#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.