Bell Springs Morning

My closet is lined with a wide array of hats, from which I choose a couple each morning, to direct my actions for the time being. Though I can only wear one at a time, I may have to grab several to get me through the day.

I grabbed the wrong hat on the way out the door.

Thursday morning I lassoed my construction hat on my way out the door, and headed over to the Pepper Pot, where I have been working with my nephew Jason to build a generator power shed. The work has gone smoothly, with the two of us having four mornings invested in the project thus far, not counting the slab.

All that is left to do is to finish insulating and plywooding [Editor’s note: Since when is plywooding a verb?] the interior, shingling the roof, inserting a partition wall and Hardy-Boarding [Editor’s note: Sigh…] the exterior. Finally, we will paint it to match the cabin and check it off the list.

What I had wanted to accomplish on Thursday morning, was some prep work that was better suited to one guy. Jason was employed elsewhere on-farm, so it seemed an opportunistic moment to get a little ahead. In order of preference, I wanted to prep the Hardy Board first, because this was the biggest job still yet to go, and if I could get us to the point where both of us could attack it, the job would go much more efficiently.

Alas, I could not find the electric scissors used to cut the wood-infused-with-cement Hardy Board, despite ransacking tool sheds all over the hill. No problemo, right? Plenty of other tasks. I passed on the roofing, because that is going to be a learning experience for Jason, and I want him to do it.

Besides, neither my surgically repaired left knee, nor my back, will allow me to tack shingles into place any longer. It’s all I can do to apply fertilizer or harvest cherry tomatoes, while dealing with discomfort, let alone using a lethal weapon so close to my exposed thumb. 

It has been three decades-at least-since I served myself a dish of hamburger finger, having learned slower than most how to employ a hammer without harming myself. I would like it to remain thusly.

I could not install the partition wall until the interior plywood was in place, so that became my choice of tasks for the morning. Easy peasy, light and breezy, was my predominant thought, an error in judgment on my part, if ever there were one.

Jason on the roof; project after 3 mornings.

Expectations can be a powerful motivator, but they can also lampoon a project and send it crashing to the ground in flames. Such was the case Thursday morning because I underestimated how hard the job would be. It started off well enough because I did manage to locate the R-13, 16-inch-on-center insulation, which comes precut to 92-and-a-quarter inches for easy installation. 

I installed it, and moved on to cutting a full sheet of half-inch plywood, for installation in the center of the south wall. It required an angled cut because the shed roof dips from eight feet tall on the east wall, to six-and-a-half feet on the west wall.

My cut required that I measure from the bottom of the plywood up to 95 inches on the left side, and from the bottom up to 87 inches on the right side, a routine endeavor. Yes, the measuring and cutting were perfunctory, but the installation was not. The shed is six feet by eight feet, but only eight feet tall at the east side. 

Maneuvering this sheet of half-inch plywood, a simple enough task in open quarters, became problematic in this small space. Nonetheless, with some colorful invective, including repetitive use of the word which starts with “f,” ends in “uck,” and is not firetruck, I sweet-talked it into place.

Now, I turned my attention to the right side, the mirror image of that which I had just completed. My vocabulary now being warmed up, I was ready for action-ready for danger. What I was not prepared for was any hint of adversity.

For whatever reason, and cannabis need not be given exclusive rights here, when I went to measure and cut the complementary piece of plywood to the one already installed, I made the cut from 87 inches on the left side, but forgot that one inch on the right side. I therefore cut the sheet of plywood from 96 inches down to 87 inches, and tried to install it.

When it refused to cooperate, I was dumbfounded. How was this possible? I knew the dimensions of the two walls had to match, or I would never have been able to install rafters correctly. Still, I could not “talk” that plywood into place, even with the threat of the ten pound sledge hammer.

Fortunately, I did not try that approach, only threatened it, presenting an entertaining image for you to savor.

By the time I finally discovered my error in measurement, my strained vocal cords were almost gone. I made the cut without measuring, and when I was done, I heaved that Skil-Saw thirty feet away before the blade had even stopped spinning. It is, after all, lighter than most because it is made from titanium aluminum.

I remove all interior branches
and leaves for good ventilation.

It was at that moment when I realized I was wearing the wrong hat.

I needed to get my cannabis hat out, and go home and sweep. That way the worst I could do was stab myself with a scissors.

Back in the day, we had a name for a morning when nothing went right: We called them Bell Springs Days. It’s been while since I experienced one, but at least I know what to do about it-change the venue.

That’s something I can do on a farm, as easily as changing my hat, which is why I usually grab more than one only way out the door.