Thud

I posted a photograph earlier this year of the  collapsed redwood deck that runs alongside our kitchen. Originally, this 16-by-20 foot room was our home in its entirety, with an upstairs loft. Having relocated from San Jose in May of 1982, to this windowless cabin with no water, power, heat, plumbing or stove, the addition of this deck after the aforementioned had all been handled, was a feather in my metaphorical cap.

I remember getting in on a shipment of redwood, newly delivered to Gary’s Building Supply, picking up a thousand feet of 2-by-6 for a round one thousand bones. This wood was gorgeous, and I especially liked how much easier it was to cut with a handsaw than the fir I had employed for the under-carriage.

You see, once the shell of my cabin was framed, I did all the rest of the work by hand, not owning a generator in those first few years. I cut every post, girder, block, joist, plank and brace by hand, and to be honest, took some pride in that fact.

What I lacked in terms of speed, I made up for by not having to listen to the sound of a generator, and by being able to work as little or as much as I wanted at any given time, without hassling with starting her up. Besides, the siding I used on that original 16-by-20 was one-by-seven redwood, even easier to cut by hand.

I had no nail gun and preferred it that way. Not only did one have to listen to a genny, there was the additional racket of a compressor when you use a nail gun. I’ll pass.

By the time I built that deck, I had already spent an entire summer working on a crew on the construction of a multi-level home in BrookTrails, and had helped in the building of my own cabin. Putting up something as elementary as a redwood deck, posed no problem whatsoever to this seasoned carpenter.

After work in the evenings and on weekends, I put in place this elegant deck, with custom railing so that small boys could be confined to this safe environment. The whole ensemble provided such an upgrade over the bare-bones cabin, that I almost dislocated my shoulder patting myself on the back.

Snow piled up beneath the overhang

And then a funny thing happened in the blink of an eye. Thirty-six years skedaddled along, and we got a heavy snowstorm one fine winter day. There was so much snow piled up on the deck beneath the overhanging eaves above, that it took a week for me to realize what had occurred: The weight of the snow had pulverized the deck.

This was not a case of a deck improperly built; no, the 2-by8 fir joists were snapped. By definition joists rest on their edge, which means that the only way they could have snapped is if the wood were literally rotted away.

Thirty-six years of brutal winters will do that to exposed lumber. 

Here is where things start to get a little surreal. When I built that deck with that beautiful redwood, I am quite certain that I thought it would last forever, or at least as long as my forever. I was wrong. I am equally certain that the new deck I will build will also outlive me.

Thud.

Why does that realization feel so much different to me now, than it did the first time around?