Screw This.

Very early on in life, long before I decided “artist” was the right track for me, I entertained the notion of being an architect or a carpenter. I liked working with tools and building things. It didn't matter that my “treehouse” was a single platform I nailed to a tree across some beams, or my “bike helicopter” never got off the ground, a project abandoned after nailing the first few pieces of driftwood together. When I was 4 or 5, my idea of “helping” my dad and my godfather renovate our den was taking a coffee tin of nails and dumping them out the window. In time, I realized that wasn't road for me. There's a difference between enjoying something and being good at it.

On Saturday, my dad asked for my help with a project he estimated would take 3 hours or less. I've learned from helping him repair automobiles that his estimates can be grossly offset by even one snag. Over at his lot, he wanted to put a new gate across the driveway. We arrived, and he revealed what he'd done so far in our garage. He had taken a series of fence slats, and spaced them apart along two other pieces of wood. It still looked better than the heavier series of wobbly red planks collapsing in on themselves.

The first post was sturdy, so we left the hinges on it and just took off that door. Screw types alternated between flat and Philip's head, and I stripped one or two along the way. Breaking the old wood or using a monkey wrench did the trick, and soon we were lugging the old wood up the driveway.

The next part was fun. Even after thirty-six years, my parents still occasionally get mail for the previous owner of our house. When my dad got a Lowe's coupon addressed to this man “or current resident”, he headed out and got a sweet new drill with a removable, rechargeable power pack, and screw bits as well as drill bits. I confess to being afraid of my dad's old drill when I was a kid. It was a heavy silver beast with a thick cord, thick bits, and a horrible roar. This new red plastic model probably won't last as many years, but it was lighter and felt less dangerous. My dad thought I was silly for removing the power pack each time I'd change a bit, but the instructions said to do so and I know that if anyone is likely to slip and release the safety and hit the trigger while holding a drill bit between his fingers, it's me.

Before 3 PM I had new holes drilled, new screws in, and a new door hanging. “What do you think?” asked my dad, “Can we put the other one up today?” I was high on a sense of accomplishment, and perhaps a little poisoned from sun exposure. Even though the other door needed a new beam to hang from, I still thought I could get it done in an hour and get home in time to go to church with my mom. The older I get, the more like my father I become.

At some point, the old beam must have rotted to the point that the people in the neighboring warehouse rigged up a second piece of wood. They nailed it over the top hinge, then attached the bottom hinge to the outside of it. My dad started tearing this wood off before I stopped him, and pointed out that taking the door off first would make it easier to get at the hinges. Over the years, he's reluctantly started taking my advice occasionally, knowing that sometimes when he's in a hurry his actions cause us to take longer. I got the door off first, then the hinges, and then my dad ripped the beam out of the ground. Rotted at the base, it left a small splintered stump that I began digging around. Once we dug that up, we could put in a new beam, pour some cement, fill the hole with dirt, and hang a new door. Yes, in hindsight I realize it was silly of me to think I could do all that in an hour.

The wood may have rotted in one spot, but what was left in the ground was solid. Digging was tough, as I kept hitting rocks, and twice I scratched my arms on rusty nails my dad refused to pull out of the neighboring fence. “Ah, those won't be in the way...leave ‘em.” I chiseled bits of wood away, tried to get a bite on it with a post-hole digger, and at one point hammered a long screwdriver into it that Arthur Pendragon himself would never be able to draw free. My dad hammered at it with a metal beam that bent under the hammer while the wood remained solid. I tried a piece of rebar as a lever. The wood held; the metal bent. I called my mom and told her to go to church without me, that I'd have to go on Sunday. I also asked her to leave her cellphone on so I could let her know whether or not to pick up dinner.

We chiseled and dug and fought. At times it was a comedy routine for the people in that neighborhood. My dad tried hitting the stuck screwdriver with a pipe and caught my knee on an upswing. I tried tying a wire to it and yanking it out. After carving out a hole about 15 inches deep and 12 inches or more in diameter, we decided to just chip away as much of the old wood as possible and set the new beam on top of it. We'd already wasted four hours and the sun was setting. The screwdriver was free, and though we reduced the old beam to splinters and pulled many long shards free, I'd estimate it continued another five inches or more into the ground. I called my mom’s cell phone, which was of course not turned on, and later she called me to check and let us know we’d have to reheat the dinner she picked up.

In the end, we put in whatever screws we had, some not all the way through, to attach the hinges to the door. We only put four in place on the beam to hold the door until Sunday, two on each hinge. Some people think I have nothing but free time, but I think whatever our lives are like, we all have things that can devour our time, even if it's not the same things. Last weekend was spent playing music, 15 hours including travel time on Saturday, and another 5 on Sunday. This weekend, the one gig we did have was canceled, but a new project filled the vacuum. In addition to putting in the last few screws as well as a locking mechanism and a “no parking” sign, Sunday will include some repairs to my car. It started clicking or grinding when I make left turns, and my dad thinks I may have a bent power steering rod. We'll know more once we jack it up. After I go to church, cut the lawn, help my dad with my car, and finish the gate project at the lot, I'll probably settle down with some DVDs to enjoy the remainder of the weekend, unless of course I develop Tetanus. But then I'll have something interesting to write about.