Sagadahoc Story #65: 11/9/98
Hired Out.
The chill has settled in for keeps, and even a sunny day doesn't
get you out of a jacket any more. I've broken out my winter hat
and heavy gloves, and get bundled up to cycle around town. We'll
be begging for days this warm come March, but right now its sure
seems bitter.
Last week, between website building in a warm room and armed enthusiasts
in the woods, I was feeling a bit claustrophobic, so I jumped
at the chance to pound nails outside, downcountry. Brent and Bruce
were in the restaurant one noontime, and complained about the
hassles of putting on cedar shingles. I foolishly remarked, "That's
one carpentry job I really enjoy." Their ears perked up, and I
found myself in Brent's pickup the next morning at 6:30.
New Garage |
It's a sweet little building they're putting up, a two-story garage
finished out overhead. Foursquare with a gable dormer on one side
and a shed dormer on the other. Dr. Bob and I were tasked with
shingling the east side first thing, in hopes that the morning
sun would warm us. But under big oaks on an overcast day there
wasn't much warmth to be had. I worked with a glove on my hammer
hand until 9 o'clock, and pounded my left often enough to keep
it numb. Once we found the rhythm, courses started rising smoothly,
and we were up to the windows by noon. |
Dr. Bob is another prodigal son returned. He was the kid next
door when Brent was growing up, but became a Maine export in the
70s. We try and ship out the best and brightest in each generation
so the rest of us can muddle along without competition. Bob sailed
through Bowdoin, into med school, and away. Practiced as a GP
in smalltown New Hampshire, then Phoenix and San Diego. Two years
ago, burned out by the intensity of the doctor racket, he lit
for home. Took up with his highschool sweetheart, and moved into
a log house over east. Now he delights in cutting wood on his
76 acres, and spending time with his 14-year-old son. He puts
in twothree days a week with Brent to connect with the local net,
and keep up the cashflow.
| Brent says the real purpose of working on a building crew is so
us older gents can discuss our bodily functions. Bruce is still
limping badly and Brent is stiff with his arthritis. I felt embarrassed
to only have high sugar to complain about. Dr. Bob is a great
asset on a crew, of course, at organ recital time. He could tell
us about truly horrendous ailments, and make us all feel better.
I got the feeling his major complaints were about insurance companies
and HMOs, and that pounding nails was very therapeutic for such
malaise. |
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We moved round to the west wall after a brief lunch. Brent is
driving hard to get the shell finished before the weather really
goes bad. Half way through the afternoon on Friday the first flakes
were drifting down. We chose to ignore them. Sunday River and
Sugarloaf both opened a few trails for skiing this weekend.
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While the hired guns were slapping up shingles, Brent set about
some fancywork with clapboards. Quarter-round fans to go between
windows and the eave slopes. One of his trademarks is a delight
in detailing, and Brent probably chews up a good chunk of this
profit margin by taking the time to get "arty." What else is an
artform for? Not only are the proportions of this building very
satisfying, but the builder's signature will be up there under
the eaves as long as it stands. He's also putting on courses of
scalloped shingles to perfect the gable end. |
Years ago I did a toy portrait of Brent caressing a curvaceous
building. He's a Leo, and I dressed a lion with his face in a
nail apron, and had him pounding in a nail with his "catspaw"
when you lever his tail. Shorey and Nina commissioned it as a
thank you gift for the job he did building their house. I think
it still tells the tale. |
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Good to get out of your cave for a couple days, and mesh gears
with a crew. Not to mention the remuneration. Brent is a mix of
driving pacesetter and finicky perfectionist. Dr. Bob is way too
fussy, which fits nicely with Brent's particularity. When I suggested
this to Bob, he said that you bury your mistakes in his previous
line of work, which tends to make you careful. Bruce is slow and
steady. I like to find the steps and then pick up the beat, which
made me a bit of an irritant on the site. Where they were making
each shingle fit perfectly, I was slamming them up with abandon.
They were picking out the wide shingles and planing them snug.
I was jamming the skinny ones together and making up the deviations
with shovage. Not a bad balance of personalities, I thought. But
the new guy was probably more mouthy than they'd have asked for.
I used to get muy pissed on a job when I got corrected for doing
something in a perfectly effective way, but which wasn't "the
right way." The right way being the way the boss habitually does
it. Of course there were lots of times where I was just plain
wrong, and my way would have stuck out like a sore thumb. But
other times it would have made mox nix. Brent once corrected me
for laying the two foot side of a square along a board instead
of the three foot side. You've got to admire such squaritude.
But where I used to seethe at such supervision, I now tend to
shrug it off. I did bark at Bruce when he insisted on how to shim
up the last course over the windows, but only had to pound my
thumb a couple times to get over it. My problem, ultimately, is
that I can't stand to do things the same way time after time,
where most folks just want to find a "right way", and not think
about it anymore. The point is that I've become so flaky and independent
minded as to be unemployable, except by a friend in need. Damned
artists.
I rode home one day with Bruce and the other with Brent. Here
are two hardworking stiffs, making regular wages, and both driving
beat pickups to the last exit. Bruce's muffler fell off at one
point and he had to crawl underneath to jam it back on the header
pipe. I was amused to see that the routes they chose home reflected
their natures. Brent went straight through town, following the
beaten path he's comfortable with, while Bruce zigged and zagged
the sidestreets and over the new bridge like an eel fisherman
wriggling upstream.
Speaking of the wrigglers, last month I was down at Jimmy's the
day when Crommet drove in with the livetanker. The boys dipped
the last of this year's catch out of Jimmy's car, and were fragrant
in their description of elver fishing, state regulation, and fate
in general. Took maybe 300 pounds of medium sized eels up the
ramp and dumped them into the tanker. The grumble concluded with
a prophecy that the eels would be back another year, though. It's
hard to kill off hope in a fisherman. The truck headed up the
river road. The eels went off to Canada and then the European
market.
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It's not all gloom, in the speciation department, though. The
eelers are now trapping a lot of small blue catfish in this estuary.
A southern species, planted in freshwater locales to kill off
a bloom of predators, with the assumption the catfish would winterkill.
Only the global warming has let them survive, and thrive. So there
may be a new fishery out in Merrymeeting in a few year's time.
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And the deer are abundant. Max got his deer. Finally took one
of the big does that have been feasting in his clover. He's not
the only one with meat hanging. Marion's (the grocery) is the
local tagging station, and there's generally a pickup with native
fauna cooling on the bed out front. I did a painting of an 8-point
in a Chevy to record the season. |
In the woods oaks and beeches are the last holdouts, still shaking
their stiff brown leaves, and the hacks are casting their golden
needles. The landscape settles into winter drab. It's hard to
capture the naked feeling of November woods, all silver gray with
a tinge of evergreen deep inside. Last night a young fox ran along
the road ahead of us. Too skinny for the brink of winter, I thought.
I was just as glad to get in and light the stove.
Think I got it out of my system. This self-motivated creativity
can get you grousing, but a few days out in the weather swinging
a hammer makes a warm shop seem idyllic. Good to blow the funk
off, though. The smell of freshcut cedar is mildly intoxicating
on a shingling job, but I can get off on sawdust in the shop,
too.
Friday Dr. Bob asked, "Can you imagine doing this all the time?"
"Probably not."
