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