#14 Holes and Filling Them

May 25, 2011 Yet More Rain and 40 Degrees at 6 am The last week marks a subtle transition from the active deconstruction of the cabin as it was--getting it down to the bare bones of post and beams, tar paper and plywood--to a greater emphasis on renewal, the root of the word renovation.

Sure, the new sliding glass door was the first and most dramatic and positive change on Day 2 back in mid-April, a huge new hole in the wall that let in the expansive view of the forested ridge across the canyon (right). But since then, the cabin has seen a steady process of its pieces being taken away. For me living in this space intermittently has meant a symbolic stripping away of what was, while having faith that the carpentry crew Tom, Mike, and Chris, along with the electricians and plumbers, are steadily creating the vision of what could be.

The other day I murmured, “I sometimes doubt the cabin will ever be clean again.” It has been a cesspool of dust, some emerging from walls being taken apart, some carried in from outside. Let me count the kinds! Sawdust, dirt dust, muddy-sawdust dirt (definitely a different species), green paint dust (probably from termites in a previous incarnation of the cabin), pink insulation and yellow insulation sprites, sheetrock dust, iron nail dust, solvent and paint dust, road dust.

Each night I sweep the dirty red painted plywood floor of the cabin so that when I re-enter after the work is done, I can fix my meals on the stove (after I clean it too) and be inside when it is cold outside (which it seems to be, relentlessly). Living in this dirt, I thought it best to be flexible under the circumstances, to keep my It’s-All-Relative Perspective and relate to all the people in tornado refugee tents or people with dirt for floors and who have never had any option otherwise.

However, I'm getting eager for options ahead. The wind and cold come through the holes in the shed wall (a couple gleam through the light in the picture on the right). Cholo, now sleeping next to me on the bed with his own sleeping bag, runs in his sleep and keeps kicking me, but banishing him back to the even colder floor seems cruel at his 14 years. I'm secretly jonesing for a better heated sleep, not to mention a hot shower more than once once a week.

One cold morning last week when Mike and I were talking about working inside, he said so very seriously, “But there’s nothing to do in there.”










“What?!" I guffawed loudly. "Haven’t you seen the holes in the walls?” Again, it’s all relative. To an experienced carpenter who sees the sweep of the whole job in his mind, the holes that needed to be filled required first the attention of the electrician, plumber, and sheetrocker before the carpenters could apply more plywood or tar paper, much less insulation and inside walls or ceilings. All I saw were holes, huge gaping holes.

Letting go, opening the mind
I had been holding onto my pine paneled walls, thinking they were crucial to the feeling of being in a cabin in the woods (aside from the small size of the place and its outhouse). However, Tom and crew kept taking off more and more pine boards in order to provide better reach for the electricians and plumbers for new wires and pipes, and to install humongous beams that would improve the inherent instability of the cabin-as-it-was (fie on the original builder!). On the left is pictured preparations for the Big Beam, and on the right is Tom beaming at the successful placement of the Big Beam. The beam will better hold up the loft that was otherwise pitifully supported--scary, actually, the paucity of the cabin's infrastructure, kind of like what's happening to our defunded national infrastructure, but that's another story.

Anyhow, as each wall came off, I laughed in woe with Tom about the increasing demolishment of my home.

But eventually they realized they could save enough old (and admittedly nasty) boards that survived being wrenched off the walls, and in planing the 30 year old surfaces, make them better than new because, as Tom noted, they now have some real character (see old kitchen ceiling with no planks on left and new kitchen ceiling on right). It’s a more expensive process than buying new pine boards, but the recycling is well worth it to me for the next 30 and more years in a cabin that is overall better built. Each renewed facet will help contribute to the longevity of the cabin.

All too often we don’t know what is possible until someone teaches us to see the possibilities.

More Serious Holes and the Contractor’s “We”
As a naïve neophyte in the realm of construction, I am not afraid to ask questions or even to question the authority of my "boss," Tom, only because if he fires me, I have other options. (Again, having options in life is crucial; otherwise, we feel trapped, victimized.) So Tom asked me if I wanted to dig the hole for one of the new foundation posts, going under one end of the Big Beam. I cheerfully said yes.

After spending a mere 45 minutes in the hole, I had much more empathy for Miguel who had spent several hours digging out the hole for the foundation of the bathroom, including attacking a root ball for a tree growing next to the future addition. Having thought I’d done a good job at digging said hole, I called for Tom’s approval. He offered the most joyous rejection possible of my accomplishment. “That’s good, Kim! But it needs to be deeper and more square.” (I'm digging on the left in the mud.) Tom pulled out his tape measurer—I kid you not—and had me measure the depth of said foundation hole. Mine was pushing 10 inches. He wanted 14. Now he laughed, “Yeah, I’ve known people to mound the dirt on the edge so it would look taller.” As if I would do such a thing (not after that warning!).

So I dug some more. I thought I really had a great hole there. I was also having tremendous empathy for all the poor boys in the excellent young adult novel Holes by Louis Sachar who are forced to dig holes for seemingly no reason in the desert in the juvenile delinquent camp where they endure a sadist director—no resemblance to Tom, of course, but you know how the imagination can wander when you’re spending an hour or two at hard labor. I thought about the men in stripped prison outfits on chain gangs, the Chinese men digging their way through the mountains for the railroads, oh, I had lots of time to think in that hole.

I called Tom back a second time, and he was equally pleased with me as he commented, “That’s great, Kim. Now just a little deeper because we want to dig down past the roots there to the red dirt or clay--"

“We? Is that a royal 'We'?!” I laughed back.

Mike, overhearing this part of the conversation, called out, “That’s the 'Contractor’s We.'”

Another half hour later, I asked Tom if he was hoping I would dig to Red China in order to get to the red mud, but I also admitted that he had a point—well, he always has a point. Though the clay here is yellow, his analysis was that the cement will bind to the clay better than to mere dirt (and especially not loose dirt). When he pointed out that the goal is to have a strong and stable foundation pier for the Big Beam, I complained not.

Actually, I never complain in earnest. I trust his judgment entirely, both in safety and aesthetics. This picture that Chris took of me in the next hole I dug captured my exhaustion in body but not in spirit. And oh what biceps I have!

What Would Richard Do?
I have a new and very unlikely culture hero, one I share with the crew. Chris turned me on to the film Alone in the Wilderness about Richard Proenneke. At age 51 in the 1970s, Richard built a log cabin in the isolated Alaskan wilderness all by himself and filmed the process by setting up a camera on a tripod and creating a visual and audio journal before YouTube even existed. Here is a 10-minute clip of the film: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iYJKd0rkKss

Chris informed me that I could rent the whole film at our (cool, natch) local video store, which I did, saving up my laptop battery to be able to watch Alone in the Wilderness while I was alone in the wilderness.
The next day over lunch, I waxed enthusiastic regarding Richard Proenneke’s amazing craftsmanship. Mike (left) had seen most of the film, too, so we all compared notes. Tom hadn’t seen it yet, so I passed the DVD on to him. Since then, Richard has become our touchstone for how to think about building and surviving in the wilderness. For example, when it was minus 20 degrees outside, Richard noted on his video journal with his very dry sense of humor that “It’s a balmy 41 degrees in the cabin.” When we were on break the other day, I commented that it was so chilly in my cabin that we could see our breath. But Chris (right), dressed for the cold weather on the hill, reminded me that if Richard considers 41 degrees balmy, we are nowhere near potential for complaint. Richard really is an inspiration and a hoot.

The Joys of Warmth by the Woodstove
I began this web log three months ago, writing early about learning to keep a good fire. On many nights in recent weeks, the holes in the cabin have been so predominating—open air between post and beam—that building a fire was useless. On Monday Chris and Mike put in the remaining plywood walls, and I started putting up insulation. Cholo and I can now sit comfortably by the fire evenings (pictured with the kerosene lamp to right), so I can read and Cholo can happily chase rabbits in his sleep before we head out to our glorified tent, the shed. The couch is still out on the porch where it really needs to stay since it’s only in the way.

And what the heck, it's only a few more weeks. After all, 41 degrees really is not so bad. Good night.

#13 Life on the Mountain and Beyond

Since I am now living in the northern California woods, how appropriate that I should be reading Joaquin Miller’s historical novel My Life Amongst the Modocs, a book originally published in 1878 (and re-issued by the fabulous Heyday Press, which specializes in literature about California history and culture, in particular Native American cultures). Ralph, electrician and literary friend, passed this intriguing work along to me.

Miller used his book to alert the world to the threats suffered by California Natives as a result of rapacious mining, pioneer mayhem and anti-Indian murder. I’m always conscious of the indigenous predecessors who lived on these lands and kept them pristine before the invaders came along.

Miller describes beautifully the northern California mountains, the people who preserved them, and the intertwining of philosophy, spirit, and nature:

When the world is done gathering gold… it will come to these forests to look at nature, and be thankful for the wisdom and foresight of the age that preserved this vestige of an all but extinct race. There was a grandeur in the thought, a sort of sublimity, that I shall never feel again. A fervid nature, a vivid imagination, and above all, the matchless and magnificent scenery, … [the] stillness of the forests, all conspired to lift me up into an atmosphere where the soul laughs at doubt and never dreams of failure. … To the east and west, to the north and south, the busy commercial world may swell and throb and beat and battle like a sea; but on this island, around this mountain, with their backs to this bulwark, they shall look untroubled on it all. (p. 269)

The photo shows the clearing on top of the ridge just up the hill from the cabin and from which you can see out to the ocean, here at sunset. When the fog rolls in from the Mendocino coast, the hilltops do look like islands floating in a white sea. Magnificent indeed. The soul dreams of success in such places (unfortunately at the expense of those who lost their lands here).

More Flora
The stillness of the forest around me is often only accompanied by bird sounds, most of which I can no more effectively identify than I can the flowers. I recognize the crow's cawing complaint, the fanning air of a hawk overhead, a woodpecker hammering through a tree, a cooing dove, the skittering of quail in the underbrush, turkeys' haunting laughter, and lovelier songs of birds hiding in treetops, inviting an avian expert to come help me learn their names.

New flowers are springing out at me with every new day on the hilltop. I eagerly awaited the arrival of wild iris (left) in many hues: blue, purple, magenta, white. A patch of ferns glows greenly (below, center).

These Yellow Flowers (above right, with my special name for them) compete with the orange poppies and some new blue and white flowers too tiny for my camera to capture. A few mushrooms linger in the forest nearby, beautiful but fearful in their symmetry (in my earlier mushroom eating post, I noted that regular ridges may mean poison).

More Fauna or “Why Is a Dead Possum in Your Refrigerator?”
Just as it takes time to see a flower, it takes time to see a critter that wants to hide. Sometimes, though, when critters show up dead, we get to scrutinize them more closely. Here are three creatures encountered dead and available for closer inspection; skip this part if you’re squeamish.

The alligator lizard was unburied in the rubble of the new addition, still somewhat fresh but clearly dead. I placed him on guard on the table outside my shed for over a week until one morning he was missing. I called out to Mike and Chris, the carpenters, “Hey, who took the lizard? And I don’t mean one of you!” They knew how much I liked my lizard; we had even been keeping track of its increasing desication. I suppose some other critter had, too. Cholo was a suspect, but Ali's disappearance is still a mystery.

I found the mole (below left) on a walk but did not bring home with me; way too ugly with its buck teeth and digging paws . Still, Thoreau offers an apt metaphor for appreciating the mole: “My instinct tells me my head is an organ for burrowing, as some creatures use their snout and forepaws…” (351). Indeed, the usefulness of hands over head in the country is thematic for me in my apprenticeship during renovations.

The baby possum or vole (below right, help with identification is welcome), also found on a walk, was too furry and cute to pass up, so it is indeed hanging out in a jar in my fridge in case someone else who wants to see a possum up close get a chance.

Live critters crawling about the place include this impressive banana slug (left) and these darling newts.







Life Beyond the Cabin
I've been discovering many nearby trails ranging down the mountain from where I live and will find even more as I’ve been inquiring of all my new friends about their favorite walks and hikes. A greenbelt surrounds the Brooktrails Township that one passes through on the way to my dirt road association of Spring Creek. Brooktrails maintains several lovely hiking paths through the forests so that one comes upon a grove of redwood trees five feet in diameter or more, stunning, quiet, old.

One such grove (photo, left) down the hill, named for a Mr. Ohl, provides a clearing near Willits Creek (photo, right). Cholo and I enjoy stopping on our way to town at both this grove and on another path that takes us along the creek to a pleasant wooden bridge overlooking the calm waters pooling below the dark forest.

I look forward to exploring the other special trails and even more so the Mendocino National Forest, the only one in the nation that does not have a road going through it. I’ve been warned that this forest is now a dangerous site due to humongous marijuana production initiated by new colonizers poaching public lands for private use and sometimes carrying guns to protect their illegal plantations. In fact, 10,000 seedlings were just uprooted last weekend. But I hope to enjoy this forest one day without getting shot.
So much to explore, on these acres under my feet and beyond, not to mention in books and through people who know the area well.

“I should think you would feel lonesome down there” (a comment to Thoreau)
Recently someone asked if I was really as relentlessly happy as I sound in these posts. “Don’t you get lonely up there in the hills all alone?” I have had spurts of being relentlessly unhappy in my past life, so a little relentless happiness now provides necessary balance.

Thoreau also noted that people had asked him “if I did not feel lonesome.” He wrote in a chapter called “Solitude”: “I experienced sometimes that the most sweet and tender, the most innocent and encouraging society may be found in any natural object, even for the poor misanthrope and most melancholy man” (p. 382). Once, only weeks after he first came to the woods and felt lonesome, he “recovered” his spirits in a rainstorm:

In the midst of a gentle rain while these thoughts prevailed, I was suddenly sensible of such sweet and beneficient society in Nature, in the very pattering of the drops, and in every sound and sight around my house, an infinite … friendliness all at once like an atmosphere sustaining me, as made the fancied advantages of human neighborhood insignificant, and I have never thought of them since. … I was made so aware of the presence of something kindred to me, even in scenes which we are accustomed to call wild and dreary… that I thought no place could ever be strange to me again. …

What do we most want to dwell near to…. but to the perennial source of our life, whence in all our experience we have found that to issue, as the willow stands near the water and sends out its roots in that direction.

I live near just such a source at present, where my soul may laugh at doubt, and the sounds of the forest keep good company—not to mention family and friends only a phone call or email away (so much easier to maintain contact than in Thoreau’s day).

This Just In: Snow in Mid-May!
Joaquin Miller also had something to say about the battle with winter’s repeated onslaught in the northern climes, just as spring might arrive:

The balm and alder burst in leaf, and catkins drooped and dropped from willows in the water, till you had thought a legion of woolly caterpillars were drifting to the sea. Still the place was not to be surrendered without a struggle. It was one of winter’s struggles. He had been driven, day after day, in a march of many a thousand miles. He had retreated from Mexico to within sight of Mount Shasta, and here he turned on his pursuer. One night he came boldly down and laid hands on the muddly little stream, and stretched a border of ice all up and down its edges; spread frost-work, white and beautiful, on pick, and tom, and sluice, and flumed and cradle, and made all the miners curse him to his beard.He cut down the banners of the spring that night, lamb-tongue, Indian turnip and catella, and took possession as completely as of old. (p. 128)

I look forward to spring finally winning one of these weeks soon.

#12 Ode to Cheerful Carpenters

“Another morning in Paradise!” Chris often says by way of good morning. He usually arrives five minutes early (right), at 6:55, sometimes still catching Cholo and me on Cholo’s walk up to the vista at the place we local locals call On Top of the World (left).

Mike is enjoying his shortest commute ever because I’m his closest neighbor; he lives down the hill from me. Mike always arrives still eating his breakfast since he doesn’t have a long enough commute to finish it, as on other jobs that are often miles away, so that puts him in a good mood.

Tom rolls in later, often with a load of supplies for the day’s projects. All of them amaze me with their perpetual good cheer.

But then I’m pretty happy too. Tom indicated it’s nice to work with and for someone who is pleasant; instead of complaining about the debris around the house, I enjoying pulling nails, shoveling gravel, moving piles of lumber, and generally cleaning up the mess. Altogether, we make for one pleasant group of people to work with. And that has become a lesson in itself: positivity breeds contentment.

Craftsmen at Work
I have ever more awe for the craft involved in the trades.

(Three stages of the addition: left Tom and Mike on the skeletal frame; center, Chris with the cool pneumatic nail gun; right, the complicated roof joists and shear plywood framing--ask me about "shear" sometime!)

Probably the most complex part of my renovation occurred this last week when the carpenters had to wed the roof of the addition to the cabin, while also extending the new roof to reach over to the roof of the outhouse. And all while maintaining an aesthetic quality and improving the soundness of the building, qualities that Tom insists on—and for which I am grateful.

Such discussions of measurements I overheard on that roof! The intricate attention to making the new redwood siding fit snuggly into the odd angles of the addition. Confabulatons over how to repair the funky roofing while blending in the new roofing. Multiple trips up and down the ladder to the shop in the driveway to cut out pieces that would fit precisely. And when something needed to be recut to get an extra 1/8 of an inch correct, never a display of frustration. I love these guys!

As much fun is the storytelling. The crew gets an official snack and lunchtime together. We pull out our goodies and, sitting in the sun or shade, more thoughtful discussion abounds: where we all came from; how each of them got into the carpentry trade; the way Native Americans, old lumber families, hippies and Mexicans have been treated in Willits over time; the meth epidemic and how it has ravaged some families here; laughing about tool “hoarding” in sheds crammed with the organized disorder of parts that will be put to use one day, one day; raising kids without television in the country versus in the busy life of a small town; the silliness of the royal wedding and the somber consequences of Osama’s assassination; the impact of the homebuilding market downturn; the value of green building. How rich to learn from them, to trade stories and laughter.

The crew rushed to get the special rubberized "tar paper" on Friday afternoon since it's going to rain this weekend, meaning they all had to work late. After their outdoor shop was put away, tool by tool in Tom's traveling tool van, and we'd covered up all the lumber with tarps, it was five p.m., and I expected them to dash home. But the three men stood for a few minutes, looking upon their work, the new room they had created. They even plotted what was next. Earlier in the day in talking about his attraction to carpentry, Tom had said that he likes to make things, his hands gesturing to show the significance of substance. Indeed, he makes things and beautifully, too.

Apprenticeship on the Job
Meanwhile, I am upgrading my own skills little by little. The wonderful Willits Independent Film Series brought Company Men to town a few weeks ago, a film about elite executives who lose their jobs in the recession. One executive, played by Ben Affleck, has to eat humble pie and take a job with his contractor brother-in-law. I’ve been relating to that role in recent weeks. Affleck starts out with brand new work boots and a tool belt; his new boss tells him to leave the tool belt in the car since he won’t need it. Instead, with status as laborer, he is hauling lumber and mixing concrete.

I've been doing the same, putting myself on Detritus Duty. But with most of the demolition (thankfully) done, I have moved up to duty on the Chop Saw, where I saw through the longer pieces of wrecked lumber (rotten boards torn down from my structure or pieces cut off from the reconstruction, useless for further construction but too long for the woodstove). Chris is a good teacher; he told me how to use the impressive saw, and then, surely reading a flicker of doubt in my mind, he reinforced, “You can do it!” Sometimes we just need to hear that from one who knows.

Of course, I was also regaled with stories of mishaps on such machines; one experienced carpenter sawed through the tip of his finger and another guy cut off his hand (the story gets gorier, but I’ll spare you unless you ask for the rest of it). Mike’s good advice was, “Just imagine what is the worst thing that could happen, and act to prevent it.”

Practicing Gratitude

With rain coming this weekend, the couch was moved back into the cabin, allowing me to sleep there (instead of in the unheated shed, pictured right) and take benefit from the woodstove. Sleeping in the shed at night I've had to put Cholo on the bed with me in to keep us both warm--a privilege for the old man who has never before been allowed on beds. However, at 40 degrees, we are both shivering without one another's bulk. Though there is only tar paper on some of the cabin walls, the stove’s heat is infinitely better there than in the unheated shed.

Life without indoor plumbing is getting slightly wearisome, but I have my outdoor sink (picture above--the whole cabinet taken out of the cabin); no running water there either, but it's a better height for doing dishes and dunking one's head in the bucket. I continue to feel grateful for such small gifts.

And waking up in paradise makes it all worthwhile.

#11 On a Buddhist Renovation & the Joy of Tools

What to let go of and what to hold onto? When to let go and when to hold fast? This question grabs us ever more intensely as we age, it seems.

I have loved the pine paneled walls of this cabin for 25 years (to left, image of old walls, couch and closet). I have loved its coziness, its funkiness, the fact that little matched or fit or even entirely worked. Why I've been attached to this closed-in little building with its dysfunction and quirks is another question, but we all have such attachments. It was a major life change to be willing to open up the walls, tear out the closet, and redesign the space. (That's tar paper on the walls, and no longer a closet on the right.)

I think of parents watching their teenagers grow up and leave home for college or other ventures: you’ve spent so many years nurturing them that to lose them is painful, and yet the new opportunities that come with maturation and change are valuable, too.

I confront change in this home every hour or more. Tom the contractor and his carpenter crew, Mike and Chris, and the electrician Ralph and plumber Mike are all consummate communicators. Repeatedly throughout each day, someone comes to me, asking, “Kim, how do you want this?” Often I don’t know what I want since I’ve never had to think about construction details: the need for a beam to keep the loft aloft (to provide support in a structure that thoroughly lacks structural integrity—sounds like a good idea!); the implications of doors positioned 1½ inches one way or the other (why should I care?); new wood to replace the rotten and cracked boards (no brainer); how to choose and locate hose bibs (after I learn what they are).

When they walk me through options--what will be most safe, most convenient, most aesthetic, most affordable--my head may be whirling, but I come out feeling secure that the cabin will end up better for it. Doing the right thing can seep through every aspect of our lives.

Power Tools Are Cool
I am contributing what physical labor I can to the renovation effots, so on Day 2 of renovation last week, Tom suggested I help take apart the existing closet (behind the curtain above, the back of it by the ladder below), a flimsy structure of patched together wood (like everything else in the Cabin-As-It-Was).

Chris the Carpenter handed over his power screwdriver when I started to take down shelving in the closet. Some of you know this tool already, but if you’ve ever struggled with a simple little screwdriver, then you know how cool it is to pick up a screwdriver that 1) has its own light 2) has a magnet to hold the darn screw without your dropping it repeatedly and 3) uses power to pull the screw out automatically. Magic! I have new appreciation for all those (mostly) guys in their toolshops absorbed in all they can make and do. Maybe Betty Crocker cakes seem just as magical.

Demolition Derby
The electric screwdriver’s power both thrilled me and put me in a meditative screw-removal trance: I saw myself heroically aligned with the philosophy of the 1984 classic back-to-the-land book, Chop Wood, Carry Water (by Rick Fields), promoting the idea that in returning to the simple tasks of life, we find spiritual fulfilment. Okay, maybe it’s not so easy as that for some of us, but certainly in slowing down we appreciate what it takes to keep us alive in body, mind and spirit.

So there I was, harmonizing away while pulling out screws. Sure, with a screwdriver built like a Glock pistol, but I was enjoying the process.

However, I got sent to town on an important task—getting the straps for the foundation that was going to be poured. Or was it so important? Maybe they wanted me out of the way! Because by the time I came back, the guys with the big levers (or whatever they're called) and mallets had wrenched apart the flimsy closet, and it was gone! Every day now, for the 10 days of remodel so far, the “demo,” as Mike called it, has gotten more vast: I’m down to tar paper or simple open posts and beams.

So when I say I am letting go of what was, this process continues to be a daily confrontation.

Creative Reuse
Meanwhile, I keep trying to figure out how to utilize all the detritus I'm producing in this remodel. I feel not a little guilty as I see wood stacking up, thick boards used just once to contain the foundation walls for the new bathroom, or the remains of wood paneling from the former closet and walls. The carpenters use all the good wood they can, and plan to repanel inside with the good boards. But some lumber gets destroyed in its first use and is only good for firewood the next time around.
As I showed in my previous post, I've set up a denailification station; last Wednesday’s task was to create order out of chaos in my miniature lumber and junk yards. I now have neatly stacked piles of boards that can be reused, including former pine walls for reuse in the cabin, while other wood is stacked for making a garden shed or solarium one day, and yet another stack is destined to become firewood. I hope very little will be sent to a landfill.

A basic principle in construction, I have learned, is that it's often less costly to scrap a building and start from scratch than to try to save it. The carpenters have noted that the way this funky cabin was built 30 years ago or so was so irregular that window frames are not plumb, the plywood floor thickness doesn’t match, beams aren’t supported, the floor slopes down in one corner, on and on. So why bother saving a structure that is not safe and so difficult to repair and remodel? I can see the crew at the cabin wonder why I would bring the building down to its skeletal form in order to bring it back to life, like a cancer patient on chemotherapy.

In part because the structure is beloved. In part because every wall taken down has a cost to the environment in terms of the waste it creates and the need for more wood and other resources to rebuild. I can bear the cost of saving 70% of the structure and adding on to make it 110% better. But I still want to use all that wood that came off it in some creative way. Anyone wishing to come build a hut is welcome!

The Foundation
Last for this week is a report on the new foundation. Miguel (left) and Chris were on the crew for digging the hole where the new entry way and bathroom addition will go.
Then a wooden mold was build to hold the concrete. The rebar bender (right) provided the form for the metal frame necessary for the concrete to hold. The wooden frame was now ready for the concrete to pour. The arrival of the cement truck, with its constantly whirling freight was exciting for this city girl. Once the cement was poured into the wooden foundation, Chris used the "vibrator," a long rubber tube that jiggles the cement in the foundation to insure that air does not get trapped and create a "void" in the finished cement block.

On another day, the plumber, Mike (left below)

and his assistant Billy (right) came to lay the (pvc) pipes for the new bathroom.

After the pipes were well secured and their ends sticking out covered and taped over, the cement truck returned to lay The Slab. I came to appreciate the collaboration and coordination in all of these builders, since the pipes, once set in cement, could not err in relation to bathroom sinks, drains, and hot water pipes. They have to know what they are doing. And they do.

As Chris said, getting the nomenclature for tools is obviously crucial if you are in the trades. The Guys are all patient as I asked what each tool is called and what it is for. One of my favorites is the Jitterbug, a flat piece of metal with small holes in it and grabbed by two handles standing up. You can see how the jitterbug keeps you dancing 'cause you have to keep raising and lowering it into the cement, as if moving a partner around the dance floor. It is used to tamp down the cement in the slab to make sure it is settling evenly and without voids.

Finally, Ralph the electrician and solar magician, was putting in wires throughout the house with his assistant Jeff, and used a Wire Wheel that looks like a cross between a gigantic spider and a gadget for inquisition under pressure.

That's it for now. I'm still having a blast!

Next Time: Living in a Shed &the Spring Explosion of Flora and Fauna