Storms (One) A Small Spot of Light

Tuesday, November 30, 1982

Every winter, storms slam into the Pacific Coast.  Trees crash.  Land oozes.  Roads close.  These are the days when you realize what it means to live in a rural area such as La Honda. 

The winter of 1982-83 was an El Niño event.  (El Niño occurs when the Pacific Ocean is unusually warm, causing severe weather.)  It began in November with a hurricane that devastated Hawaii and then, somewhat diminished, struck the West Coast. 

At that time my children were ages six, four, and an infant.  I was remodeling a house on the Stanford campus, where the storm was simply a wet inconvenience.  They had electricity.  They could drive to the shopping center without dodging fallen trees.

After the day's work, driving home into the mountains, I remember fierce waves of wind.  Hail.  Thunder and lightning.  At home we had two Aladdin Lamps, four oil lamps, and various candles.  A camp stove for cooking.  We slept huddled together in front of the fireplace for warmth.  By firelight, I wrote this:

Hurricane Eva

The floorboards tremble.
Branches pelt the roof.
Rain blows under the door.
The phone, dead.
The electricity will be out for days.
I build a fire, light lanterns named Aladdin,
heat water in the fireplace,
play guitar, fetch wood, buy ice,
help the neighbor start her car.
My house from outside is a small spot of light
in a dark storm.
The power is out
but we are not powerless.

Weather Report

Friday, January 19, 1990

I'm mucking, disconnecting pipes around an old two-room cabin next to a creek whose water is rushing with recent rain.  After 50 years of settling into the forest floor, it's time to jack up the structure and pour a foundation. 

There's a quick wind.  Clouds scud overhead, framed in blue.  I like it that my job keeps me in touch with the weather.  Literally, in touch.  Today it sends icy prickles into my fingertips. 

Digging out a rusty pipe, I'm careful not to disturb a cheerful Castilleja — Indian Paintbrush — the last wild bloom of the old season.  Or is it the first bloom of the new?

Shutting off the water cock, I pause on hands and knees, peering closely.  From the funky earth, tiny sprouts of sorrel jut to the light — and here come swords of grass, fresh shoots of milkmaid and baby leaves of forget-me-not.  Excuse me but I'm thrilled.  Electrified.  The daily miracles of life on this planet.

At day's end I sit on the tailgate of my truck, pulling off boots. Overhead a vee of birds crosses pink wisps of cloud.  Children’s voices in the dusk beyond the trees.  A dog comes loping through the meadow weeds, tongue lolling, eyes bright, on the scent of something important.  For just a moment our gazes meet; souls touch.  Then he's off at a gallop.

We agree.  Work is hard.  Life is good.

Honking for Janelle

Saturday, January 17, 2004

Eight miles from the highway via a twisting dirt road I arrive at a faux-stone McMansion.  It sits alone on the side of Langley Hill surrounded by oat grass and the occasional craggy oak.  Janelle, who has probably heard the approach of my truck for the last ten minutes, greets me as I step from the cab.

"You made it," she says.  "Not everyone does."

Janelle has gray hair in a braid down her back.  Near the brand new house is an old barn where I repair copper pipes that their handyman accidentally cut through.  Janelle and her husband Gary watch me work and chatter constantly at me, two sweet people, lonely.  Upon learning that I'm a published writer, Janelle pumps me with questions.  She seems starved for intellectual conversation.  Gary, meanwhile, asks about water quality.  He's a retired software executive, struck it rich in stock options.

In the fields are no cattle, no horses.  A couple of deer are grazing.

It strikes me as odd: they buy 40 acres, build their dream house, a view of sunsets, rolling hills of golden oats, the ocean nine miles away, the country life without livestock or crops — and they can't fix anything.  From their chatter it becomes clear that their neighbors frighten them.  On one side, a billionaire from Silicon Valley is setting off dynamite, blasting holes in the hillside for wine cellars.  On another side, an old rancher shoots any dog that enters his property.

From outside the house I can see a telescope on a tripod next to the vast glass window, facing the fields and ocean.  Their great view comes at a cost.  They're naked to the weather, exposed to an unrelenting uphill wind bringing fog and chill.  As I work, the air screams — literally howls — through cracks in the siding of the barn.

At one point Gary realizes that while he has been talking at me, his wife has wandered away.  "Where's Janelle?" he asks.

"I don't know."  I'm soldering pipes.

A few seconds later, I hear the honking of my truck.  Gary is leaning, reaching through the window, pressing the horn.  From deep in the canyon comes an echo, like a ghost truck.

Janelle appears.  "I'm here, dear.  I just went to the house for a moment."

Gary grasps her.  They walk into the howling barn, side by side, clutching hand to hand as I finish my work.

Cranial Adjustments

Saturday, January 10, 1987

Caleb is an osteopath.  He says osteopaths have the same training as an MD, but I'm not so sure.  He's a friendly guy.  We have mutual friends and encounter each other from time to time.  He has two young boys who are like having two wild goats in the house.  My kids don't want anything to do with them.

About a year ago Caleb asked me to look at his bathtub.  One evening I dropped by after a particularly long day's work when I was too exhausted to be enthusiastic.  It's weird, but I have to sound enthusiastic about a plumbing job, or people won't hire me.  Maybe it isn't so for all plumbers, but it's true for me.  I need to instill confidence in my clients.  Anyway, Caleb gave the job to somebody else.

The somebody else couldn't have been too great, because now — it's 1987 — Caleb has called me for another job.  His two boys are somewhat calmer now, ages 3 and 5.  I install a new water heater, replacing 30 gallons with 50.  To comply with the building code, I put the new water heater on a stand, which necessitates some replumbing of the entry and exit pipes.  It turns into a full day job when Caleb adds some carpentry work: reversing doors, installing cabinet trim.

Sissy, Caleb's earth-goddess wife, waddles into the garage where I'm working.  With a smile she says, "Nice to see you again."  She's gorgeously, button-poppingly pregnant.

Joking, I gape at her belly and say, "Oh no.  Not again."

Sharply she says, "Well you have three!"  And she waddles out.

Sensitive subject, I guess.  Or my usual poor delivery.

Caleb follows me around for much of the day asking questions, watching, learning how I do it.  He tells me he bought a new Mac computer, just like me.  He got together with a group of 23 homeopathic practitioners and ordered 23 Macs, shopping for the best group rate, and paid less than I did.  There's a homeopathic program that runs on the Mac.

Try as I might, I can't make myself believe in homeopathy.  And now here's this guy who looks like a nice young Jewish doctor practicing wacko medicine.  Osteo makes sense to me, but homeopathy sounds like a con game. 

Unlike so many alternative providers who claim to cure everything from acne to cancer, Caleb is modest.  "I usually get good results," he says.  "I don't think I've ever hurt anybody."

Caleb does cranial adjustments, especially with infants.  In other words, he squeezes the baby's skull between his hands, reshaping it.  "It takes a leap of faith by the parents," he says.  "There's no scientific proof.  Just good results most of the time.  Here — look at this."  Caleb shows me two photos of an infant.  "Before and after," he says.

In the first photo the child looks tense and anxious.  "Your basic colicky baby.  Crying for two solid months.  The mom was going crazy."

In the second photo, the child looks relaxed, smiling.  "Five minutes after the first cranial."  Then Caleb laughs.  "It proves nothing.  But the mom was sure happy.  Tell me: after you install a water heater, has it ever blown up?"

"Not yet."

"Have you ever left a job worse than before you started?"

"Not lately."

He pretends to wipe sweat from his brow.  "I'm reassured."

Apparently he's forgotten, so I tell him: "You gave a cranial to my youngest.  Three years ago."

"At my office?"

"No, at my house.  You were visiting next door, and we got to talking, and you came over and gave my son a cranial."

"Uh oh."  Caleb frowns.  "Did I charge you for it?"

"No."

"Good.  Boy, was I green!"  He pauses, thinking.  "Why'd you let me do it?"

"I honestly don't know.  You must've seemed confident."

"That's an act.  For the placebo effect."

"Yeah.  Sometimes I do that, too."

"Placebo plumbing!  And that works on the pipes?"

"That, and a little solder."

"So now, how's your son doing?"

"He's great.  A happy kid."

Caleb sighs.  "I lucked out."

"Have you done cranials on your own boys?"

"Of course."  He laughs.  "That's what keeps me humble."

I'm Still Here

The year has ended, but the blog continues.

I posted 262 "jobs" in 2011, so to fulfill the promise of the title I'll aim for 103 more.  And maybe I'll go on beyond that.  I'm not number-driven, so I'll go as long as I feel I can maintain the quality.

A few of last year's posts were stinkers.  I'll be culling a few and revising a few more (I'm always revising, anyway). 

Mostly I'm proud of what I've written.  For the record, here are some of my favorites from the first three months:

January:
Frantic Woman
Marmalade
Chateau No-hub Reserve 1994

February:
Hugging Bill Ash
Screwdriver, Melted
Breaking Waves
Do You Believe in Miracles?
Dewey

March:
The Gorilla Method
House to House
El Niño
Grampa, Rainbow, Porch Lamp
Woodpeckers

Bag Lady of the Suburbs

December, 1987

I'm working on a man's shower.  I go out to my truck for a tool and find a crazy lady peering over the tailgate into the bed.  My first thought is that she's looking to steal something but all I say is: "Hello.  You need something?"

She jerks back and says, "I live in the house next door up the hill."  She's old.  She has red scars on her arms like they'd been shot full of holes.  "This is my dog."

A scruffy mutt is dropping a pine cone at my feet.  He looks up at me expectantly, wagging his tail. 

The lady, too, looks at me expectantly.  "He wants you to throw it for him," she says.

So I do.  Again and again.  While I'm playing throw-and-fetch with the dog, she says, "I could use a handyman to fix a drain plunger.  And a screw came out of the vacuum cleaner.  The furnace doesn't make any heat.  The dishwasher caught on fire and I had to pull the plug.  I could make a whole list of things."

"Uh huh," I say.  From inside the house I see the homeowner glaring at us.  I'm charging by the hour to fix his shower, so I'll have to adjust for the time spent out here.

The woman is speaking: "I’ve been reading the instruction manual about how to drive my car.  I haven’t driven it in four years but I have to go to the dentist tomorrow because my tooth fell out.”  She sticks a finger in her mouth and makes her cheek bulge where the molar is missing.  “Did you think it only happens to children?  Happy Hanukkah, huh?  I like your shirt.  Now that I’ve sold the property across the street finally I’ve got the money to fix things up.  I only need you for an hour.”

I say, "What you've got sounds like it will take many hours.  Several days."

Suddenly she’s angry.  She draws herself up straight and says, “Listen, buster, it will take less than an hour because I say so.  I’m the boss.  Get it?” 

Back inside the house, the man says, "I see you met Nelda.  You wouldn't know it, but she could probably buy half of San Jose.  She owns six houses on this road.  For God's sake, don't work for her."

"I can't work for her.  She already fired me."

"Lucky you."

Back home when I'm unloading the truck, I realize I'm missing a toilet auger.  It had been sitting in the bed.

After a flash of anger, I feel sad for Nelda.  Is she really going to ream her own toilets?  She's a lonely lady with an old dog.  If she were poor, I'd help her for free; but she's loaded and she stole my tool — a rusty, smelly, ten dollar tool.  She's a bag lady without the bag, with property.  How do you help somebody like that?

Flossing the Deck

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Today's job is cleaning out the cracks between the boards of my deck.  Since I have about a thousand square feet of decking with a dozen giant redwood trees dropping duff all over, flossing is a big task.  For 30 years I've done it on my knees with a screwdriver or a putty knife or by running my power saw with an old blade.

This year, I googled "flossing the deck" and found this wonderful tool.  

Deckhand tool

I called up the guy who invented it, placed an order (he'll talk your ear off), and I'm pleased to report that the Deckhand tool is worth every penny of the $35 I paid for it ($25 plus shipping).  It works fast and handles well.  It saves your knees.  What used to be a multi-day job I can now do in a few hours.  Fantastic!

Flossing the deck

And hey — Santa!  If you're stumped for a holiday gift for the somebody-who-has-everything, I bet your somebody doesn't have a deck flossing tool. 

(I paid for the tool.  I get nothing for endorsing it here.)