Reflections - Handymen on Deck?
Deck Sinking at Center Post
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
No comments:
Post a Comment