ON CONCRETE AND GOLDENROD
Sept. 15: Early colorization of leaves, mainly sumac, has gone on alongside our road because the county has sprayed herbicide in the ditches. I saw a sprayer truck putting the poison to a stand of cattails, these plants being always a sign of good water and soil health—a healthy “ecosystem” as it’s called these days. So by all means, let us apply some chemical potion that’ll kill ’em.
This ditch-spraying makes no sense to me. Mostly grasses grow in ditches, and they help to clean the water that’s absorbed back into the earth. Sumacs do the same, and they don’t grow too tall or live very long. Saplings of large, long-lived trees that might pop up in the ditches to eventually obstruct them are sickle-mowed easily enough. What must this plant-toxic spray do to frogs, toads, turtles, snakes, returnable-can collectors and other critters who like to hang out in the ditches?
Sept. 15: Early colorization of leaves, mainly sumac, has gone on alongside our road because the county has sprayed herbicide in the ditches. I saw a sprayer truck putting the poison to a stand of cattails, these plants being always a sign of good water and soil health—a healthy “ecosystem” as it’s called these days. So by all means, let us apply some chemical potion that’ll kill ’em.
This ditch-spraying makes no sense to me. Mostly grasses grow in ditches, and they help to clean the water that’s absorbed back into the earth. Sumacs do the same, and they don’t grow too tall or live very long. Saplings of large, long-lived trees that might pop up in the ditches to eventually obstruct them are sickle-mowed easily enough. What must this plant-toxic spray do to frogs, toads, turtles, snakes, returnable-can collectors and other critters who like to hang out in the ditches?
UNANTICIPATED HUNDREDS
Yesterday I finished a job for a pleasant “senior” lady whose name and location I won’t divulge. She was widowed not very long ago and is caring now for her retirement-age son, who has cancer. The bulk of my work for her entailed the patching of broken bricks with lime mortar, some repointing of foundation stones and repairs of failed spots on her concrete front porch. She paid me in full for the cementitious stuff and for my return after the fixes had cured a bit for their repainting. I hate to see bricks painted and doubly hate to see stones painted, but my repairs had to match the rest of the house: old bricks painted white, foundation granite painted black.
At farewell time I told the woman what I had painted and not painted, as a painting contractor I am not. I told her my focus was in making masonry patched blend in with existent work, that many areas on her house walls, foundation and porch still required scraping and repainting. She understood and asked what she owed me. I said $19.07, not minding the tax on the quart of black latex I’d traveled some miles to fetch, when the supply I’d brought with me ran short. She had asked me to purchase a gallon of this paint, but the $60 price tag at the hardware store had inspired me to settle for the quart.
Yesterday I finished a job for a pleasant “senior” lady whose name and location I won’t divulge. She was widowed not very long ago and is caring now for her retirement-age son, who has cancer. The bulk of my work for her entailed the patching of broken bricks with lime mortar, some repointing of foundation stones and repairs of failed spots on her concrete front porch. She paid me in full for the cementitious stuff and for my return after the fixes had cured a bit for their repainting. I hate to see bricks painted and doubly hate to see stones painted, but my repairs had to match the rest of the house: old bricks painted white, foundation granite painted black.
At farewell time I told the woman what I had painted and not painted, as a painting contractor I am not. I told her my focus was in making masonry patched blend in with existent work, that many areas on her house walls, foundation and porch still required scraping and repainting. She understood and asked what she owed me. I said $19.07, not minding the tax on the quart of black latex I’d traveled some miles to fetch, when the supply I’d brought with me ran short. She had asked me to purchase a gallon of this paint, but the $60 price tag at the hardware store had inspired me to settle for the quart.
GETTING THE FREAKING LEAD OUT
I left the house at 5:15 one recent morning for a trek to Kalamazoo. At 7:00 I arrived at the destination, a community college where my day-long class was to commence at 8. The class was an EPA-mandated one for people who, for profit, might be disturbing lead paint. Since I work a lot on and in very old buildings where the presence of lead paint is a certainty, it seemed prudent to shell out 159 bucks for this class, especially in consideration of EPA fines of up to $37,500 for removing lead paint for pay without this bit of schooling.
Am I puffingly proud to inform you that I’m a Certified Renovator? No ... I doubt that anyone botched the 30-question test at class’s end. If anyone did, they were probably told to review their wrong answers before “diploma” presentation. My so-called diploma has my picture on it so that EPA investigators might easily identify me on job sites. The diploma cites my actual attendance for the class, so you know right off it’s no big whoop. If you have ever considered the services of a brain surgeon whose diploma informed you that Dr. So-and-so showed up for his classes, what have you done? Right: Run with your brain tumor as steadily and as fast away from his office as you could.
I left the house at 5:15 one recent morning for a trek to Kalamazoo. At 7:00 I arrived at the destination, a community college where my day-long class was to commence at 8. The class was an EPA-mandated one for people who, for profit, might be disturbing lead paint. Since I work a lot on and in very old buildings where the presence of lead paint is a certainty, it seemed prudent to shell out 159 bucks for this class, especially in consideration of EPA fines of up to $37,500 for removing lead paint for pay without this bit of schooling.
Am I puffingly proud to inform you that I’m a Certified Renovator? No ... I doubt that anyone botched the 30-question test at class’s end. If anyone did, they were probably told to review their wrong answers before “diploma” presentation. My so-called diploma has my picture on it so that EPA investigators might easily identify me on job sites. The diploma cites my actual attendance for the class, so you know right off it’s no big whoop. If you have ever considered the services of a brain surgeon whose diploma informed you that Dr. So-and-so showed up for his classes, what have you done? Right: Run with your brain tumor as steadily and as fast away from his office as you could.
KEEPING MY AMBITIOUS READERS PROTECTED
I often wonder what qualities, what “clues”—subtle or not—the public in general looks for in a building or repair contractor, a potential hireling. A friend of ours was getting estimates for a new deck in the spring, and I was present when the first estimator arrived, in possibly the biggest pickup truck I’ve ever seen ... brand new, gleaming red, lots of chrome and other optional amenities.
All right, I thought, this character has, what?—a $38,000 showcase steed to pay for? How’s he going to pay for it? Not by deducting time for his crew’s occasionally extended breaks, or for shaving time for additional store runs for materials he should’ve largely anticipated and put to his work site all in one run or two. My initial impression of this guy was that he was a flashy fellow; he thinks he’s “big.” He thinks the world is his oyster. He thinks his customers are oysters. Crack them open, reap the pearls.
I often wonder what qualities, what “clues”—subtle or not—the public in general looks for in a building or repair contractor, a potential hireling. A friend of ours was getting estimates for a new deck in the spring, and I was present when the first estimator arrived, in possibly the biggest pickup truck I’ve ever seen ... brand new, gleaming red, lots of chrome and other optional amenities.
All right, I thought, this character has, what?—a $38,000 showcase steed to pay for? How’s he going to pay for it? Not by deducting time for his crew’s occasionally extended breaks, or for shaving time for additional store runs for materials he should’ve largely anticipated and put to his work site all in one run or two. My initial impression of this guy was that he was a flashy fellow; he thinks he’s “big.” He thinks the world is his oyster. He thinks his customers are oysters. Crack them open, reap the pearls.
NEW USED TRUCK
This new used truck has a bed about big enough to carry the former one in, and I’m kind of luxuriating in its roominess. My previous work trucks for the past 18 years were an ’88 Jeep Comanche and a ’99 Ford Ranger. The cab of this ’97 is about as big as the lobby of Detroit’s Fox Theater, and its bed is about the size of a football field. All right, slight exaggeration. I own a great big truck all of a sudden.
It has 14,000 fewer miles on it than the Ranger, and everything works on the thing, including the fuel gauge … the wipers, the muffler, the interior lights, the dashboard lights, etc., etc. Work motoring life is suddenly good again, for only $2,500.
This new used truck has a bed about big enough to carry the former one in, and I’m kind of luxuriating in its roominess. My previous work trucks for the past 18 years were an ’88 Jeep Comanche and a ’99 Ford Ranger. The cab of this ’97 is about as big as the lobby of Detroit’s Fox Theater, and its bed is about the size of a football field. All right, slight exaggeration. I own a great big truck all of a sudden.
It has 14,000 fewer miles on it than the Ranger, and everything works on the thing, including the fuel gauge … the wipers, the muffler, the interior lights, the dashboard lights, etc., etc. Work motoring life is suddenly good again, for only $2,500.
JUST HOP ON IN
At a house set back from a recent work site, a $30,000 pickup had been parked, but for nearly two days no one was seen making use of it. Then I heard the shutting of its door at this very quiet location and watched a man drive back to the garage, about three stones’ throws from his house. From the truck emerged a grossly fat, shirtless fellow with a stomach hanging halfway to China, and wobbling breasts. He climbed onto his riding lawn mower, hollered a bit of foul language in that the machine was not running quite right, yet tended to his chore, looking like an albino circus elephant trained to operate a Shriner’s minibike. When his mowing was finished, he drove his fancy truck the short distance back to his house.
At a house set back from a recent work site, a $30,000 pickup had been parked, but for nearly two days no one was seen making use of it. Then I heard the shutting of its door at this very quiet location and watched a man drive back to the garage, about three stones’ throws from his house. From the truck emerged a grossly fat, shirtless fellow with a stomach hanging halfway to China, and wobbling breasts. He climbed onto his riding lawn mower, hollered a bit of foul language in that the machine was not running quite right, yet tended to his chore, looking like an albino circus elephant trained to operate a Shriner’s minibike. When his mowing was finished, he drove his fancy truck the short distance back to his house.
ONE BRIDGE I’D LIKE TO WALK
I’ve just read The Great Bridge by David McCullough, a historical account of the building of the Brooklyn Bridge, its construction begun in 1870 and completed in 1883. Designed by John Roebling, a wire and cable manufacturer who died before the work commenced, the chief engineer became his son, Washington Roebling, in whom the father had made known his full faith as successor. Washington managed to live to a ripe old age, but illness beset him badly in his 40s through around half of the construction, and considering what pressure he was under, both self-imposed and from without to build this monumental bridge, his physical ailments were no wonder.
I’ve just read The Great Bridge by David McCullough, a historical account of the building of the Brooklyn Bridge, its construction begun in 1870 and completed in 1883. Designed by John Roebling, a wire and cable manufacturer who died before the work commenced, the chief engineer became his son, Washington Roebling, in whom the father had made known his full faith as successor. Washington managed to live to a ripe old age, but illness beset him badly in his 40s through around half of the construction, and considering what pressure he was under, both self-imposed and from without to build this monumental bridge, his physical ailments were no wonder.
SWOOPING ALL ABOUT
For building restoration purposes I’ve been swooping about on 40- and 50-foot lifts, and those machines are kind of fun so long as you’re not feeling overly familiar with them, putting your mind on autopilot and pulling the wrong control lever, which is very easy to do. I inadvertently drove one lift off 2x8 leveling blocks at substantial height, and in its work cage came close to smashing against the building and hollered, “Jesus!” and hoped then that no one had heard.
For building restoration purposes I’ve been swooping about on 40- and 50-foot lifts, and those machines are kind of fun so long as you’re not feeling overly familiar with them, putting your mind on autopilot and pulling the wrong control lever, which is very easy to do. I inadvertently drove one lift off 2x8 leveling blocks at substantial height, and in its work cage came close to smashing against the building and hollered, “Jesus!” and hoped then that no one had heard.
LOVE THE ROLY-POLYS
In the course of my brick repair work, I have probably encountered thousands of pillbugs, aka “roly-poly bugs,” armadillo bugs, potato bugs, wood lice.
Harmless and winsome creatures that they are, I have taken pains to protect them wherever I’ve encountered them, usually at a below-ground level of some masonry construct, but often many stories up in the air, living and thriving in opened mortar joints between bricks or stones.
In the course of my brick repair work, I have probably encountered thousands of pillbugs, aka “roly-poly bugs,” armadillo bugs, potato bugs, wood lice.
Harmless and winsome creatures that they are, I have taken pains to protect them wherever I’ve encountered them, usually at a below-ground level of some masonry construct, but often many stories up in the air, living and thriving in opened mortar joints between bricks or stones.
CHING-CHING!
An old barn in seemingly “the middle of nowhere” has lately been my workplace. Rebuilding sections of fallen foundation fieldstones is the lonesome task at hand. Winds howl through this big barn, in which no dairy cow has set hoof for 50 years, so I was told. A wind-swung door sometimes shouts out, “John!” but I turn toward it in responsive alert not so often now. The barn is filled with swallows who swoop in and out all day, often within inches of my head. I gaze at the 19th century stonework and the adz marks on the massive beams and consider that every man who labored to build this barn has long been dead. Frequently in my noggin there is an accordion playing and someone singing, polka-style: “Enjoy yourself! It’s later than you think. Enjoy yourself!—while you’re still in the pink. The years go by, as quickly as a wink. Enjoy yourself, enjoy yourself! ... It’s later than you think.”
An old barn in seemingly “the middle of nowhere” has lately been my workplace. Rebuilding sections of fallen foundation fieldstones is the lonesome task at hand. Winds howl through this big barn, in which no dairy cow has set hoof for 50 years, so I was told. A wind-swung door sometimes shouts out, “John!” but I turn toward it in responsive alert not so often now. The barn is filled with swallows who swoop in and out all day, often within inches of my head. I gaze at the 19th century stonework and the adz marks on the massive beams and consider that every man who labored to build this barn has long been dead. Frequently in my noggin there is an accordion playing and someone singing, polka-style: “Enjoy yourself! It’s later than you think. Enjoy yourself!—while you’re still in the pink. The years go by, as quickly as a wink. Enjoy yourself, enjoy yourself! ... It’s later than you think.”