Switched At Birth

Cranes and Girders and Trusses, Oh My!

Everybody gets excited when a crane shows up on the scene,  lifts huge girders high in the air, and swings them around like toothpicks. The big red crane looks like a man-sized version of a child's toy.

 

The fellow driving it looks a little like Wayne Newton. A white, ten-gallon hat almost covers up his long sideburns, and his triangular shape attests to many hours sitting in the operator's seat.

 
The chance of getting any non-housebuilding work done around here these days is slim and none. Here was the view from my desk last Friday.

 
The crew came out yesterday, even though it was Saturday. They were trying to catch a few hours of rare sunshine to start sheathing the main roof. They got a good start. Won't be long now until we're fully dried in.

 
I'll never forget the look of this amazing skeletal structure. Looks to me like a dinosaur's spine, or a super contemporary skylight.

Moving right along, now, with restoring the "lost posts." When this was originally written on April 10, 2005, my blog buddy from Wales, Daisy-Winifred, said "Be fantastic if that were a skylight, you'd have a punk roof with a Mohican haircut then."

Home by Thanksgiving?

  The merger of old and new is beginning to look more natural here in this view from the back. The framing feels like it is going on forever. There has been stormy weather and high turnover among the framing contractor's crew. Plus, this is a complicated job. There are several small roofs with smaller trusses and then a large roof with trusses requiring a crane to cover an open area two stories high. The crane arrives today or tomorrow. Then, the trusses can be covered with plywood and felt, and the finished profile will emerge.

It took Buck two years to design this addition to our cabin in the woods. He dreamed on paper and now it is rising from the ground. It is not a "turn-key" job. He figured and figured and figured. He is the architect, contractor, sweeper, leak fixer and dreamer-in-chief. My theme song for Buck is John Denver's "What One Man Can Do."

 
"What one man can do is dream. What one man can do is love. What one man can do is change the world and make it young again. Here you see what one man can do."

The task of linking old and new feels impossible some days. The old screened porch will become a foyer and dining room. The fellow below had to wreak a little havoc to help us make that happen.

 
Richard arrived yesterday, full of good cheer and personality. But the vibration of his jack hammer knocking off the stone ribbon and concrete block step from the former screened porch rattled our ancient tooth fillings. Buck and I went to lunch and left Richard to his enthusiastic  destruction.

Extreme Homebuilding

More dangerous than heli-skiing; more exciting than the Snake River in an inner tube; more scatological than a Lenny Bruce monologue.

Dreams realized are bigger than we think.

All that, plus spring has come to Longleaf. I'm either on the roof or in the woods.

Photos tomorrow, in between whipping up a pan of Lasagne Marguerite for a sunset supper in the new dining room. We don't need no stinkin' walls!

A restored "lost post" (mini-post!) from March, 25, 2005.

Sweat Equity

A week ago today, Buck and I were out back with our orange metal dibbles, planting more trees. Because of storm forecasts, the framers were at another project today, one that is already dried in, so they could work indoors. The framing contractor had rigged up a sort of tent out of heavy plastic, to cover the open seams on the second floor where they had cut into the existing roof, leaving our westerly exterior wall vulnerable to rain.  Planting our trees, we could hear the sounds made by the brisk wind as it was getting under the plastic tent. It sounded like sails flapping at a marina. We had already gotten rained on once, and the darkening sky promised more.

There was a loud ripping sound, and a strong gust split the plastic tent.  Buck and I watched as our protection blew off the roof. "That's it for the tree planting today," Buck said to me. "Now we have a different problem." And so, expecting a deluge any minute which would pour water into the open seam of our little home, Buck began to do what he does so well: that is, to protect his own.

I served as carpenter's helper, digging discarded small nails -- the kind that are pushed through a red plastic circle -- out of the clay around the foundation, large nails scattered about the floor, and various sizes of cut 2 x 4 wood, as Buck got on an eight foot ladder, and fashioned a weatherproof seal out of large sheets of plastic, pulling it tight and securing it so that the wind couldn't find a place to get back in. I kept looking at the sky, dark and rumbling. As Buck worked feverishly, I noticed that it began to change. Off in the west behind the darkness overhead, was a starkly contrasting cerulean sky. At first I thought it was a reflection, or a mirage. But no -- by the time Buck had finished his work, my neck and shoulders were roasting in a sunburn befitting a sophomore on spring break. We got lucky, and the crisis was averted. 

 
Rough weather returned over the weekend. By this time, the north wall of the existing house was put in jeopardy. The framers ran out of plastic covering on Friday afternoon, and by the time we realized they were several feet short of protecting the house, everyone was gone, it was the weekend, and rain started on Saturday morning. Buck to the rescue again. This was more complicated, and required cutting plastic, duct tape, flashlights, and rain in the eyes, but he got it done, and we ended up with only half a pot and four towels worth of water in the house. On Sunday morning, Buck secured the remaining leaking areas, which was a good thing, because it came a flood. Later in the afternoon when the rain stopped, he swept all the water off the plywood on the second floor, while I took a push broom to the standing water on the slab below. It was like rolling small waves with the broom. Kind of fun, actually. I would get a head start, push the water, run after it and push some more until it flopped off the edge. Weather forecasts predicted rain until after midnight Sunday, but a strong wind blew the storm system out late Sunday afternoon, and we've had bright sunshine and brilliant stars ever since. 

 
Little by little and bit by bit.

Another "lost post" restored. Original post and photos from March 29, 2005.

Place Markers

These photos are place markers for words yet to come. In a few minutes, the boys will arrive to cut into the front wall and connect beams from the cottage to the addition. Buck and I have furniture to move somewhere to get it out of the way. When we lived in the stunningly beautiful Smoky Mountains, I would move from window to window, transfixed by the sight of a fresh snow fall covering up the mountainside and pasture below. I thought of that yesterday as I moved from window to window, here, hopping from one foot to the other in excitement as the bright orange forklift handed off floor joists to the framers to form the base for the second story of our home.

And in the afternoon, I walked the woods. It was just before a thunderstorm, and the air was fragrant and moist. Dewberries are beginning to form on the bushes down by the stream. New palmetto beds are emerging from the sand hills. Moss spores have begun to fruit, and the pines are sending out growth tips. I returned home refreshed, my hair a mass of wind-made curls.

Here then, a few photos before I get to work!

  

  

  

 

  

I hear truck doors slamming outside. Gotta run!

Another "lost post" restoration. Original written March 8, 2005.

Walls

Walls change everything. Sometimes for good. Sometimes for ill. They divide and block. They enclose and secure. They provide perspective, shelter and a vantage point.

Framers worked from 7:30 to 5 yesterday, assembling and lifting walls. Most of the day it was only John and Scott. Jason joined them in the early afternoon. John lost part of his crew to other jobs temporarily because of a several day delay in pouring the foundation. These guys have to work. They can't afford the luxury of laying out, waiting. Time is literally money, and they feel it on payday every Friday afternoon.

The sun disappeared in the afternoon, and the day dissolved into a gray chill with a stiff wind. I put a thermos of hot coffee and a basket of warm chocolate chip cookies by the door. Scott, who had never made eye contact or spoken to me thus far, stopped in his tracks, jerked up his chin, looked straight at me and said, "Thanks. I could sure use some coffee." Turns out he is the only coffee drinker of the three, but when I pulled the basket back inside later, the cookies were all gone.

 

It's not easy to keep a framing crew together. John, a master framer, is the leader of the pack. He has a responsibility to get his workers a solid forty hours. He tries to have three or four major projects going on at the same time, each in a different stage. I heard his red and silver truck rumble up at 7:10 this morning, the doors slamming and guttural exchanges among the men. Steady rain had been falling for several hours. I wondered what would happen next.

It didn't take long to find out. The talk stopped. Doors slammed again. John gunned the engine and scratched off. It sounded like a political statement, a rude gesture to the weather. He is hot to get this project dried in. then the rain won't matter. I hope they have a dried in house they can go to today and work.

My own experience of the rain this morning is quite different. My raft in life's river is in a quiescent spot at the moment, a smooth ride. I have it easy, curled up like a fat tabby cat in a corner of the sofa, munching on dates and a warm whole grain seeded bun with a couple of thin slices of buttery Havarti cheese. I sip a whisked-up mixture of coffee, milk and cinnamon from a blue and white mug. Buck is working at his desk. Maggie is snoring where she lays by the fireplace.

I am aware that life's river is always moving, carrying me to some different spot, and that where I am today is just that: where I am today. This is a snapshot in time.

A "lost post" restoration. Originally written March 3, 2005.

The Dead Opposite of Boredom

  

. . . and the new bones connected to the old bones.Them bones them bones gonna walk around, them bones them bones gonna walk around. Them bones them bones gonna walk around; now hear the word of the Lord. It was 2:45 this afternoon when I left the house in all its noisy, bodacious creativity. Buck stayed to meet with a cabinet man from Flomaton, Alabama driving over to bid on the project, while I drove downtown for the weekly caring ministry class at Christ Episcopal Church. I drove from rapidly developing country property into town land in decline. The most striking scenery was a vacant pasture recently turned into grazing land for actual cattle – Black Angus by the look of them, many little calves enlivening the view. Their eventual fate may not be so bucolic, but on this afternoon, I wanted to pull over, slip under the fence and set a spell in their presence. Later, driving the 35 minutes home from town, happy that I had made a vat of spaghetti sauce earlier in the day, and that a loving man and a glass of mellow red awaited my arrival, I almost ran off the road gawking at the sunset. I at first thought, “Damn, I wish I had my camera,” and then, “Damn, a real writer would know how to describe the high, scattered clouds decorating the lush coral sunset melting like a copper ingot in the impossibly blue sky.” Me, I need my camera. Our framer, John, told me he would have a set of stairs built to the second floor before he left today.  Driving home from town, pushing slightly over the speed limit, I hoped to get there before the sunset made its final curtain for the day. My mouth was dry, and I thought about what it must look like, up those plywood stairs to the raised platform, unguarded by any borders. I hoped Buck was already up there, taking in the scene. But when I opened the gate and bumped all the way to the house, driving too fast for a smooth ride on that dirt road, I saw a strange pick-up truck, and knew the cabinet man was still there. Maggie met me at the car. I stuck my head in the door to say hello. Buck knew I was hot to run up the new steps. His eyes held mine as he said, “Be careful. There isn’t a rail.”

I feel like Jonah in the belly of the whale. There is an organic process at work here, a digestion. The dead opposite of boredom.  

 
Is there anything more exciting than a newly built stairway to the stars?

 
Every great house has a surprise or two. One of them here is Buck's design for a bridge spanning the distance between two undeclared spaces on the second floor.

 
Going down? The elevator is mainly a concession to the optimistic hope that we will get old enough to need it. That, plus it seems like a ridiculously fun gadget in the meantime to carry us and a supper cart up to the second floor terrace for sunset, moon and star gazing.

There are quite a few more "lost posts" to restore to complete the saga of Buck and my once-in-a-lifetime building project. I feel driven to complete the narrative of this time in our lives before I'm truly free to move forward. I'm eager to finish. This post was originally written and photographed on March 10, 2005.

Chapel in the Woods

It's "just" a series of second story floor joists. Maybe it's the sunset light. I don't know. To me, it looks like an avant garde chapel in the woods. I almost wish we could leave it just as it looks in this photograph. Almost.

 

. . . another of the "lost posts" restored. This is one of my favorite images from the construction. It was posted originally on March 8, 2005 at 09:13 PM.

I Keep Yawning

A big white truck rolled up to the building site about 6:15 this morning. Last night, Buck and I had celebrated our 21st anniversary with an extra glass of Cabernet and some extra dark chocolate from the health food co-op. I did not spring out of bed this morning with my usual alacrity.

I grabbed my jeans and chambray work shirt, cracked open the bedroom door, and went to the kitchen to grind coffee beans. The face of the driver of the big white truck popped up in the kitchen window and greeted me a big grin. He was here to spray the foundation slab for termite prevention. I offered him coffee. I have learned that these guys can be exposed to my unadorned early morning face and live.

By the time the termite prevention barrier was down, another sub and his crew had arrived to spread out a polyethylene moisture barrier on the slab. For a moment I thought the artist Christo had chosen our longleaf woods for his next wrapping project. Once the opaque plastic was unrolled, the guys topped it with metal mesh strips. Completed, it looked like some vast high tech game board.

  Buck and I spent most of the day looking at flooring and counter tops. Our dining table, desk, counter bar, coffee table, floor and bed are littered with brochures and torn out magazine pages.

God willing and the creek don't rise, the slab will get poured tomorrow. By Sunday evening, I hope to be dining on shrimp scampi on the slab at sunset. 

Meanwhile, here's a picture Buck took of me crouching in the spot where the bathtub will be!

  

Another "lost post" restored! This one was originally published on February 18, 2005 at 10:35 PM. You can see the original cottage in the background (with the red door). Where the green plastic lawn chairs and grill are sitting used to be the screened-in porch. It had to be ripped off in order to connect the new portions of the house to the old.

Art in the Everyday World

The foundation crew began this day anonymously. The hoods of their sweatshirts were pulled tight as protection against the morning chill, covering all but a small oval of face, and that unseen as they bent to the task of setting up for the work day ahead.

They arrived on the job shortly after 7:00 a.m., just in time to meet a convoy of cement trucks. The big, blimp-shaped trucks positioned themselves so that a hydraulically connected, telescoping trough-like chute could carry the wet cement fifteen feet more into the waiting two foot by two foot trenches.

 
This is Jerry Campbell, owner of the concrete company. His wife is Celeste, our builder's aide de camp, the one who quietly works behind the scenes to make things happen seamlessly. Jerry's no slouch, either.

The trenches are two foot by two foot, rebar and concrete-filled. Code requires they be 16 inches, but these are 24. Jerry said that's the way he built his house, that it's much more solid that way. We think he and our builder, Ron, collaborated and decided to go the extra mile for us here. It's a good feeling to see that wide concrete base knowing it's built to hold heavy I-beam trusses and the weight of a twenty foot high roof.

 
Few homeowners are lucky enough to see their home built every step of the way. Hardly anyone sees the footings dug and the foundation prepared. I generally think about art in a simplistic way: nature-made or human-made. But in considering art created by humans, my mind goes to galleries, exhibitions and collections, or the art of music or poetry. But you know what? The work done here with mud, cement, rebar and shovels feels to my heart like artistic achievement The fact that it will be covered over soon only means the exhibition was dynamic; one moment in the life of a moving river.

 

Mike, Eddie, Mario, Leon and Reggie are plein air artists.

This is yet another from the "lost post" archive in building the Sanctuary at Longleaf. This quest has become intensely personal and grueling for me, and yet somehow magnificent. I have taken to heart your comments and personal e-mails and am grateful for your company along the way. This post was originally written January 20, 2005 at 09:32 PM.