middle of somebody else's plan. It was a bad plan.
The drainpipes had been installed, but there were no vents except for one main stack, which was unfinished. The rules for plumbing vents are somewhat arcane. Cheap labor that I was, I was certainly no expert. I simply accepted the plan of the lost plumber and continued the main vent up through the roof. The assembly was easy: cast iron with no-hub joints.
The water pipes, again half-installed by the lost plumber, were galvanized steel. Again I was no expert, but I knew that nobody recommended steel pipes anymore. I asked Edgar why he wasn't using copper, and he replied, "Galvanized is cheaper."
It might be cheaper (at least in 1977) but it would corrode and eventually fail. Copper tubing would last forever - or at least for a human lifespan. Steel pipe would require more time - and more labor expense - to install. By providing cheap labor, I made it cost effective for Edgar to make a bad choice. And it was only cost effective in the short run. In the long run, 20 years later he - or more likely, some subsequent owner - would have to replace all those pipes which would mean tearing open ceilings and walls.
I'd been sweating copper pipes since high school. I don't even remember learning how - it just seemed like something I always knew. But I'd never cut threads into steel pipe.
Edgar had a threading tool - a cheap one, of course, hand-operated. He taught me the basics, and I set to work.
Threading pipe is muscle work, whole body work, shoulder and arm braced by your back and legs, a tight grip with the hand. I found it sensual: the musty scent of the cutting oil, the crackle of the blades as they gripped and gouged, the emerging grooves, the thin steel waste curling, dropping like silver hairs. I was set up outdoors, straining in the warm sunlight, strong, sweating, finding deep pleasure. I loved threading pipe. I tried to describe it once to a friend who was a psychology student. She said it sounded like the perfect sexual metaphor. I couldn't buy that, though, unless you find it erotic to cut grooves into the head of a penis.
So many of life's pleasures can be cheapened by a Freudian outlook. There's joy in the work of the body. There's also pain. There's defeat. Sport would be a better metaphor. I was a utility player - handy at any base, good field, no hit - in the minor leagues of cheap labor.
(Tomorrow, the final episode…)
(This is a continuation of a saga that took place over several months, ending in May of 1977. It begins with Part One followed by Part Two and Part Three.)
In April I began plumbing for Edgar. He'd "lost" his previous plumber, so I was picking up in the middle of somebody else's plan. It was a bad plan.
The drainpipes had been installed, but there were no vents except for one main stack, which was unfinished. The rules for plumbing vents are somewhat arcane. Cheap labor that I was, I was certainly no expert. I simply accepted the plan of the lost plumber and continued the main vent up through the roof. The assembly was easy: cast iron with no-hub joints.
The water pipes, again half-installed by the lost plumber, were galvanized steel. Again I was no expert, but I knew that nobody recommended steel pipes anymore. I asked Edgar why he wasn't using copper, and he replied, "Galvanized is cheaper."
It might be cheaper (at least in 1977) but it would corrode and eventually fail. Copper tubing would last forever - or at least for a human lifespan. Steel pipe would require more time - and more labor expense - to install. By providing cheap labor, I made it cost effective for Edgar to make a bad choice. And it was only cost effective in the short run. In the long run, 20 years later he - or more likely, some subsequent owner - would have to replace all those pipes which would mean tearing open ceilings and walls.
I'd been sweating copper pipes since high school. I don't even remember learning how - it just seemed like something I always knew. But I'd never cut threads into steel pipe.
Edgar had a threading tool - a cheap one, of course, hand-operated. He taught me the basics, and I set to work.
Threading pipe is muscle work, whole body work, shoulder and arm braced by your back and legs, a tight grip with the hand. I found it sensual: the musty scent of the cutting oil, the crackle of the blades as they gripped and gouged, the emerging grooves, the thin steel waste curling, dropping like silver hairs. I was set up outdoors, straining in the warm sunlight, strong, sweating, finding deep pleasure. I loved threading pipe. I tried to describe it once to a friend who was a psychology student. She said it sounded like the perfect sexual metaphor. I couldn't buy that, though, unless you find it erotic to cut grooves into the head of a penis.
So many of life's pleasures can be cheapened by a Freudian outlook. There's joy in the work of the body. There's also pain. There's defeat. Sport would be a better metaphor. I was a utility player - handy at any base, good field, no hit - in the minor leagues of cheap labor.
(Tomorrow, the final episode…)
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Neatness Counts: Cheap Labor (Part Three)
March, 1977
(This is a continuation of a saga that took place over several months, ending in May of 1977. It begins with Part One followed by Part Two.)
Having underestimated my skill at jacking up buildings (a skill unknown even to myself until then), Edgar next made the mistake of assuming I knew all about wiring. He bought a couple boxes of Romex and a bag full of electric boxes, and he told me to wire the two bedrooms, the utility room, the workshop, the one bath. Then he left me alone.
I thought I knew wiring. I'd done it before, but never on this scale and never in freshly-framed, bare stud walls where all your work is naked and visible.
The building inspector stepped in, took one look, and laughed. "This won't pass," he said.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Neatness counts," he said.
"It won't show," I said. "The Sheetrock will cover everything."
"Doesn't matter. If it's sloppy, it's a dead giveaway."
He then inspected every box, every staple. To his surprise he found that I had secured the Romex within twelve inches of each box and every four feet in straight runs, though he shook his head and muttered, "I shouldn't be looking at staples. You know why I have to? Because you didn't flatten the Romex into neat and tidy runs. It's twisted. Yeah, I know the electricity runs through it just the same, but it just reeks of cheap work."
In the end, he signed it off. I'd marked myself as cheap labor, but I'd passed. Never again would I run sloppy wires even though it doesn't matter to the electricity and it doesn't show to the outside world and clients like Edgar would never know the difference. It matters to the electrician. It's the mark of good workmanship, of professionalism, of pride. Neatness counts.
(More tomorrow…)
(This is a continuation of a saga that took place over several months, ending in May of 1977. It begins with Part One followed by Part Two.)
Having underestimated my skill at jacking up buildings (a skill unknown even to myself until then), Edgar next made the mistake of assuming I knew all about wiring. He bought a couple boxes of Romex and a bag full of electric boxes, and he told me to wire the two bedrooms, the utility room, the workshop, the one bath. Then he left me alone.
I thought I knew wiring. I'd done it before, but never on this scale and never in freshly-framed, bare stud walls where all your work is naked and visible.
The building inspector stepped in, took one look, and laughed. "This won't pass," he said.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Neatness counts," he said.
"It won't show," I said. "The Sheetrock will cover everything."
"Doesn't matter. If it's sloppy, it's a dead giveaway."
He then inspected every box, every staple. To his surprise he found that I had secured the Romex within twelve inches of each box and every four feet in straight runs, though he shook his head and muttered, "I shouldn't be looking at staples. You know why I have to? Because you didn't flatten the Romex into neat and tidy runs. It's twisted. Yeah, I know the electricity runs through it just the same, but it just reeks of cheap work."
In the end, he signed it off. I'd marked myself as cheap labor, but I'd passed. Never again would I run sloppy wires even though it doesn't matter to the electricity and it doesn't show to the outside world and clients like Edgar would never know the difference. It matters to the electrician. It's the mark of good workmanship, of professionalism, of pride. Neatness counts.
(More tomorrow…)
Friday, May 20, 2011
Yellow Hard Hat: Cheap Labor (Part Two)
Wednesday, March 2, 1977
(This is a continuation of a saga that took place over several months. Part One began in February of 1977.)
Edgar had collected a half dozen car jacks of dubious power and reliability. The plan was to raise the garage using one jack at each corner and one at the center of the two longer walls. Each jack would push on a 2x4 nailed as a ledger to the interior side of the wall. As the 2x4 was lifted, it would in turn raise the wall to which it was attached.
I had several qualms about this plan. The car jacks seemed puny compared to the mass of the garage. The 2x4's seemed equally puny as a way to transfer the load of each wall to the jack. The nails connecting the 2x4's to the walls would have to remain straight under tremendous stress - the same 16 penny nails that bend if you hit them slightly off center with a hammer. But my biggest qualm was that the 2x4's were attached to the interior of the walls, so to jack them I'd have to be standing inside the garage.
A few months earlier, I'd bought a hard hat at a garage sale for 25 cents. Made of yellow plastic, it had black lettering that said "PG and E." So far I'd never worn it. Today I did. If 20 tons of concrete and lumber and roofing asphalt were going to collapse on top of me, at least I would be wearing my yellow hard hat.
Edgar stood outside the garage and told me to start jacking. Being an idiot, I obeyed. Crouching at the sound of every creak, I was moving from jack to jack, raising them a sixteenth of an inch at a time. It took me four passes on each of six jacks to raise them one fourth of an inch. The only result was to embed the head of each jack one fourth of an inch into the soft wood of the 2x4's.
Impatient, Edgar marched into the garage and pumped one of the jacks up by a full inch. The wall groaned. You could hear cracks popping open in the stucco outside and then the pitter-pat of little chunks of plastered concrete striking the ground.
We both ran outside. The stress of lifting one corner so abruptly and unevenly had turned the exterior into a spiderweb of fractures. Still groaning, the wall settled back down to its original starting position, minus several nuggets of stucco.
Returning inside, I saw that the nails holding the 2x4 ledger were bowing, and the 2x4 was separating from the wall. The jack, meanwhile, had folded like a drinking straw. It was ruined. The good news was that we had somehow managed to avoid toppling the entire building onto its side. Another bright spot: nothing had caved in on top of us.
Something snapped in me. "You can't do it like this," I said. "You have to use a four by six. You have to bolt it to the frame. You have to rent some stronger jacks. You have to raise them in increments of one sixteenth of an inch - as I was trying to do."
Bear in mind that I had never jacked up a building before, nor had I seen it done, nor had I read anything about it. It simply seemed obvious.
Equally obvious was the fact that Edgar had no idea what he was doing. Now a curious reversal took place. I'd spoken with such authority - fury, actually - that Edgar assumed I was the expert, whereas before I'd assumed it was he. The yellow hard hat, too, seemed to invest me with a certain power.
"All right," Edgar said. Then he thought for a moment. "Don't say anything about this to my wife, okay?"
I'm sure that when his wife asked him about the cause of all those cracks in the stucco, he blamed it on me. No matter. Over the next two days, I did exactly what I'd proposed. Two wonderful days. Edgar went back to running his experiments, whatever they were, and left me alone.
I found inexplicable pleasure in lifting that building. Who knew? Jacking up houses may have been my calling, though in my life it became more of a hobby. And I fell instantly in love with that lowly tool, the bottle jack. Since then I've spent several summer vacations lifting small buildings, playing with bottle jacks. (If you're interested, I talk about it here.) Okay, I'm weird. It's who I am.
I don't wear the hard hat much. It's gathered several years of dust on a shelf in my basement workshop. But it stands for something basic, something good.
To lift a building, to fix the foundation, and then to bring it back down is gritty work, totally without glamor. Take joy wherever you find it. When I lower the jacks, when the old structure settles onto familiar and comfortable support, renewed and strengthened, I hear it moan with pleasure.
It's a lesson I learned while doing cheap labor.
(More tomorrow…)
(This is a continuation of a saga that took place over several months. Part One began in February of 1977.)
Edgar had collected a half dozen car jacks of dubious power and reliability. The plan was to raise the garage using one jack at each corner and one at the center of the two longer walls. Each jack would push on a 2x4 nailed as a ledger to the interior side of the wall. As the 2x4 was lifted, it would in turn raise the wall to which it was attached.
I had several qualms about this plan. The car jacks seemed puny compared to the mass of the garage. The 2x4's seemed equally puny as a way to transfer the load of each wall to the jack. The nails connecting the 2x4's to the walls would have to remain straight under tremendous stress - the same 16 penny nails that bend if you hit them slightly off center with a hammer. But my biggest qualm was that the 2x4's were attached to the interior of the walls, so to jack them I'd have to be standing inside the garage.
A few months earlier, I'd bought a hard hat at a garage sale for 25 cents. Made of yellow plastic, it had black lettering that said "PG and E." So far I'd never worn it. Today I did. If 20 tons of concrete and lumber and roofing asphalt were going to collapse on top of me, at least I would be wearing my yellow hard hat.
Edgar stood outside the garage and told me to start jacking. Being an idiot, I obeyed. Crouching at the sound of every creak, I was moving from jack to jack, raising them a sixteenth of an inch at a time. It took me four passes on each of six jacks to raise them one fourth of an inch. The only result was to embed the head of each jack one fourth of an inch into the soft wood of the 2x4's.
Impatient, Edgar marched into the garage and pumped one of the jacks up by a full inch. The wall groaned. You could hear cracks popping open in the stucco outside and then the pitter-pat of little chunks of plastered concrete striking the ground.
We both ran outside. The stress of lifting one corner so abruptly and unevenly had turned the exterior into a spiderweb of fractures. Still groaning, the wall settled back down to its original starting position, minus several nuggets of stucco.
Returning inside, I saw that the nails holding the 2x4 ledger were bowing, and the 2x4 was separating from the wall. The jack, meanwhile, had folded like a drinking straw. It was ruined. The good news was that we had somehow managed to avoid toppling the entire building onto its side. Another bright spot: nothing had caved in on top of us.
Something snapped in me. "You can't do it like this," I said. "You have to use a four by six. You have to bolt it to the frame. You have to rent some stronger jacks. You have to raise them in increments of one sixteenth of an inch - as I was trying to do."
Bear in mind that I had never jacked up a building before, nor had I seen it done, nor had I read anything about it. It simply seemed obvious.
Equally obvious was the fact that Edgar had no idea what he was doing. Now a curious reversal took place. I'd spoken with such authority - fury, actually - that Edgar assumed I was the expert, whereas before I'd assumed it was he. The yellow hard hat, too, seemed to invest me with a certain power.
"All right," Edgar said. Then he thought for a moment. "Don't say anything about this to my wife, okay?"
I'm sure that when his wife asked him about the cause of all those cracks in the stucco, he blamed it on me. No matter. Over the next two days, I did exactly what I'd proposed. Two wonderful days. Edgar went back to running his experiments, whatever they were, and left me alone.
I found inexplicable pleasure in lifting that building. Who knew? Jacking up houses may have been my calling, though in my life it became more of a hobby. And I fell instantly in love with that lowly tool, the bottle jack. Since then I've spent several summer vacations lifting small buildings, playing with bottle jacks. (If you're interested, I talk about it here.) Okay, I'm weird. It's who I am.
I don't wear the hard hat much. It's gathered several years of dust on a shelf in my basement workshop. But it stands for something basic, something good.
To lift a building, to fix the foundation, and then to bring it back down is gritty work, totally without glamor. Take joy wherever you find it. When I lower the jacks, when the old structure settles onto familiar and comfortable support, renewed and strengthened, I hear it moan with pleasure.
It's a lesson I learned while doing cheap labor.
(More tomorrow…)
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Cheap Labor (Part One)
Monday, February 28, 1977
(This saga took place over several months of 1977. It began in February and ended in May. For the sake of consolidation and continuity, I'm posting all of them in May.)
I learned how to thread pipe from a scientist named Edgar. He hired me because I'd posted an ad saying I'd do plumbing, carpentry, and electric work for $7 an hour (at the time, real plumbers were charging $30 and up). I thought the low rate would attract lots of calls - and it did.
Of course the low rate also served as a warning to clients: If he works so cheaply, he can't be skilled. And I wasn't. I was expanding my knowledge quickly working by trial and error, charging cheap rates for the trials and nothing for the errors. At a vocational training school with dollars instead of letters for a grading system, you learn fast.
The first lesson is this: Cheap labor is hired by cheap people.
Edgar was one of those cheapskates. I don't know what kind of science he was engaged in, only that upon hiring me he said he couldn't start until next week because "I've got a lot of experiments going." He was in the middle of converting a garage into two bedrooms and a bath. The job was taking longer than he expected because, he explained, "I keep losing carpenters."
A week later I began. Edgar and I worked side by side. With cold chisels we chipped away stucco at the base of the garage in preparation for jacking up the foundation. Until now I had never chipped stucco nor jacked a foundation. I'd only been in business for 6 months, plunging blindly into areas I knew nothing about. Now I was getting on-the-job training from a man who, I later realized, knew very little himself. (Chipping the stucco, for example, a two-day job by hand, would have taken 30 minutes with a rented demo hammer.)
Edgar was a small man, bald, with a New Jersey accent. Late in the day his wife Rhoda came home with two small children. Rhoda was a pediatrician with a New Jersey accent. She asked Edgar about a piece of wood that a previous carpenter had cut wrong. Edgar said, "He paid for it."
I began to understand why Edgar kept "losing" carpenters. And why was Edgar, a highly educated scientist with a wife who was a pediatrician, both employed full time at presumably well-paid jobs, taking a day off to chip stucco?
Rhoda and Edgar had an edgy conversation about how he should stop work and eat dinner with his children. He said he was already behind schedule. Rhoda, rolling her eyes, said she was very aware that he was behind schedule. Then she turned to me. "What do you think of a man who won't take time to eat dinner with his children?"
Caught in crossfire, asked to choose sides, I did the best I could: "I would be quite happy to call it a day."
Edgar said his goal was to finish the chipping today. Rhoda returned to the house, muttering to herself.
Edgar and his vanishing carpenters had already framed the walls inside the garage. In my ignorance - and to further my education - I asked, "Why didn't you raise the garage before doing the framing inside?"
"Because the @#$%^&*!! inspector rejected the framing. He said the @#$%^&*!! ceiling wasn't high enough. He wanted more @#$%^&*!! headroom. I showed him the plans that his own @#$%^&*!! building department had approved. He said just because the @#$%^&*!! plans were approved didn't mean I could break the @#$%^&*!! building code."
Edgar's wife reappeared. Sternly she said, "Eddie, that's enough. The kids can hear you. Come inside right now. You're grounded for the evening."
With a sheepish look, Edgar followed her inside without a glance at me, not a word. I was a tool, set aside at the end of the day.
(More tomorrow…)
(This saga took place over several months of 1977. It began in February and ended in May. For the sake of consolidation and continuity, I'm posting all of them in May.)
I learned how to thread pipe from a scientist named Edgar. He hired me because I'd posted an ad saying I'd do plumbing, carpentry, and electric work for $7 an hour (at the time, real plumbers were charging $30 and up). I thought the low rate would attract lots of calls - and it did.
Of course the low rate also served as a warning to clients: If he works so cheaply, he can't be skilled. And I wasn't. I was expanding my knowledge quickly working by trial and error, charging cheap rates for the trials and nothing for the errors. At a vocational training school with dollars instead of letters for a grading system, you learn fast.
The first lesson is this: Cheap labor is hired by cheap people.
Edgar was one of those cheapskates. I don't know what kind of science he was engaged in, only that upon hiring me he said he couldn't start until next week because "I've got a lot of experiments going." He was in the middle of converting a garage into two bedrooms and a bath. The job was taking longer than he expected because, he explained, "I keep losing carpenters."
A week later I began. Edgar and I worked side by side. With cold chisels we chipped away stucco at the base of the garage in preparation for jacking up the foundation. Until now I had never chipped stucco nor jacked a foundation. I'd only been in business for 6 months, plunging blindly into areas I knew nothing about. Now I was getting on-the-job training from a man who, I later realized, knew very little himself. (Chipping the stucco, for example, a two-day job by hand, would have taken 30 minutes with a rented demo hammer.)
Edgar was a small man, bald, with a New Jersey accent. Late in the day his wife Rhoda came home with two small children. Rhoda was a pediatrician with a New Jersey accent. She asked Edgar about a piece of wood that a previous carpenter had cut wrong. Edgar said, "He paid for it."
I began to understand why Edgar kept "losing" carpenters. And why was Edgar, a highly educated scientist with a wife who was a pediatrician, both employed full time at presumably well-paid jobs, taking a day off to chip stucco?
Rhoda and Edgar had an edgy conversation about how he should stop work and eat dinner with his children. He said he was already behind schedule. Rhoda, rolling her eyes, said she was very aware that he was behind schedule. Then she turned to me. "What do you think of a man who won't take time to eat dinner with his children?"
Caught in crossfire, asked to choose sides, I did the best I could: "I would be quite happy to call it a day."
Edgar said his goal was to finish the chipping today. Rhoda returned to the house, muttering to herself.
Edgar and his vanishing carpenters had already framed the walls inside the garage. In my ignorance - and to further my education - I asked, "Why didn't you raise the garage before doing the framing inside?"
"Because the @#$%^&*!! inspector rejected the framing. He said the @#$%^&*!! ceiling wasn't high enough. He wanted more @#$%^&*!! headroom. I showed him the plans that his own @#$%^&*!! building department had approved. He said just because the @#$%^&*!! plans were approved didn't mean I could break the @#$%^&*!! building code."
Edgar's wife reappeared. Sternly she said, "Eddie, that's enough. The kids can hear you. Come inside right now. You're grounded for the evening."
With a sheepish look, Edgar followed her inside without a glance at me, not a word. I was a tool, set aside at the end of the day.
(More tomorrow…)
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Shooting the Dog
Friday, May 18, 2001
A long time ago before a tree fell on his house, my neighbor George had a wonderful Australian shepherd dog. She was unspayed. George grew up on a farm in Illinois.
One day George came to my front door, obviously upset, and said incoherently: "Do you have a rifle you might shot my dog I gotta do something."
"George," I said, "I would never shoot your dog. And yes, I have a rifle."
As it turned out, he wasn't accusing me. He wanted to borrow my rifle so he could shoot his neighbor's dog, Gandalf.
Gandalf was an aggressive free-roaming black lab who was the bad boy of La Honda. I would have shot him myself after he latched onto my old German shepherd with teeth like a Vise Grip. Without time to fetch the rifle, though, I'd grabbed a handy two-by-four and whacked at Gandalf until he let go. I hit him so hard, the two-by-four broke in half. If it hadn't been such a low-grade piece of lumber, I would have killed him. After that incident, Gandalf stayed away from my house.
Today, though, Gandalf had torn a hole in a vent screen at George's house and somehow wriggled through the 6" by 12" opening, depositing red blood and black fur on the wires. Once inside, he had performed intimate activities with George's Australian shepherd, who was in heat and therefore confined to quarters. Now Gandalf was trapped in George's house, less eager to exit through that barbed opening than he had been to enter.
"It'll take me a minute to get the rifle," I said.
"I'll wait," George said.
At the time, I stored the gun in the attic and the ammo in the basement - separate - where my kids wouldn't find them. (And isn't it odd that I, the crunchy granola type, kept a rifle while George, the farm boy, did not? A story for another day.) By the time I brought the rifle outside to George, he'd changed his mind. "You really can't stop Mother Nature," he said. "Can I give you a puppy?"
"Not a half-Gandalf," I said.
So anyway, I'd forgotten about this incident and twenty years had passed. Then I got a call from Isabella about another house needing upscale lighting. By this time Isabella was popular and as a result I was crawling attics of the nouveau riche all over the Silicon Valley.
Isabella brought me to the home of Helena, a buxom blond woman. The house was a three-ring circus. In one ring, a couple of carpenters were replacing aluminum windows with wooden-sash models. Helena would pass by, tell the carpenters that two side-by-side windows were slightly out of alignment, and move on. The carpenters would spend 15 minutes removing and re-installing one of the frames, and then Helena would happen by and claim one corner was higher than the other. The carpenters with spirit levels would show that it was not.
Meanwhile a young teenage girl entered the home followed by five teenage boys, all of whom seemed older than the girl. They went to the kitchen where lemonade and peanut butter were put into play along with a radio and loud conversation. The girl seemed smiley but somewhat overwhelmed.
And in the third ring, Helena, Isabella and I discussed options for lighting.
Eventually we had a plan. Helena told the carpenters that their window was utterly unsatisfactory, then marched to the kitchen and ordered all the young men to leave. Respectfully, they departed. Angrily, the daughter said, "You're such a tight-ass." Then she ran upstairs.
Helena sighed. To Isabella she said, "She's fourteen and she's built like Barbie. I want her to handle it better than I did at that age. But I can't tell her a thing."
That's what made me think of Gandalf. "You can't stop Mother Nature," I said.
Helena looked at me like I was some random creep.
Maybe what I should have said was: Confinement won't work. Black wizards are out there.
Though I'd invested a couple hours in the estimate, I turned down the job. Helena wouldn't be any more happy with my lights than she was with the carpenters' windows.
At least I could walk away from it. Unlike the daughter.
Isabella to my surprise didn't try to change my mind. "It's true," Isabella said. "She's a tight-ass." And I was thinking: Later, Helena, you'll be asking to borrow my rifle.
A long time ago before a tree fell on his house, my neighbor George had a wonderful Australian shepherd dog. She was unspayed. George grew up on a farm in Illinois.
One day George came to my front door, obviously upset, and said incoherently: "Do you have a rifle you might shot my dog I gotta do something."
"George," I said, "I would never shoot your dog. And yes, I have a rifle."
As it turned out, he wasn't accusing me. He wanted to borrow my rifle so he could shoot his neighbor's dog, Gandalf.
Gandalf was an aggressive free-roaming black lab who was the bad boy of La Honda. I would have shot him myself after he latched onto my old German shepherd with teeth like a Vise Grip. Without time to fetch the rifle, though, I'd grabbed a handy two-by-four and whacked at Gandalf until he let go. I hit him so hard, the two-by-four broke in half. If it hadn't been such a low-grade piece of lumber, I would have killed him. After that incident, Gandalf stayed away from my house.
Today, though, Gandalf had torn a hole in a vent screen at George's house and somehow wriggled through the 6" by 12" opening, depositing red blood and black fur on the wires. Once inside, he had performed intimate activities with George's Australian shepherd, who was in heat and therefore confined to quarters. Now Gandalf was trapped in George's house, less eager to exit through that barbed opening than he had been to enter.
"It'll take me a minute to get the rifle," I said.
"I'll wait," George said.
At the time, I stored the gun in the attic and the ammo in the basement - separate - where my kids wouldn't find them. (And isn't it odd that I, the crunchy granola type, kept a rifle while George, the farm boy, did not? A story for another day.) By the time I brought the rifle outside to George, he'd changed his mind. "You really can't stop Mother Nature," he said. "Can I give you a puppy?"
"Not a half-Gandalf," I said.
So anyway, I'd forgotten about this incident and twenty years had passed. Then I got a call from Isabella about another house needing upscale lighting. By this time Isabella was popular and as a result I was crawling attics of the nouveau riche all over the Silicon Valley.
Isabella brought me to the home of Helena, a buxom blond woman. The house was a three-ring circus. In one ring, a couple of carpenters were replacing aluminum windows with wooden-sash models. Helena would pass by, tell the carpenters that two side-by-side windows were slightly out of alignment, and move on. The carpenters would spend 15 minutes removing and re-installing one of the frames, and then Helena would happen by and claim one corner was higher than the other. The carpenters with spirit levels would show that it was not.
Meanwhile a young teenage girl entered the home followed by five teenage boys, all of whom seemed older than the girl. They went to the kitchen where lemonade and peanut butter were put into play along with a radio and loud conversation. The girl seemed smiley but somewhat overwhelmed.
And in the third ring, Helena, Isabella and I discussed options for lighting.
Eventually we had a plan. Helena told the carpenters that their window was utterly unsatisfactory, then marched to the kitchen and ordered all the young men to leave. Respectfully, they departed. Angrily, the daughter said, "You're such a tight-ass." Then she ran upstairs.
Helena sighed. To Isabella she said, "She's fourteen and she's built like Barbie. I want her to handle it better than I did at that age. But I can't tell her a thing."
That's what made me think of Gandalf. "You can't stop Mother Nature," I said.
Helena looked at me like I was some random creep.
Maybe what I should have said was: Confinement won't work. Black wizards are out there.
Though I'd invested a couple hours in the estimate, I turned down the job. Helena wouldn't be any more happy with my lights than she was with the carpenters' windows.
At least I could walk away from it. Unlike the daughter.
Isabella to my surprise didn't try to change my mind. "It's true," Isabella said. "She's a tight-ass." And I was thinking: Later, Helena, you'll be asking to borrow my rifle.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Dee Ann and Decor
Saturday, May 17, 2003
Isabella the decorator calls: "I try to be flexible. I try to give people what they want - only slightly better in taste than what they think they want. That's my job. But I can't even begin at that house. I give you Dee Ann. And she is truly a gift. I told her to call you for some downlights. You'll like her. It comes with benefits if you want. She owns a mortuary."
"Benefits? You mean I get a free burial?"
"I mean she enjoys life. She works with death."
It's a ranch house in a comfy neighborhood of 1960's ranch houses. There's a big new Cadillac in the driveway. You don't see many of these land yachts in the Silicon Valley. They just aren't fashionable here.
Dee Ann is a heavily decorated woman with a heavily decorated house protected by steel security gates. Not one wrinkle breaks the surface of her face.
Indoors it's a jungle of expensive kitsch. There are angels, ceramic kittens, gaudy clocks, and about a dozen repro statues of Aphrodite. There's jaunty Muzak piped into every room. In the back yard there are fountains, marble turtles, a hot tub along with a massive brick bar and barbecue covered by semi-transparent plastic corrugated roofing. And more Muzak.
Dee Ann has removed her silk jacket to reveal a semi-transparent gauzy blouse with nothing underneath except gravity-defying, sculpted body parts. In Dee Ann's business restoring bodies is the norm. I'm surrounded by stone-solid Aphrodites.
She has mixed herself some kind of neon-green cocktail. I swear that drink would glow in the dark. She sips and watches me cut holes in her ceiling.
"Don't worry when you go in the attic," she says. "We don't keep our skeletons up there."
"That's a relief."
"Want a drink?" she asks. "Take a break?"
"I really can't," I say. And I won't. "I've got jobs lined up. I can't take the time."
"If you don't take time," Dee Ann says, "time takes you."
Isabella the decorator calls: "I try to be flexible. I try to give people what they want - only slightly better in taste than what they think they want. That's my job. But I can't even begin at that house. I give you Dee Ann. And she is truly a gift. I told her to call you for some downlights. You'll like her. It comes with benefits if you want. She owns a mortuary."
"Benefits? You mean I get a free burial?"
"I mean she enjoys life. She works with death."
It's a ranch house in a comfy neighborhood of 1960's ranch houses. There's a big new Cadillac in the driveway. You don't see many of these land yachts in the Silicon Valley. They just aren't fashionable here.
Dee Ann is a heavily decorated woman with a heavily decorated house protected by steel security gates. Not one wrinkle breaks the surface of her face.
Indoors it's a jungle of expensive kitsch. There are angels, ceramic kittens, gaudy clocks, and about a dozen repro statues of Aphrodite. There's jaunty Muzak piped into every room. In the back yard there are fountains, marble turtles, a hot tub along with a massive brick bar and barbecue covered by semi-transparent plastic corrugated roofing. And more Muzak.
Dee Ann has removed her silk jacket to reveal a semi-transparent gauzy blouse with nothing underneath except gravity-defying, sculpted body parts. In Dee Ann's business restoring bodies is the norm. I'm surrounded by stone-solid Aphrodites.
She has mixed herself some kind of neon-green cocktail. I swear that drink would glow in the dark. She sips and watches me cut holes in her ceiling.
"Don't worry when you go in the attic," she says. "We don't keep our skeletons up there."
"That's a relief."
"Want a drink?" she asks. "Take a break?"
"I really can't," I say. And I won't. "I've got jobs lined up. I can't take the time."
"If you don't take time," Dee Ann says, "time takes you."
Monday, May 16, 2011
Jerry the Tile Man
May, 1986
Jerry lived by the creek down the hill from me. He scuffed out a living doing odd jobs. He was a short man with eyeglasses, rough speech, somewhat older than me.
We'd just put in our septic system - this would be about 1980. Due to some poorly-planned tractor work, we'd lost our topsoil and were left with a hillside of bare clay.
I hired Jerry to rototill the hillside. He did the job over several hot days, hard work for cheap pay. We talked a bit. Though his speech was unschooled, there was something respectful in his manner, the way he'd adjust his glasses, cock his head to the side, and squint up at you as he spoke. He didn't curse. He was good with machines, if coaxing and maintaining that old rototiller was any indication.
In those subtle ways you can't quite explain, you sensed that you could trust this guy, that there was a history to him - and a future - of more than odd jobs. Maybe his life had taken a detour. Maybe the world had chosen him for random bad luck. Jerry was guided by a moral core and would find his way back.
Around town Jerry and I would see each other from time to time, exchange a few words, pass on.
One evening I brought my kids to the La Honda school so they could roller skate on the flat parking lot. At the same time, an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting was taking place in the school multipurpose room. When the AA meeting ended, among the people walking out was Jerry.
Another time at the school, Jerry was among a group at an adult literacy class. I thought of the time I'd shown Jerry a newspaper clipping and he'd said he didn't have his reading glasses.
All this time, Jerry was fixing up the old wreck of a house he'd bought down by the creek. He gave me a tour of what he'd done. This was an honor, as Jerry didn't like having visitors. The place was magnificent, a work of love, a museum of self-taught craftsmanship. Among his treasures was a bathroom of wonderful tiles. I asked if he liked tile work. Yes. I offered him a job at my house.
Jerry, I discovered, was a natural designer. He talked me into adding an alcove between the studs, which would add difficulty to the project but didn't seem to worry him. He suggested adding a corner soap dish he'd found at a flea market. He was a perfectionist. He laid a solid base and then meticulously, artistically set the tile. A natural craftsman. Some people are born to it.
I recommended Jerry to some clients of mine.
At one job I removed a toilet for a wealthy stockbroker and his wife. Jerry would re-tile the floor, and then I would install a new water closet. Jerry asked if he could haul the old crapper away, offering some cockamamie story: "I want to break it up and spread it on my driveway." Of course it was fine with the stockbroker.
Later I asked Jerry, "Did you really break up that toilet?" It was a one-piece lo-boy model, once considered the Mercedes of toilets around here.
"Of course not," Jerry said. "I just didn't want them to realize what it was worth."
He had no idea what world these people lived in, how trivial small sums of money would be to them, how they would never engage in something as demeaning as the sale of a 20-year-old toilet.
I called Jerry back to my house for another tile project, this one a fireplace. He asked if my clients were happy. I told him my clients loved his work, and he should be charging what he was worth. He was billing $15 an hour when the going rate was $30-40.
While he set tile around my fireplace, Jerry told me a bit about his life. He grew up near San Francisco. He and his wife were high school sweethearts. Jerry took over his father’s liquor store. One day three men held up the store. They made everybody lie on the floor. Jerry thought he was going to die. The men ran out. Jerry ran out after them with a pistol and fired six shots. He hit one guy in the shoulder, who was arrested when he went to the hospital. Jerry was in trouble for shooting a fleeing man. And Jerry decided he’d had enough. He got out of the business and moved to La Honda. It was the beginning of a bad period, he said. Then cocking his head with a squinty half-smile he said, "Lately I think this is the beginning of a better one."
I'd given him a break just when he needed it. I hired him, then recommended him to clients, got him started on a path where he had a calling. Mostly, of course, he did it himself. Rehab jobs aren't always of houses, and the best are the ones you do yourself.
At the end of the fireplace job, he gave me a bill. The labor charge was at $35 an hour. I had to laugh.
Jerry was back.
Jerry lived by the creek down the hill from me. He scuffed out a living doing odd jobs. He was a short man with eyeglasses, rough speech, somewhat older than me.
We'd just put in our septic system - this would be about 1980. Due to some poorly-planned tractor work, we'd lost our topsoil and were left with a hillside of bare clay.
I hired Jerry to rototill the hillside. He did the job over several hot days, hard work for cheap pay. We talked a bit. Though his speech was unschooled, there was something respectful in his manner, the way he'd adjust his glasses, cock his head to the side, and squint up at you as he spoke. He didn't curse. He was good with machines, if coaxing and maintaining that old rototiller was any indication.
In those subtle ways you can't quite explain, you sensed that you could trust this guy, that there was a history to him - and a future - of more than odd jobs. Maybe his life had taken a detour. Maybe the world had chosen him for random bad luck. Jerry was guided by a moral core and would find his way back.
Around town Jerry and I would see each other from time to time, exchange a few words, pass on.
One evening I brought my kids to the La Honda school so they could roller skate on the flat parking lot. At the same time, an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting was taking place in the school multipurpose room. When the AA meeting ended, among the people walking out was Jerry.
Another time at the school, Jerry was among a group at an adult literacy class. I thought of the time I'd shown Jerry a newspaper clipping and he'd said he didn't have his reading glasses.
All this time, Jerry was fixing up the old wreck of a house he'd bought down by the creek. He gave me a tour of what he'd done. This was an honor, as Jerry didn't like having visitors. The place was magnificent, a work of love, a museum of self-taught craftsmanship. Among his treasures was a bathroom of wonderful tiles. I asked if he liked tile work. Yes. I offered him a job at my house.
Jerry, I discovered, was a natural designer. He talked me into adding an alcove between the studs, which would add difficulty to the project but didn't seem to worry him. He suggested adding a corner soap dish he'd found at a flea market. He was a perfectionist. He laid a solid base and then meticulously, artistically set the tile. A natural craftsman. Some people are born to it.
I recommended Jerry to some clients of mine.
At one job I removed a toilet for a wealthy stockbroker and his wife. Jerry would re-tile the floor, and then I would install a new water closet. Jerry asked if he could haul the old crapper away, offering some cockamamie story: "I want to break it up and spread it on my driveway." Of course it was fine with the stockbroker.
Later I asked Jerry, "Did you really break up that toilet?" It was a one-piece lo-boy model, once considered the Mercedes of toilets around here.
"Of course not," Jerry said. "I just didn't want them to realize what it was worth."
He had no idea what world these people lived in, how trivial small sums of money would be to them, how they would never engage in something as demeaning as the sale of a 20-year-old toilet.
I called Jerry back to my house for another tile project, this one a fireplace. He asked if my clients were happy. I told him my clients loved his work, and he should be charging what he was worth. He was billing $15 an hour when the going rate was $30-40.
While he set tile around my fireplace, Jerry told me a bit about his life. He grew up near San Francisco. He and his wife were high school sweethearts. Jerry took over his father’s liquor store. One day three men held up the store. They made everybody lie on the floor. Jerry thought he was going to die. The men ran out. Jerry ran out after them with a pistol and fired six shots. He hit one guy in the shoulder, who was arrested when he went to the hospital. Jerry was in trouble for shooting a fleeing man. And Jerry decided he’d had enough. He got out of the business and moved to La Honda. It was the beginning of a bad period, he said. Then cocking his head with a squinty half-smile he said, "Lately I think this is the beginning of a better one."
I'd given him a break just when he needed it. I hired him, then recommended him to clients, got him started on a path where he had a calling. Mostly, of course, he did it himself. Rehab jobs aren't always of houses, and the best are the ones you do yourself.
At the end of the fireplace job, he gave me a bill. The labor charge was at $35 an hour. I had to laugh.
Jerry was back.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
The Old Red Raleigh
Tuesday, May 15, 1982
In cleaning out the garage one Sunday afternoon I come upon my red Raleigh bicycle, a three-speed with coaster brakes. Now the gears are frozen, brakes locked, tires flat. Spokes have popped. Shoots of grass sprout from the leather seat. When I bought that bike, Eisenhower was president.
In my unsentimental out-with-the-crap mood, I toss the bike on top of the pile of garbage - old sinks, a warped door, shredded screens - in the back of my truck. Which is where my son finds it.
Jesse is all of five years old. His eyes are wide: "What's that?"
"My old bike. From when I was a kid. Tomorrow it's going to the dump."
"You're throwing it away?"
"It's a wreck, Jesse." Frame rusty, pedals stuck. Like my body.
"Aren't you going to fix it?"
"It's too old."
"If I fix it, can I have it?"
From birth my son has grown up watching me fix things. He simply believes I can repair anything - or at least that I'll make an attempt. Now he wants to try.
"Jesse, this bike would be too big for you even if you could fix it. I got it when I was twelve years old. It'll be seven years before you could reach the pedals."
"I'll let you use it. Until I can."
"I think it's beyond help."
He scrapes at it with a screwdriver, bangs it with a wrench, rubs it with an oily rag. He has no effect. The pedals are frozen in place. With no idea what to do, he pounds on random parts, squirts random WD-40 or sits, chin on fist, studying.
I do yard chores. Jesse works on the bike. For three hours.
Three hours! This is a child in kindergarten.
At supper it's all he can talk about. My wife and I try to guide him down, lower his expectations. We talk about the value of experience even when you don't succeed. He won't listen. My wife asks me, "Do you have to dump it tomorrow?"
"I'll leave it here."
The next day, Monday, there's little time after school. Jesse flails at the bike. More oil. More banging. I'm too busy to see exactly what he's doing.
Tuesday there's more time after school. I go out to the driveway and help. Or at least ease the pain of failure. Oil has been wicking, penetrating for two days.
He's standing on a pedal with both feet, jumping up and down.
"What are you doing?"
"If I can loosen this pedal, maybe the wheels will move."
"It's not the pedal. It's the axle bearings."
"If I could just move this pedal." Now he bangs on it with a hammer.
I'm fond of this old machine. From age twelve I rode it in an expanding circle over the streets of suburban Maryland to the baseball diamond, and later the movie theater, and later to the house of a girl. Eventually I rode it on some mean streets in Philadelphia and then - strapped to the back of a Volkswagen - the Raleigh moved across a continent. For three years I rode it to my job on the graveyard shift, a midnight ride covering ten miles. I'd operate a computer through the night, then pedal home another ten miles at dawn. I was riding an anachronism, a three-speed with coaster brakes in a land of ten-speeds with hand brakes. And I had married that girl.
To Jesse I say, "You need some Liquid Wrench."
I squirt it into crannies and orifices.
Bracing my feet on the frame and my back against the garage, getting a good grip on the wheel I pull with all my might.
"Help me, Jesse."
He puts his weight into it, all forty pounds.
It moves! Was it the wheel that groaned, or was it my spine?
More oil. A loosening and tightening of bolts. A flooding sensation of relief, of peace: I fix things. We fix things, my son and I. We'll have to buy a new front wheel. A new tire for the rear. Probably have to replace that old Sturmey-Archer three speed shifting lever - do they still make them? No matter, we'll find a way. Bless the children for their foolish hope.
"You got yourself a bike, son."
In cleaning out the garage one Sunday afternoon I come upon my red Raleigh bicycle, a three-speed with coaster brakes. Now the gears are frozen, brakes locked, tires flat. Spokes have popped. Shoots of grass sprout from the leather seat. When I bought that bike, Eisenhower was president.
In my unsentimental out-with-the-crap mood, I toss the bike on top of the pile of garbage - old sinks, a warped door, shredded screens - in the back of my truck. Which is where my son finds it.
Jesse is all of five years old. His eyes are wide: "What's that?"
"My old bike. From when I was a kid. Tomorrow it's going to the dump."
"You're throwing it away?"
"It's a wreck, Jesse." Frame rusty, pedals stuck. Like my body.
"Aren't you going to fix it?"
"It's too old."
"If I fix it, can I have it?"
From birth my son has grown up watching me fix things. He simply believes I can repair anything - or at least that I'll make an attempt. Now he wants to try. "Jesse, this bike would be too big for you even if you could fix it. I got it when I was twelve years old. It'll be seven years before you could reach the pedals."
"I'll let you use it. Until I can."
"I think it's beyond help."
He scrapes at it with a screwdriver, bangs it with a wrench, rubs it with an oily rag. He has no effect. The pedals are frozen in place. With no idea what to do, he pounds on random parts, squirts random WD-40 or sits, chin on fist, studying.
I do yard chores. Jesse works on the bike. For three hours.
Three hours! This is a child in kindergarten.
At supper it's all he can talk about. My wife and I try to guide him down, lower his expectations. We talk about the value of experience even when you don't succeed. He won't listen. My wife asks me, "Do you have to dump it tomorrow?"
"I'll leave it here."
The next day, Monday, there's little time after school. Jesse flails at the bike. More oil. More banging. I'm too busy to see exactly what he's doing.
Tuesday there's more time after school. I go out to the driveway and help. Or at least ease the pain of failure. Oil has been wicking, penetrating for two days.
He's standing on a pedal with both feet, jumping up and down.
"What are you doing?"
"If I can loosen this pedal, maybe the wheels will move."
"It's not the pedal. It's the axle bearings."
"If I could just move this pedal." Now he bangs on it with a hammer.
I'm fond of this old machine. From age twelve I rode it in an expanding circle over the streets of suburban Maryland to the baseball diamond, and later the movie theater, and later to the house of a girl. Eventually I rode it on some mean streets in Philadelphia and then - strapped to the back of a Volkswagen - the Raleigh moved across a continent. For three years I rode it to my job on the graveyard shift, a midnight ride covering ten miles. I'd operate a computer through the night, then pedal home another ten miles at dawn. I was riding an anachronism, a three-speed with coaster brakes in a land of ten-speeds with hand brakes. And I had married that girl.
To Jesse I say, "You need some Liquid Wrench."
I squirt it into crannies and orifices.
Bracing my feet on the frame and my back against the garage, getting a good grip on the wheel I pull with all my might.
"Help me, Jesse."
He puts his weight into it, all forty pounds.
It moves! Was it the wheel that groaned, or was it my spine?
More oil. A loosening and tightening of bolts. A flooding sensation of relief, of peace: I fix things. We fix things, my son and I. We'll have to buy a new front wheel. A new tire for the rear. Probably have to replace that old Sturmey-Archer three speed shifting lever - do they still make them? No matter, we'll find a way. Bless the children for their foolish hope.
"You got yourself a bike, son."
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Boy Scout Pocketknife
Saturday, May 14, 1983
In the garage I open a drawer and am face to face with a mama rat, three babes at her teats.
For one moment we gape.
Her instincts are faster. She leaps to the floor with a flop, babes clinging, dragging. She’s gone.
In seconds I destroy her home.
Beneath the nest, soaked in life’s liquids, lies my old pocketknife, Official Boy Scout model, now rusted, stinking, filthy. Wrecked.
With this knife I whittled wood, punched leather, opened cans, played mumbledepeg, sliced legs off frogs. (Sorry.) More recently it's fallen into abuse: cutting insulation batts, trimming asphalt shingles, or just poking wood in search of termites.
My son Jesse wants it. First grade.
I say, “It’s ruined.”
Jesse says, “I’ll fix it.”
“What will you do with it?”
“Cut things.”
He’s six. Too young. “You have scissors to cut.”
“I want it.”
In six years I’ve learned to recognize need. What is it with boys and knives? I bought this - drained my life savings - in 1955. I wanted it. My parents had doubts. I needed it. I was eight years old.
“It’s yours, son.”
He scrubs it with steel wool and oil.
I demonstrate the whetstone, how to hold, fold. The blade is pitted, black, but sharp. A six-year-old with a bulging pocket, a need fulfilled, an edge that can kill. A gift from a father … and a rat.
In the garage I open a drawer and am face to face with a mama rat, three babes at her teats.
For one moment we gape.
Her instincts are faster. She leaps to the floor with a flop, babes clinging, dragging. She’s gone.
In seconds I destroy her home.
Beneath the nest, soaked in life’s liquids, lies my old pocketknife, Official Boy Scout model, now rusted, stinking, filthy. Wrecked.
My son Jesse wants it. First grade.
I say, “It’s ruined.”
Jesse says, “I’ll fix it.”
“What will you do with it?”
“Cut things.”
He’s six. Too young. “You have scissors to cut.”
“I want it.”
In six years I’ve learned to recognize need. What is it with boys and knives? I bought this - drained my life savings - in 1955. I wanted it. My parents had doubts. I needed it. I was eight years old.
“It’s yours, son.”
He scrubs it with steel wool and oil.
I demonstrate the whetstone, how to hold, fold. The blade is pitted, black, but sharp. A six-year-old with a bulging pocket, a need fulfilled, an edge that can kill. A gift from a father … and a rat.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Jim the Plumber
Monday, May 13, 1974
Around 1 a.m. the dog starts barking and won't stop. Finally I get out of bed and find hot steaming water spreading over the linoleum from the kitchen to a hole in the floor by the front door, where it pours down to the termites and fungus below. The water heater has burst. The dog felt it was worthy of note.
Unclothed and groggy in the kitchen I search for a way to shut off the water and find none. Out behind the house I turn off the valve for the entire cabin. Back in the kitchen I can find no shutoff for the gas, so unclothed and groggy I return outside with a Crescent wrench and turn it off out there. Then back to bed.
It's a rental, a Montgomery Ward cabin on the verge of collapse. Not my problem. In the morning the landlady calls Jim the Plumber.
These are the days of redneck/hippie wars, so I'm cautious as Jim arrives in his truck. More cautious when I see the American eagle tattoo on the back of his hand.
Jim greets me with clear eyes and an honest smile. "How ya doin'?" he asks, taking off his denim jacket and draping it on the steering wheel. Immediately he makes friends with my dog, a semi-German Shepherd who is skeptical of strangers. "What's his name?"
"Quinn."
"Hi Quinn."
They have an affinity, Jim and Quinn.
"One of these guys saved my life once," Jim says, scratching the dog's chin. "Lost his."
"What happened?"
"Aw, it ain't nothin'." Jim looks away toward the cow pasture across the street. When he looks back at me, his eyes are clear, his smile is genuine. "Let's get to work."
Jim doesn't mind if I watch. In fact, he enjoys the company.
The old heater sat unbraced on a wobbly floor next to the old gas stove. "You're lucky this tank didn't topple over and kill ya," Jim says.
We're friends by now. Jim's an affable man. He likes the fact that I want to learn about plumbing; I like that he uses the word "topple". That, and his Okie accent. He seems so comfortable in his job. Unlike me, Jim has found his slot in the world and seems happy to be there.
"If it don't land on ya, it breaks the gas line." Jim glances at the cabin. "Three minutes, max, this shack is a ball of flame." For just a moment, Jim seems to flinch.
He replaces the 20 gallon heater with a 30 gallon model and straps it to the wall with metal plumber's tape. He replaces the old, rigid, copper gas tubing with flexible brass. "Useta be we got clean gas from down around L.A. Now it’s from Texas and it leaves junk in the pipe. Texas gas eats the copper. Some chemical reaction." He shakes his head as if longing for the old days. He must be about my age, which is 26.
Jim installs 3 safety valves we'd lacked before: gas shutoff, water shutoff, and Pressure Temperature Relief valve. "If it's worth doin', it's worth doin' right," he says. "Musta been a moron installed that old thang."
"I think it was the landlady's husband."
"Well, hush my mouth."
As a last act, he cleans up with a paper towel. “If my daddy saw me leave a job with fingerprints on the heater, he’d be rollin' in his grave.”
I help Jim load the old heater in the back of his truck. Among the toolboxes are 3 empty whiskey bottles.
At the cab, Jim reaches to the dashboard, then tosses half a ham sandwich to the dog. Stenciled on the door are the words:
Removing the jacket from the steering wheel, Jim shrugs it over his shoulders. On the back of the denim is a fiery painting and the words:
Jim gets behind the wheel. Quinn stands on hind legs, forelegs on the driver's window. A hand reaches out, rubs the dog's ears.
"Peace to ya, Quinn," Jim says. Then he's off to the next job.
Around 1 a.m. the dog starts barking and won't stop. Finally I get out of bed and find hot steaming water spreading over the linoleum from the kitchen to a hole in the floor by the front door, where it pours down to the termites and fungus below. The water heater has burst. The dog felt it was worthy of note.
Unclothed and groggy in the kitchen I search for a way to shut off the water and find none. Out behind the house I turn off the valve for the entire cabin. Back in the kitchen I can find no shutoff for the gas, so unclothed and groggy I return outside with a Crescent wrench and turn it off out there. Then back to bed.
It's a rental, a Montgomery Ward cabin on the verge of collapse. Not my problem. In the morning the landlady calls Jim the Plumber.
These are the days of redneck/hippie wars, so I'm cautious as Jim arrives in his truck. More cautious when I see the American eagle tattoo on the back of his hand.
Jim greets me with clear eyes and an honest smile. "How ya doin'?" he asks, taking off his denim jacket and draping it on the steering wheel. Immediately he makes friends with my dog, a semi-German Shepherd who is skeptical of strangers. "What's his name?""Quinn."
"Hi Quinn."
They have an affinity, Jim and Quinn.
"One of these guys saved my life once," Jim says, scratching the dog's chin. "Lost his."
"What happened?"
"Aw, it ain't nothin'." Jim looks away toward the cow pasture across the street. When he looks back at me, his eyes are clear, his smile is genuine. "Let's get to work."
Jim doesn't mind if I watch. In fact, he enjoys the company.
The old heater sat unbraced on a wobbly floor next to the old gas stove. "You're lucky this tank didn't topple over and kill ya," Jim says.
We're friends by now. Jim's an affable man. He likes the fact that I want to learn about plumbing; I like that he uses the word "topple". That, and his Okie accent. He seems so comfortable in his job. Unlike me, Jim has found his slot in the world and seems happy to be there.
"If it don't land on ya, it breaks the gas line." Jim glances at the cabin. "Three minutes, max, this shack is a ball of flame." For just a moment, Jim seems to flinch.
He replaces the 20 gallon heater with a 30 gallon model and straps it to the wall with metal plumber's tape. He replaces the old, rigid, copper gas tubing with flexible brass. "Useta be we got clean gas from down around L.A. Now it’s from Texas and it leaves junk in the pipe. Texas gas eats the copper. Some chemical reaction." He shakes his head as if longing for the old days. He must be about my age, which is 26.
Jim installs 3 safety valves we'd lacked before: gas shutoff, water shutoff, and Pressure Temperature Relief valve. "If it's worth doin', it's worth doin' right," he says. "Musta been a moron installed that old thang."
"I think it was the landlady's husband."
"Well, hush my mouth."
As a last act, he cleans up with a paper towel. “If my daddy saw me leave a job with fingerprints on the heater, he’d be rollin' in his grave.”
I help Jim load the old heater in the back of his truck. Among the toolboxes are 3 empty whiskey bottles.
At the cab, Jim reaches to the dashboard, then tosses half a ham sandwich to the dog. Stenciled on the door are the words:
FRIENDLY
QUALITY
When I die I know I'll go to Heaven
I've already been to Hell
Khe Sanh 1968
"Peace to ya, Quinn," Jim says. Then he's off to the next job.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Old Marble Sink
May, 1981
At a garage sale in Woodside there's a lovely marble countertop with attached sink for sale. It could have been lifted from some ancient Roman bath. It certainly looks that old - and beaten. The man is asking $45. The day is late; it hasn't sold. Rose, my wife, wants it. So do I.
I offer $3. The man says he could come down some, but $3 is ridiculous.
Rose asks me if the stains will come out. Also, she asks if there's a way to smooth the rough spots on the surface. And how do you fill those pock marks? There's a chip on the edge. And how can we make that crack go away?
I say I don't know; it would be a gamble to buy it but I'm willing to try. Rose shakes her head skeptically.
Turning to the man, who has heard every word, I ask, "Will you take four dollars?"
This is a wealthy house in a wealthy neighborhood. They don't need the money. The man is probably under orders to clean the crap out his garage.
We settle on $5.
Rose and I are still constructing our new home, one room at a time, in a most unwealthy town. While building, we are living in it - camping out, really - with two small children. We have no money but oodles of energy.
In the library I read some books about how to restore marble. Baking soda, then hydrogen peroxide, then bleach, with complete drying between each solution, removes the stains. Blending white and black epoxy, I find a shade of gray that looks good for filling pock marks. Slow, careful work. With more work, sculpting the slow-drying epoxy, I fill the chip at the edge.
When the epoxy dries, I sand it by hand.
The hand-sanding is tough work. In a hardware store I find little discs you can attach to a power drill. They work beyond my expectations. They actually erase flaws.
There's a hairline crack we'll just have to live with.
If I were paid for the labor I put into this sink, it would cost a fortune.
These low-dollar, high-labor salvages make the house a somewhat odd and eclectic place. They make it our home. They won't appeal to the next owner, who will tear them out and eventually hold a garage sale including an old marble sink. But that won't happen for a long time: we plan to raise children, grow old, and die here. As of 2011 we've accomplished two thirds of that plan.
It's a common story, sweat equity. Being children of the Sixties, homesteading had a particular appeal. But in any era, many have done the same.
A year after finishing the sink, our new, third child takes a Roman bath:
At a garage sale in Woodside there's a lovely marble countertop with attached sink for sale. It could have been lifted from some ancient Roman bath. It certainly looks that old - and beaten. The man is asking $45. The day is late; it hasn't sold. Rose, my wife, wants it. So do I.
I offer $3. The man says he could come down some, but $3 is ridiculous.
Rose asks me if the stains will come out. Also, she asks if there's a way to smooth the rough spots on the surface. And how do you fill those pock marks? There's a chip on the edge. And how can we make that crack go away?
I say I don't know; it would be a gamble to buy it but I'm willing to try. Rose shakes her head skeptically.
Turning to the man, who has heard every word, I ask, "Will you take four dollars?"
This is a wealthy house in a wealthy neighborhood. They don't need the money. The man is probably under orders to clean the crap out his garage.
We settle on $5.
Rose and I are still constructing our new home, one room at a time, in a most unwealthy town. While building, we are living in it - camping out, really - with two small children. We have no money but oodles of energy.
In the library I read some books about how to restore marble. Baking soda, then hydrogen peroxide, then bleach, with complete drying between each solution, removes the stains. Blending white and black epoxy, I find a shade of gray that looks good for filling pock marks. Slow, careful work. With more work, sculpting the slow-drying epoxy, I fill the chip at the edge.
When the epoxy dries, I sand it by hand.
The hand-sanding is tough work. In a hardware store I find little discs you can attach to a power drill. They work beyond my expectations. They actually erase flaws.
There's a hairline crack we'll just have to live with.
If I were paid for the labor I put into this sink, it would cost a fortune.
These low-dollar, high-labor salvages make the house a somewhat odd and eclectic place. They make it our home. They won't appeal to the next owner, who will tear them out and eventually hold a garage sale including an old marble sink. But that won't happen for a long time: we plan to raise children, grow old, and die here. As of 2011 we've accomplished two thirds of that plan.
It's a common story, sweat equity. Being children of the Sixties, homesteading had a particular appeal. But in any era, many have done the same.
A year after finishing the sink, our new, third child takes a Roman bath:
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Claw-foot Bathtub
Monday, May 11, 1987
July, 1979:
In a wrecking yard in San Jose I find treasure: a claw-foot tub almost six feet long. Love at first sight. From what old house did it come? What old man soaked his weary bones here?
I'm building my new home. I have a bad back. I'm a bath junkie. I listen to music, read books, even write novels while I heat my spine in warm water. I must have that tub.
The junkyard helps load it into the back of my twuck. At home there's nobody to help me unload, so for several days I drive around the Peninsula in a bath-twuck bringing smiles to passers-by. If I had a little bell like the ice cream man, I could rent time-slots in my portable spa. Eventually, a friend helps me bring it into the house.
It becomes - second to the kitchen - a focal point of home life. There is something insanely appealing about a claw-foot tub. This one can hold a half dozen kids. Visiting children - and the occasional adult - often end up in the bubbles with a flotilla of toys. My favorite is a wind-up submarine. Also a tooting tugboat.
For six years the tub sits on the unfinished subfloor next to the old brick chimney that cuts through the bathroom. On three sides of the tub are unadorned drywall. It's a miracle the gypsum survives all that splashing. We're too busy raising kids and finishing other parts of the house.
Monday, May 11, 1987:
Finally, the time comes to finish the bathroom. We remove the old tub in order to do the work. Once out, we see the space with fresh eyes. Our kids are older, no longer into the group-bath scene. A claw-foot makes for a lousy shower. Three of the feet are broken, replaced by 4x4 blocks. The porcelain is stained, chipped - always was, but somehow it never bothered us while the rest of the room was so rough.
My third and youngest child is about to graduate from Nursery Blue, the same preschool my other children attended. The staff says they'd love to have an old claw-foot on their grounds.
On May 11, 1987, once again the old tub rides in the back of my pickup (now a Ford). At Nursery Blue twenty children climb over it for water games, sand games, puppet shows, whatever the kids can imagine.
September, 2010:
My grandson enters the warm and exciting world of Nursery Blue. To my delight the tub is still there, now filled with dirt and planted with petunias. I'd penciled a poem on the side. Sometime along the years, somebody painted over what I wrote:
Indeed, 24 years after the writing, I pick up my grandson from school, two days a week. I am recycled.
May, 2011:
The tub is gone. Different times, different teachers, different needs. And different health inspectors. The county never liked the idea of a bathtub in a nursery school.
I don't know who got it. Once again - after 32 years - the old claw-foot may be back in that junkyard down in San Jose, awaiting new children and a bath-junkie father.
 | |
| Drawing by Shirley Bortoli |
In a wrecking yard in San Jose I find treasure: a claw-foot tub almost six feet long. Love at first sight. From what old house did it come? What old man soaked his weary bones here?
I'm building my new home. I have a bad back. I'm a bath junkie. I listen to music, read books, even write novels while I heat my spine in warm water. I must have that tub.
The junkyard helps load it into the back of my twuck. At home there's nobody to help me unload, so for several days I drive around the Peninsula in a bath-twuck bringing smiles to passers-by. If I had a little bell like the ice cream man, I could rent time-slots in my portable spa. Eventually, a friend helps me bring it into the house.
It becomes - second to the kitchen - a focal point of home life. There is something insanely appealing about a claw-foot tub. This one can hold a half dozen kids. Visiting children - and the occasional adult - often end up in the bubbles with a flotilla of toys. My favorite is a wind-up submarine. Also a tooting tugboat.
For six years the tub sits on the unfinished subfloor next to the old brick chimney that cuts through the bathroom. On three sides of the tub are unadorned drywall. It's a miracle the gypsum survives all that splashing. We're too busy raising kids and finishing other parts of the house.
Monday, May 11, 1987:
Finally, the time comes to finish the bathroom. We remove the old tub in order to do the work. Once out, we see the space with fresh eyes. Our kids are older, no longer into the group-bath scene. A claw-foot makes for a lousy shower. Three of the feet are broken, replaced by 4x4 blocks. The porcelain is stained, chipped - always was, but somehow it never bothered us while the rest of the room was so rough.
My third and youngest child is about to graduate from Nursery Blue, the same preschool my other children attended. The staff says they'd love to have an old claw-foot on their grounds.
On May 11, 1987, once again the old tub rides in the back of my pickup (now a Ford). At Nursery Blue twenty children climb over it for water games, sand games, puppet shows, whatever the kids can imagine.
September, 2010:
My grandson enters the warm and exciting world of Nursery Blue. To my delight the tub is still there, now filled with dirt and planted with petunias. I'd penciled a poem on the side. Sometime along the years, somebody painted over what I wrote:
Grandfather Tub
I give this old claw-footed bathtub
to the citizens of Nursery Blue
and hope that someday when I
am unfashionable, rusty, chipped,
I too can be recycled
for the joy of young children.
Indeed, 24 years after the writing, I pick up my grandson from school, two days a week. I am recycled.
May, 2011:
The tub is gone. Different times, different teachers, different needs. And different health inspectors. The county never liked the idea of a bathtub in a nursery school.
I don't know who got it. Once again - after 32 years - the old claw-foot may be back in that junkyard down in San Jose, awaiting new children and a bath-junkie father.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Offerings
Sunday, May 10, 1987
Tom is a short man with a pony tail and a beard. He’s part Native American. He drives a Checker station wagon when it’s running. He studied architecture at the University of Michigan. He draws house plans for people but his first love is roofing. He says it’s clean on a roof. Fresh air. Tom is not an office guy. Tom, in fact, is not like anyone I've ever worked with.
He has just reroofed a house for which he wants me to build a deck. He'd help out some with planning and nailing. We'd work together. I'd have to do all the cutting, though. Tom reveals that he’s allergic to the sawdust of redwood and cedar.
“I guess you’re not fond of cedar incense,” I say.
“Doesn’t bother me. I use it for ceremonies all the time.”
Tom lives simply. His time frame is less rigid than mine, less pressured - and boy do I envy him that - but also he's less able to meet deadlines. And make money.
I recommended Tom to one of my favorite clients. Tom duly appeared, discussed the roofing project, and never called back. They hired somebody else. Tom isn’t flaky, not exactly. He simply operates in a different culture.
Though casual about time, Tom is a perfectionist about work (and I'm not). For this roofing job he rejected at least 10% of the cedar shingles. In a regular commercial job, every shingle is used. He'll use them elsewhere - as siding, maybe. He wastes nothing.
As for the deck job he's offering, I tell Tom I'll think it over.
Tom's son and my son are friends. We've arranged a group outing with several families to the Hiker's Hut in Pescadero Creek Park. The Hiker's Hut is a cabin run by the Sierra Club. You can hike in, stay a night, hike out.
On a dirt road we rise through the redwood forest, pass a horse farm, and cross a lush meadow where the oat grass is turning golden in the sun. After dinner, from the porch of the Hiker's Hut we watch the fog blow in through the valley as the sun sets. Paki, Tom's son, has brought a flute and is trying to learn how to play it. A park ranger stops by and asks us to be on the lookout for two runaway horses.
Suddenly the fog rises and envelops us, blotting out the nearly full moon. Then ten minutes later the fog is gone, still nestled snug in the valleys but leaving us clear and moon-shadowed as we take a walk through the meadow among the grazing deer. Tom is with us and without us, appearing and disappearing, carrying a sack of corn. He likes to stop and “make offerings” to the animals.
With apples and nuts as offerings, Tom and his wife Judy approach the skittish animals, clucking, speaking horse language. The horses eventually allow them to take the lead ropes and be guided down the trail. Suddenly we have two big beautiful beasts on our hike.
We descend to the bottom of the valley. The horses seem to enjoy the walk, the fresh smells, the constant cheerful guidance by Tom and Judy with whom they have a mutual understanding. In their eyes I see a mixture of animal instinct and kindness, a rapport of the human and the equine.
Returning up the hill we
encounter a search party who relieve us of the horses. They thank Tom
and Judy as “heroes of the day.” They say "The owners will give you a
Coke if you drop by."
Tom is the last person I can imagine drinking a Coca Cola.
Later we pass the ranger who says, “That was twenty thousand dollars worth of horse.” They had run away after being spooked by some bicycles.
Back at the cabin we encounter a bicyclist who is angry and bewildered because some horsepeople have just yelled at him and he doesn’t know why.
We're annoyed. Thanks, horsepeople, for the offer of a Coke. We returned your $20,000 horses. Now stop yelling at people on $200 bicycles. And next time, tether your damn horse before you leave him at the side of the trail.
Only Tom is amused. "It's been a good day," he says. He doesn't seek a reward. He bonded with two fine animals, gave them offerings, shared their journey for a few miles, and moved on.
After two days with Tom, I feel spiritually renewed. Sometimes, he leads us from behind.
Back home, I tell Tom I don't want to do the deck job he's offered. I don't think I can work with him. Our paces, our approaches to jobs are too different. I admire him. Sometimes I wish I could be like him. But I'm not. We should be friends, not partners.
It's all fine with Tom.
Tom is a short man with a pony tail and a beard. He’s part Native American. He drives a Checker station wagon when it’s running. He studied architecture at the University of Michigan. He draws house plans for people but his first love is roofing. He says it’s clean on a roof. Fresh air. Tom is not an office guy. Tom, in fact, is not like anyone I've ever worked with.
He has just reroofed a house for which he wants me to build a deck. He'd help out some with planning and nailing. We'd work together. I'd have to do all the cutting, though. Tom reveals that he’s allergic to the sawdust of redwood and cedar.
“I guess you’re not fond of cedar incense,” I say.
“Doesn’t bother me. I use it for ceremonies all the time.”
Tom lives simply. His time frame is less rigid than mine, less pressured - and boy do I envy him that - but also he's less able to meet deadlines. And make money.
I recommended Tom to one of my favorite clients. Tom duly appeared, discussed the roofing project, and never called back. They hired somebody else. Tom isn’t flaky, not exactly. He simply operates in a different culture.
Though casual about time, Tom is a perfectionist about work (and I'm not). For this roofing job he rejected at least 10% of the cedar shingles. In a regular commercial job, every shingle is used. He'll use them elsewhere - as siding, maybe. He wastes nothing.
As for the deck job he's offering, I tell Tom I'll think it over.
Tom's son and my son are friends. We've arranged a group outing with several families to the Hiker's Hut in Pescadero Creek Park. The Hiker's Hut is a cabin run by the Sierra Club. You can hike in, stay a night, hike out.
On a dirt road we rise through the redwood forest, pass a horse farm, and cross a lush meadow where the oat grass is turning golden in the sun. After dinner, from the porch of the Hiker's Hut we watch the fog blow in through the valley as the sun sets. Paki, Tom's son, has brought a flute and is trying to learn how to play it. A park ranger stops by and asks us to be on the lookout for two runaway horses.
Suddenly the fog rises and envelops us, blotting out the nearly full moon. Then ten minutes later the fog is gone, still nestled snug in the valleys but leaving us clear and moon-shadowed as we take a walk through the meadow among the grazing deer. Tom is with us and without us, appearing and disappearing, carrying a sack of corn. He likes to stop and “make offerings” to the animals.
You gentle mountainsThe next day we take a hike. Tom hangs back. I'm with several families in the middle of the group. Descending the Grizzly Trail, Tom at the rear spots two horses far off among the trees. We had all missed them.
round, folded like a sleeping woman
breathing fog
stretching under baking sun
curling beneath stars
you nurture my spirit.
Your deer comb the grass
lizards drum in the dust
a crow calls
the sun falls
a boy plays a flute
answered by quail.
With apples and nuts as offerings, Tom and his wife Judy approach the skittish animals, clucking, speaking horse language. The horses eventually allow them to take the lead ropes and be guided down the trail. Suddenly we have two big beautiful beasts on our hike.
We descend to the bottom of the valley. The horses seem to enjoy the walk, the fresh smells, the constant cheerful guidance by Tom and Judy with whom they have a mutual understanding. In their eyes I see a mixture of animal instinct and kindness, a rapport of the human and the equine.
 |
| Judy Kasle, Tom Muthig |
Tom is the last person I can imagine drinking a Coca Cola.
Later we pass the ranger who says, “That was twenty thousand dollars worth of horse.” They had run away after being spooked by some bicycles.
Back at the cabin we encounter a bicyclist who is angry and bewildered because some horsepeople have just yelled at him and he doesn’t know why.
We're annoyed. Thanks, horsepeople, for the offer of a Coke. We returned your $20,000 horses. Now stop yelling at people on $200 bicycles. And next time, tether your damn horse before you leave him at the side of the trail.
Only Tom is amused. "It's been a good day," he says. He doesn't seek a reward. He bonded with two fine animals, gave them offerings, shared their journey for a few miles, and moved on.
After two days with Tom, I feel spiritually renewed. Sometimes, he leads us from behind.
Back home, I tell Tom I don't want to do the deck job he's offered. I don't think I can work with him. Our paces, our approaches to jobs are too different. I admire him. Sometimes I wish I could be like him. But I'm not. We should be friends, not partners.
It's all fine with Tom.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Knob and Tube
Friday, May 9, 1986
Lyle, the homeowner, a manager at Lockheed, keeps me waiting a half hour and then arrives without apology. A bad sign. He shows me the job: install two low voltage lights to spotlight the Steinway piano in his large living room. His wife will be giving a recital here.
Easily done. The only surprise is knob-and-tube wiring in a house that was built in the 1960's. Not a problem, just unexpected. Knob-and-tube started phasing out in the 1930's. When properly installed it's safe but more costly, more trouble, offers no advantages and has several disadvantages including a relative incapacity for expansion as the electrical needs of the house increase. Lyle bought the house already built, so it wasn't his decision. But for the original builder, why knob and tube? Why would somebody choose a method that's more expensive and less adaptable? Nostalgia? For wiring?
It's as if the house has a birth defect hidden in its core, relatively benign, a central nervous system that can function adequately as long as no sophisticated demands are placed on it, an inability to grow and adapt.
When I finish, Lyle is pleased. The lighting is dramatic and effective. As I'm about to put away the ladder, Lyle points at three faint fingerprints that I left on the ceiling.
"Sorry," I say. "I'll get that."
"I'll do it. Hold the ladder."
With a moist sponge, Lyle climbs the ladder. He rubs. The fingerprints smear. He rubs harder, the smudge deepens. He's rubbing the stain into the flat paint. It's a blue sponge. Maybe some of the blue is joining the paint. Maybe the sponge was greasy already.
He's taken barely notable fingerprints and created a big mess.
"Here, you fix it," Lyle says, handing me the sponge.
With paper towels and some spray cleaner I try for salvage, but Lyle has already embedded a stain and removed half the paint.
"I want you to repaint my ceiling," Lyle says.
"What?"
"Those were your prints. This is all your fault."
"You did the rubbing, Lyle."
"You're the expert here. If you saw I was doing it wrong it was your job to stop me."
"Oh, come on, Lyle."
He's now shouting. He actually stomps his foot. "YOU'RE THE ELECTRICIAN. NOT LEAVING FINGERPRINTS IS RULE NUMBER ONE. YOU KNOW THAT."
He hasn't paid. If I walk away, I'm kissing off $235. That's his point of power. My point of power is that I'm a grown-up. Lyle is suddenly an out of control four-year-old.
Two years ago, I let Mr. Lunder get under my skin. I've learned a few lessons since then.
I speak calmly, soothingly. "Lyle, for an electrician Rule Number One is 'Don't get electrocuted.' Number Two is 'Don't cause a fire.' Number Three is 'Make it work properly.'" I smile; he glares. I continue: "Yes, part of my job is to leave a clean site, but it's down around Rule Number Fifty-six." Again I smile. He softens. "That doesn't excuse me, but let's acknowledge that I fulfilled the first fifty-five rules."
Lyle is calming down. His eyes were darting about. I think he knew he was losing control, and it frightened him. I have a four-year-old at home right now, my third time down this path. A kid will test the limits - throw a tantrum - but ultimately be reassured that the limits held.
At this point I think there's no recourse but to repaint. Fortunately the ceiling is divided by faux wooden beams, so with a good color match it should only be necessary to repaint one two-foot wide section. As soothingly as possible, I explain this to Lyle. We can share the responsibility. I offer a compromise: if he will take a paint chip to the store and get a color match, I will come back another day and do the painting. There should be plenty of time before his wife's recital.
As I'm speaking, it occurs to me that Lyle's pent-up anxiety about this recital has just been released in full fury at me. Unwittingly, I've served a purpose. I've released his tension.
Lyle agrees to the compromise.
I'm pretty sure the new paint won't look like a perfect match even if the color is right. It will be cleaner, fresher. I've deliberately structured this compromise so that Lyle is responsible for the color, not me. And given his sponging ability, I am responsible for applying the paint, not him.
We proceed as planned. A few days later, I paint the section of ceiling between the beams - and as I expected, the fresh panel looks slightly glossier, even with flat paint. Lyle doesn't notice. It's his color. In his knob-and-tube mind, he's incapable of making a mistake.
Two hours setting up, painting, cleaning up. Which is two hours of psychotherapy, unbillable. But I get my $235. Sheesh.
A few months later, Lyle calls. "The recital was magnificent," he says. "Now could you come over and install some new outlets in my kitchen?"
He has no idea that I was furious at him. Either he's clueless, or I'm a master of self-control. In either case, my answer is the same. I love children. But I won't work for them. "I'm really busy right now, Lyle. I'll call you when I have time."
Somehow, I never find the time.
Lyle, the homeowner, a manager at Lockheed, keeps me waiting a half hour and then arrives without apology. A bad sign. He shows me the job: install two low voltage lights to spotlight the Steinway piano in his large living room. His wife will be giving a recital here.Easily done. The only surprise is knob-and-tube wiring in a house that was built in the 1960's. Not a problem, just unexpected. Knob-and-tube started phasing out in the 1930's. When properly installed it's safe but more costly, more trouble, offers no advantages and has several disadvantages including a relative incapacity for expansion as the electrical needs of the house increase. Lyle bought the house already built, so it wasn't his decision. But for the original builder, why knob and tube? Why would somebody choose a method that's more expensive and less adaptable? Nostalgia? For wiring?
It's as if the house has a birth defect hidden in its core, relatively benign, a central nervous system that can function adequately as long as no sophisticated demands are placed on it, an inability to grow and adapt.
When I finish, Lyle is pleased. The lighting is dramatic and effective. As I'm about to put away the ladder, Lyle points at three faint fingerprints that I left on the ceiling.
"Sorry," I say. "I'll get that."
"I'll do it. Hold the ladder."
With a moist sponge, Lyle climbs the ladder. He rubs. The fingerprints smear. He rubs harder, the smudge deepens. He's rubbing the stain into the flat paint. It's a blue sponge. Maybe some of the blue is joining the paint. Maybe the sponge was greasy already.
He's taken barely notable fingerprints and created a big mess.
"Here, you fix it," Lyle says, handing me the sponge.
With paper towels and some spray cleaner I try for salvage, but Lyle has already embedded a stain and removed half the paint.
"I want you to repaint my ceiling," Lyle says.
"What?"
"Those were your prints. This is all your fault."
"You did the rubbing, Lyle."
"You're the expert here. If you saw I was doing it wrong it was your job to stop me."
"Oh, come on, Lyle."
He's now shouting. He actually stomps his foot. "YOU'RE THE ELECTRICIAN. NOT LEAVING FINGERPRINTS IS RULE NUMBER ONE. YOU KNOW THAT."
He hasn't paid. If I walk away, I'm kissing off $235. That's his point of power. My point of power is that I'm a grown-up. Lyle is suddenly an out of control four-year-old.
Two years ago, I let Mr. Lunder get under my skin. I've learned a few lessons since then.
I speak calmly, soothingly. "Lyle, for an electrician Rule Number One is 'Don't get electrocuted.' Number Two is 'Don't cause a fire.' Number Three is 'Make it work properly.'" I smile; he glares. I continue: "Yes, part of my job is to leave a clean site, but it's down around Rule Number Fifty-six." Again I smile. He softens. "That doesn't excuse me, but let's acknowledge that I fulfilled the first fifty-five rules."
Lyle is calming down. His eyes were darting about. I think he knew he was losing control, and it frightened him. I have a four-year-old at home right now, my third time down this path. A kid will test the limits - throw a tantrum - but ultimately be reassured that the limits held.
At this point I think there's no recourse but to repaint. Fortunately the ceiling is divided by faux wooden beams, so with a good color match it should only be necessary to repaint one two-foot wide section. As soothingly as possible, I explain this to Lyle. We can share the responsibility. I offer a compromise: if he will take a paint chip to the store and get a color match, I will come back another day and do the painting. There should be plenty of time before his wife's recital.
As I'm speaking, it occurs to me that Lyle's pent-up anxiety about this recital has just been released in full fury at me. Unwittingly, I've served a purpose. I've released his tension.
Lyle agrees to the compromise.
I'm pretty sure the new paint won't look like a perfect match even if the color is right. It will be cleaner, fresher. I've deliberately structured this compromise so that Lyle is responsible for the color, not me. And given his sponging ability, I am responsible for applying the paint, not him.
We proceed as planned. A few days later, I paint the section of ceiling between the beams - and as I expected, the fresh panel looks slightly glossier, even with flat paint. Lyle doesn't notice. It's his color. In his knob-and-tube mind, he's incapable of making a mistake.
Two hours setting up, painting, cleaning up. Which is two hours of psychotherapy, unbillable. But I get my $235. Sheesh.
A few months later, Lyle calls. "The recital was magnificent," he says. "Now could you come over and install some new outlets in my kitchen?"
He has no idea that I was furious at him. Either he's clueless, or I'm a master of self-control. In either case, my answer is the same. I love children. But I won't work for them. "I'm really busy right now, Lyle. I'll call you when I have time."
Somehow, I never find the time.
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