Reflections - Handymen on Deck! (Part Two) 

Sinking Deck with All Vegetation Except Hops Removed

Spence warned me. “They’re handymen. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

Too late. My hopes soared. I imagined rolling my yoga mat on a flat deck and stretching without toppling over.

Our two year search for help with the sinking post, slanting deck, and peeling stain had ended. Within weeks, we would have a flat, stable, newly finished deck. Nathan said he would repair the deck as soon as we cleared the weeds. Sparky said he’d come Sunday, August 28, to spec the refinishing job. Setting a sickle, pruning shears, garden shears, and loppers on the porch, Spence said, “Use these for weeding.”

What could possibly go wrong?

Sparky, Dave Sparks, came with his assistant Dave. Though both are pleasant and polite, they’re easy to distinguish. Dave is taller, leaner, and less talkative than Sparky. He chatted, paced the deck and jotted notes.

Spence showed Sparky the Behr card with a product that promised to cover treated wood, but Sparky recommended something else because “That stuff goes on like concrete. You can’t stop in the middle without leaving a mark.”

“Do the staining for sure. If Nathan doesn't show . . .” Spence threw his arms in the air. “Repair the deck too.”

“I have two jobs in front of you.” Sparky tucked his notebook into a shirt pocket. “I can start in about two weeks, weather permitting.”

Motivated by Sparky's “two weeks,” I slipped into garden gloves, grabbed tools off the porch, and marched to the edge of the green thicket. I scanned for snakes, mice, and voles before whacking, chopping, and yanking. No critters popped out. They must have heard the destruction and scooted. I also unwound woody stems from the lattice below the deck and left a waist high pile of vegetation for Spence to haul.

Spence hauled and weeded after dinner, a time when he declared himself too brain dead for computer work.

We each weeded several more times, and, with only a couple square feet left on Friday, Spence said, “I’m driving to Nathan’s. I’ll let him know we’re ready.”

I assumed Spence would leave Nathan a note. Spence’s account of his trip proved me wrong. He pulled into Nathan’s driveway and jotted a note while talking to a yippy-little dog. Nathan came home so Spence crumpled the note, shoved it into his pocket, and told Nathan we were ready. “Nathan said, ‘okay.’ He’s a man of few words.”

The next day, Spence pulled the last of the vegetation away from below the deck. He left the hops—one of his favorite plants. It bears flowers with an earthy fragrance. He also removed the lattices that encouraged vines to climb, balanced the lattices atop the tractor bucket, and hauled the wobbly load to the garage basement. He sprayed industrial strength vinegar on the ground to discourage the weeds. We really were ready for Nathan.

Nathan didn’t come.

Spence and I spent another four days of tag team yanking, clipping, and hauling. We untangled the last vines from the ramp spindles—ready for Sparky, who had to refinish not only the ramp, deck, and steps to the porch, but the railings connecting all three.

Nathan still didn’t come.

Sparky called several times. “I didn’t want you thinking I forgot you, Miss Janet. The rain is delaying this job. I’ll have a price for you soon.”

“Calculate the whole job, Sparky—fixing the sinking post and staining. The other handyman didn’t show.”

Rain and more rain pushed the start date back.

Friday morning, September 23, Sparky’s pickup pulled onto the gravel driveway. He and his helper Dave muscled an aluminum frame holding an empty 300 gallon plastic water tank down the driveway—Sparky waved at me watching from the porch—around the house, and into the side yard. “Tell Spence to fill the tank over the weekend.”

If all went according to Sparky’s three day work schedule, and allowing for a few days of rain, he would complete the project by the end of September.

Using the rainwater from our 500 gallon cistern, Spence filled Sparky’s tank half full that afternoon.

The tank emptied itself overnight.

I called Sparky.

“Don’t worry, Miss Janet.” His jovial voice reassured me. “There must be a leak. I’ll fix it when I come Tuesday. Sorry about the water you lost.”

Heavy rain over the weekend and Monday replaced some of the water.

Sparky couldn’t fix the leak. He, Dave, and Spence stood by the tank and discussed water sources. They settled on dropping a pump into the cistern. “I’ll bring a pump next time,” Sparky said.

Switching their attention to the sinking posts, Dave fetched the posthole digger and shovel. Tools scraped against dirt outside.

Inside, my son Charlie led me to the loft for the first of many princess movies. By the time Turning Red credits scrolled on the screen, rain splattered the deck, the handymen had left, and Spence offered an invitation. “Are you up for a stroll?”

“Not far.” I slipped into sloggers, grabbed an umbrella, and ambled to the deck. “It’s level!”

“They jacked it up.” Spence flashed a toothy grin. “The center post had rotted. They poured concrete beside it.” He leaned over the railing and pointed. “For the new post.”

The rain kept the handymen away until Thursday. That morning cat ears twitched with the thunk, thunk of digging two new postholes, buzz, buzz of sawing supports, rumble, rumble of the dolly rolling heavy flower pots to the front yard, and shish, shish of spraying bleach on wood.

 

Sparky Bleaching the Ramp

Sparky removed the top of our 500 gallon cistern and dropped the sump pump in.

Dave waved the power washer wand over the bottom of the ramp.

Rumble, rumble, rrrrr. Rumble, rumble, rrrrr.

Four feet into the job, Sparky stopped Dave and came to the door. “We’re not getting enough pressure from the pump for the power washer.” He adjusted his baseball cap. “I don't want to burn out the motor. I’m going home to see if I can get my other pump working. If not, I'll rent one.”

Friday, they finished setting the three posts—the replacement for the rotten center post and two extra posts for support. Then they inserted the second pump into the cistern. It worked. The power washer burnt out. “I’ll work on my two power washers over the weekend. If I can’t get one working, I’ll rent one,” Sparky said with a pleasant smile.

I would have kicked the dratted machines and given them a few choice words in my teacher-voice.

Whether rented or repaired, all the machines worked Monday.

Three mesmerized tabby cats lined up by the sliding glass door to watch the fellas as if they performed a Broadway musical complete with costumes. Wearing knee-high rubber boots, camouflage pants, and a red baseball cap, Dave swept soapy water with a wide push broom. Sparky—in slate blue Bermuda shorts, red shirt, and a bandanna on his head—sprayed the suds away. For the finale, the handymen carried their tools off deck. They left shiny-wet boards, muddy dregs at the bottom of the cistern, and three exhausted cats.

The next day, the fellas pried out rotten wood and hammered in new pieces.

With Rills supervising from his perch on the kitchen windowsill, Dave taped and covered the porch floor and anything that shouldn't be marred by airborne stain. Sparky sprayed stain with smooth, experienced strokes onto the porch spindles. Dave climbed a step ladder to reach the high support posts.

The ladder tipped.

I winced.

Dave grabbed the post, righted the ladder, and casually brushed more stain.

Sparky and Dave touched up spots on October 5, finishing the job. In the kitchen, Sparky spread papers listing work hours and supplies on the table. He added a pile of receipts then explained the adjustments in price from his original estimate.

I wrote a check.

The deck looked lovely and would outlast our lifetimes. I let my imagination soar. I would roll the yoga mat beside pots of pansies and stretch to Yoga with Adriene videos next spring.

Realty topped that.

At my four week post-surgery checkup on October 25, Dr. Ackenbom’s face mask dimpled. “I give you an ‘A’ plus,” she said in a gleeful voice and lifted some restrictions, giving me permission to do yoga. “As long as it feels good.”

Back at Wells Wood, I rolled my yoga mat beside pots of begonias and mums then selected Adriene's low-to-the-ground, gentle, yoga in the park video. The Second Summer sunshine toasted my back. Ladybugs crawled across my hands. A breeze brought browning white pine needles and the spicy fragrance of mums. Yoga stretches did feel good—especially on the flat, freshly stained deck.

 

Mums and Begonias on Repaired and Refinished Deck

 Reflections - Handymen on Deck? 

Deck Sinking at Center Post

Inch by inch the center post of the deck sank. The railing dipped and the deck floor slanted—both pointing toward the deviant post. Inquiries to Spence got me a pat on the back and “Yes, it’s unattractive. No, the deck won’t collapse. Don’t worry.”

But the sinking deck had hidden danger.

Lugging my yoga gear onto the tilting deck, I rolled my mat beside the pansies and begonias before tuning in a Yoga with Adriene video on the laptop. Clouds floated overhead. The morning bird chorus cheered me on.

Adriene placed a foot against her opposite leg, chatted instructions, and raised her arms over her head into tree pose. She stood straight and strong like a solid oak.

At age seventy-four with essential tremor, or the wibble-wobbles as Spence calls it, balancing challenges me. Standing on one foot with the deck slanting, I swayed like a willow in a storm. I raised one hand. The other clutched the sliding glass door handle to save myself from toppling over.

In his younger years, Spence could have hoisted the deck with a jack and poured a new footer to fix the sinking post. Awaiting hernia surgery at the age of seventy-five—not an option.

Besides, the second half of the problem involved stain peeling off the treated wood. Summer after summer Spence had sanded and swept the old finish then brushed and rolled on a new—in vain.

For the sake of my wibble-wobbles, his hernia, and the wood, we needed help.

In the fall of 2020, we called Sparky, Dave Sparks of Sparky’s Handyman Services, because he’d done a terrific job refinishing the ladder-sides of the house and garage two years earlier. 

Spence and I gave Sparky a tour of the sinking deck. He paced the length, pulled a notebook out of his shirt pocket, and jotted measurements. 

I handed him the Behr color chart from Home Depot and pointed to California Rustic.” I want that one.”

“I keep staining.” Spence put his fists on his hips. “It keeps peeling.” He pointed to the paint chart. “That product is advertised to work.”

Sparky gritted his teeth and tilted his head on an angle. “That’ll peel too. They make a better product that covers waterproof wood.” He added my color preference to his notes and stuffed the notebook into his pocket. “But I’m busy now. I might not get to the job till spring.”

“That’s okay. I won’t be doing yoga outside with the weather turning cooler.”

Sparky shook our hands and gave us reassuring smiles. “I’ll call you.”

Spring 2021 arrived. I rolled my yoga mat up the slant from the pansy pots. Sparky didn’t call.

Spence called him and left messages. “Hey, Sparky. It’s Spence on West Creek. We still want the deck fixed.”

Sitting on the sofa with feet propped on the coffee table, Spence dialed Sparky’s number yet again. “Hi, Sparky.” Spence’s eyes darted back and forth. His feet slapped against the floor. His back straightened. “I’m sorry . . . I understand . . . okay . . . take care.”

Twisting a dish towel, I waited for an explanation.

Spence got off the sofa. “That was uncomfortable. Sparky said ‘I can’t talk now. I’m driving my mother to hospice.” Spence fetched a can of carbonated lime water. “I heard the car motor in the background.” He took a long swig of his drink. “I could hear Sparky’s mother too.”

We waited the rest of spring, all of summer, and into fall. No word from Sparky.

Spence left more messages.

Sparky still didn’t call.

Snow fell. The latest coat of stain peeled more. The post sunk further. When I rolled the yoga mat on the slanting deck in spring of 2022, we searched for a new handyman.

Spence stopped at local work sites. “Do you guys fix decks?” They didn’t but suggested handymen. Spence called, left messages, and pinned slips of paper with contact information to our bulletin board.

I cut a handyman ad from the Area Shopper, called and left a message. A few days later, a pickup with ladders slowed while the driver gawked at the deck. He didn’t stop.

Spence collected names at Amish stores—Adrian’s cabinet making shop and Windy Knoll Grocery.

I called Father & Son Labor Work, a handyman service listed in the Mercer County phone book. A week later a man with a heavy European accent called. He interrupted my explanation of the deck problems. “Where are you?”

I gave him the address.

“Where is that?”

In the middle of my directions from Greenville, he harrumphed. “Too far,” and hung up.

Spence drove his new Maverick pickup to show Tom, the neighbor who dug the foundations for our house and garage. Spence asked about handymen too, of course.

“Nathan on Jacob’s Road.” Tom peered at the Maverick’s dashboard with dials and icons on screens. “Nathan’s Amish. Leave him a note.”

Spence wrote a note and drove to the renovated farmhouse which, with its dark brown siding and covered porches, made a great advertisement for a handyman. Spence gave the note to Nathan’s wife—a young, petite blond with a welcoming smile—who assured Spence that Nathan could fit our job into his schedule.

Nathan didn’t contact us.

We asked other neighbors. They had no suggestions.

And a neighbor asked us. On our health walk along Creek Road, Spence and I’d reached Barb’s Victorian house when Sandi, a township auditor, stopped her car. She turned off her engine and, well into a country chat asked, “Do you know a handyman I can call?”

We exchanged weary glances. I summarized our search from Sparky and his mother to the thick-accented hanger-upper.

Sandi frowned. “I’ll ask Barb then.”

“We gave Barb Sparky’s number.” Spence pointed to Barb’s house. “For her new steps.”

“The one driving his mother to hospice,” I said for clarification.

Sandi slumped behind the wheel. “Well, I know two contractors. Maybe one of their workers could do your deck. I’ll tell them to expect your call. At least they’ll call you back.”

The first, a son of Sandi’s friend, didn't call us back. The second, minister of the community church in Milledgeville, answered Spence’s call. The minister-contractor said he couldn’t possibly come by until Saturday. I waited that entire day. He didn’t show and or call.

Two dozen notes hung on the bulletin board. We still didn’t have anyone to fix the deck.

End of summer girasoles bloomed. Spence drove to Nathan’s house and left another note.

When Spence returned, I asked, “Do you mind if I call Sparky?”

“If you want.” Spence glanced through the sliding glass door at the slanting desk. “Don’t count on him calling back.”

Wild turkeys clucked in the woods. Telemarketers called—no handymen, no contractors. I resigned myself to practicing yoga on a slope.

On the morning of August 24, Spence walked to the garage to fetch travel notes he’d left in the Maverick. I scooped up cats for morning cuddles. Gravel crunched in the house driveway. Holding Gilbert, I peeked out the guest room window.

Two men jumped out of a black pickup and talked to Spence. I assumed they asked for permission to hunt in our woods this fall, but Spence led them to the deck. I put Gilbert down, picked up Rills, and moved to the sliding glass doors. The men motioned with their hands, chatted, and then left.

“Nathan saw me walking. He told his driver to stop.” Spence said when he returned and reached to scratch Rills. “Nathan will fix the deck.”

“When?” I released the wriggling cat.

“As soon as we cut the weeds.”

 

Clematis

The clematis, wisteria, and hops had been joined by touch-me-nots, wild blackberries, and an assortment of less desirable intruders making a massive green thicket around the base of the deck. “Did he quote a price or give you a number to call?”

“No. I’ll buy the supplies. He wants two posts. And fifteen bags of concrete. They’re eighty pounds each.”

“Not with your hernia.” Shaking my head for emphasis made me dizzy.

“He’s Amish. He doesn't drive.” Spence used his explaining-to-a-child voice. “I can buy Home Depot cards at Giant Eagle. I’ll get gas points for the Maverick.”

“NO. WAY.”

“The Home Depot guys will load the bags. I’ll slide them off.” He pantomimed the unloading with his hands. “It’ll be fine.”

My stomach churned as if making butter. Spence planned to get the supplies, and we didn’t have a price, phone number, or contract. But Nathan was our only offer—until that evening.

Spence’s lawn mower hummed outside while I splashed dishwater inside. The phone rang.

“Hello, Miss Janet.” Sparky’s jovial voice vibrated through the landline.

I tightened my grip on the phone.

“You may not want me anymore. I understand-—”

“Sparky!” I blurted. “It’s good to hear your voice. How are you? How did things work out with your mother?”

“She died.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s been crazy. My father moved in with me. Home’s settling down. Not work. It’s awfully busy. But if you haven’t found anybody yet, I could look at the job Sunday morning.”

“Someone came about the job this morning, but he didn’t give us a price, a contract, or a start date. And Spence said he’d get the eighty pound bags of concrete for him. I don’t like that. Please come.”

When Spence finished mowing, I relayed the Sparky news. 

Spence half smiled. “Huh.”

“After two years of no handymen, now we have two.” I twisted my pony tail. “I don’t want to turn either down. It’s too hard finding help.” 

“Don’t worry.” Spence held my shoulders and squeezed. “We’ll split the job. Nathan can repair the deck. Sparky can do the finish. But—”

Spence pulled me in for a hug. “They’re handymen. Don’t get your hopes up.” 

Sparky

END PART ONE

 

Reflections - Princess Mode

Janet with her Princess Blanket

 

I’m a worker bee. Life trained me to finish what I start before taking a rest. This September, I picked up the pace. I washed the screens and windows, clearing a year's worth of road dust. I deep cleaned the porch and suffered the ire of resident spiders that left a trail of itchy, pink dots up my forearm to my elbow. Plus I crammed laundry, loft-to-basement house cleaning, litter box scrubbing, and worm compost drying, into the last weekend.

The urgency to get the work finished? Impending surgery by Dr. Ackenbom.

I had fallen in love with Dr. Ackenbom five minutes into our two hour consultation in June. She asked what I wanted, listened, and explained my options for repairing the vaginal prolapse.

While still healthy enough to undergo surgery, I chose it, the only choice that wasn’t a Band-Aid.

“Surgery is ninety-five to ninety-nine percent effective and will last forever.” Dr. Ackenbom’s lips curled into a cute pout. “But then I wouldn’t get to see you every three months.” She gave me a long list of pre and post op instructions ending with, “To heal properly, you’ll need to be in princess mode.” Her laugh rang out like a peal of country church bells.

I followed all her directions leading up to and including the day of the surgery, September 26, even though it meant waking at 3:00 a.m. to shower and drink twelve ounces of Gatorade. At 4:10 Spence drove me through the dark and rain to Erie—a different experience from a daytime drive, like landing in an airplane on a runway at night. I checked into the hospital at 5:30 and was whisked to pre-op where efficient and friendly nurses took great care of me despite giving me canary-yellow nonskid socks that clashed with the tarnished-gold crescent moons on the green and blue hospital gown.

Dr. Ackenbom visited pre-op, asked a couple questions, and grabbed both my hands giving each a squeeze. “Everything is going to be alright.”

Nodding, I couldn't stop my eyes from flooding. At least the tears didn’t spill down my cheeks.

Though Dr. Ackenbom operated on me for three hours, I didn’t see her again until she burst into the recovery room while I nibbled crackers, sipped water, and chatted with Spence.

I had to pass the pee test before Dr. Ackenbom would let me go home. So Amy, the nurse who walked through the revolving doors that morning the same time we had, set to work. She piled more saltine packages on my tray. “The salt in the crackers will help you pee.” She refilled  my water cup and added another IV fluid bag to the hook by the bed. She even pumped water into  my bladder before shoving a walker against the bed and making sure I didn’t fall while I shuffled to the bathroom.

“Put your hand in this.” She stuck a bowl of warm water beside me then turned on the faucet. Running water. Hand in warm water. Full bladder. Of course I peed.

An hour later, Dr. Ackenbom came back to give me the delirium screening. I bungled a few questions. I said Obama was the president before Biden—wishful thinking—and dozed off in the middle of subtracting three from twenty. “Seventeen, fourteen, eleven, zzzzzz.”

In a polite voice Dr. Ackenbom said, “I’m waiting.”

“Did I answer?” I remembered having to subtract three from twenty. “Um, seven. No, twenty, seventeen—”

“That’s fine. You can go home if you can get your clothes on.”

If.

The IV fluid bag might as well have been pumping concrete into my veins. I couldn’t sit up let alone struggle into the elastic top jeans and bulky sweatshirt I’d worn. I surrendered to another nap.

When I woke, I gulped some apple cranberry juice and gazed out the window at Presque Isle Bay. Waves rocked under pelting rain and menacing black clouds. Spence read me well wishing emails from my sister, brother, and brother’s girlfriend until Amy popped into the room and stared at me. “You look rested. Your eyes aren’t glazed. Are you hungry?”

“YES.”

She picked up the phone. “Can you send a dinner tray to room five twelve?”

After eating a grilled chicken breast (from a very young bird by the size), green beans, and applesauce plus taking in yet another bag of IV fluids, my arms and legs moved. I slipped into my clothes. Amy wheeled me out of the room, down the elevator, and out the revolving door to Spence’s Maverick.

Spence drove through spurts of rain. The Maverick rolled up and down hills, around green fields, and past orange construction cones. Spence chatted about the cats and the proposals he’d worked on during the day fueled by coffee from the nurses’ station and a breakfast gobbled at three while I took my pre-op shower. Balancing on the seat so as not to put pressure on my bottom parts, I considered him a superhero for continuing to function.

At 7:30, Charlie opened the front door for us. The sleeping cats awoke, stared as if they’d never seen us before, then went crazy chasing each other about the great room. A satisfying welcome indeed.

Princess mode began the next morning when Ande followed me to the bathroom waiting to be picked up as usual. He paced around my feet at the bottom of the porcelain throne.

I petted him, cooed “What a good boy you are,” but didn’t lift his sixteen pounds to my lap.

He circled the bathroom then put his paws on my knees.

I rubbed his whiskers.

He sat on his haunches and lifted his front paws to my shoulders.

I stroked his sides and bent my forehead to touch his.

He purred.

Rills and Gilbert sat on either side of the bathroom door waiting for their morning hugs. I didn’t lift them either.

Ande Guarding Janet

After morning ablutions, I’d worn myself out so, instead of sitting at my secretary desk to write my morning journal, crawled back into bed. Pamper yourself, I whispered to no one in particular, and read to distract my thoughts, easing the pain. 

Three cats swarmed into the bedroom. Ande jumped onto the bed and walked around my legs. Gilbert pranced over me. He didn’t stay long enough for a cuddle. Rills contented himself by putting his paws on the foot of the bed and surveying the scene. When the small cats left, Ande snuggled against my leg and napped.

The cats had adjusted.

My other fellas did too. In fact, Charlie had prepared for princess mode at the end of August during Sunday breakfast. “Would you like to see Hamilton?”

“You mean drive to New York?”

He chuckled. “No. On Disney channel.” He subscribed to Disney at the beginning of September, and I lugged my laptop to the loft to cast the movie onto our wide screen TV. Charlie shook his head, put the app on my tablet, and made the sign-in a simple one click.

The first day after surgery, he climbed and I trudged upstairs before and after lunch to watch princess movies—though I did hear him snore through part of the second one. He’d gone to bed before I made the trip for my evening princess fix. I would watch five more princess features—some with Charlie, some alone, all sitting on a pillow or two in the lime green lounge chair, another of Dr. Ackenbom’s directives.

Charlie teased. “You need a pea under the pillows.”

Spence didn’t tease. He provided practical help with a plus. After the exertion of brushing my teeth and washing my face had me dragging back to bed, Spence dashed ahead to smooth the sheets and place pillows—three behind my back and two under my knees. “Are they at the right angle?” He tucked the cozy princess blanket, which my friend Maggie had sent, around my legs. “Sparkle side up.” He grinned and placed a green afghan beside my legs.

Gilbert hopped on the afghan and kneaded the yarn. Purring, the cat settled while Spence arranged a wood tray beside my torso.

On the tray Spence set a cup of steaming herbal tea, a journal, pens, and a brass cow bell. Clutching earphones he’d hung around his neck, he said, “I’ll be listening to news. Ring if you need me.” His footsteps faded down the hall. Water splashed in the kitchen sink. Pots clanked. Spence was washing the dishes—one of the many chores I’d abandoned.

The rest of the week fell into a routine: morning writing, meals at the table, strolls on the deck, photo processing, and evening princess movies.

My worker bee mode has dissipated. A dependent princess reigns, but she’s temporary. I may never whack villains with an iron skillet like Disney’s Rapunzel, but I’ll recover from surgery, put the pampering behind me, and help others. 

 

Janet Watching Princess Movies