The living room with its bank of Richard-made windows on the left. The windows are simply tacked into place with scrap lumber.
If my blog posts don’t come as frequently as they used to, it’s because my “spare” energy goes into finish carpentry these days.
I write until about two in the afternoon, immersing myself in the painful and beautiful journey with my late love and brain cancer. Articulating what we learned in that transition from imagining we had our whole lives ahead of us to realizing that “our” was quickly becoming finite involves intense focus and serious emotional and creative energy.
When I pull myself away and re-enter the now, I make lunch–usually half an organic grapefruit and a bowl of Ploughboy deli soup, and read the news and answer emails.
I love Richard’s huge JET table saw for its spot-on fence and those generous side and back extensions. (Listen to me, talking “tool!”)
Then I slip on an old denim work shirt and head out to Richard’s shop, where I stoke the wood stove and set to work on whichever carpentry task is next.
Lately that’s been ripping, sanding and painting the surrounds for the bank of eight windows that harvest the abundant winter sunshine; the living room floor soaks up that free energy, keeping the house comfortable, day and night.
Richard assembled that bank of windows ten-plus years ago as part of “drying-in” this house, making what was then just a shell weather-tight. The windows have done their job perfectly well without surrounds, but the warped chunks of lumber holding them in place are not exactly lovely.
I start milling the surrounds by ripping a 1X6 board into three equal pieces lengthwise. As luck would have it, the width of each upright is exactly one-third of a 1X6 (which, despite the name is actually 5.5 inches wide), minus saw-kerf, the width of the table-saw blade.
The first cut coming out of the back of the table saw.
Then I chop each to length with the miter saw, label the back with a pencil so I won’t forget what the piece is and to identify the color it’ll be painted (“LR upright blue”), sand the cut edges with the wide-belt bench sander, wipe the board clean and put it on the painting table for its two coats of paint.
It’s a laborious process, but it’s also very satisfying to trim this house Richard built with his creativity, skill, knowledge and love. I don’t have his strength or skill–nor his creativity either, but I can manage the relatively simple carpentry I’m learning.
The work is physically hard and my energy’s limited enough that I can’t stick with it for more than an hour or two on weekdays, half-days weekends. From ripping to ready-to-nail takes two or three days (each coat of paint has to dry overnight). Some days I push beyond my limits and then wake in the night feverish, shivering and aching all over.
New blue trim surrounds cover the weathered window framing.
But oh, when I pry those warped scraps away and place the new uprights, their blue paint rich, it’s all worth it.
It’s not just finishing the work Richard began, though that’s an important part. Nor is it another step along the long road of getting this house ready to sell, though that’s important too. The joy that wells up is for seeing these hard-working windows turn beautiful, honoring the view they frame, a panorama of forested ridges and peaks rising over town that inspired us to design this place-embracing house.
I think Richard would be pretty proud of me. And that brings me joy too.
The title for this post came from a comment in an email from fiber-maven, writer, teacher, and editor Deb Robson. I would never have thought of the phrase “sweat equity”–adding value through the work of one’s muscles, as applying to decidedly skinny and unmuscled me. Before this strange turn in my life brought me to the necessity to learn trim carpentry, sweat equity was not something I imagined myself capable of.
A view worth framing (despite the drought that has left the valley dry as dust and the peaks with almost no snow).
Now I know I am. I think Richard would be proud of that, too.
This is wonderful work, Susan. For all that working with one’s hands is so often looked down upon by those who work with their minds and brains, so-called skilled labor by some lights, I’m reminded of something I heard on a video yesterday. It was by a journalist living on low-wage jobs in order to write about how backbreaking “unskilled” labor is. Her statement was, “There is no such thing as unskilled labor. All labor is skilled labor.” I think working with one’s hands is especially satisfying skilled “unskilled” labor. I love that you’re learning to do such labor and I know it’s satisfying for you on so many levels.
Sam, It *is* wonderful work, on so many levels. Also, as the journalist you quote has discovered, very physically demanding. I completely agree with her that all labor is skilled labor, with you that people who work with their minds so often look down on it. Those that do should have to learn how to work with their hands, and they’ll see the world very differently, I can attest! I am fortunate to have the opportunity to do both the mind-work of writing and the hand-work of carpentry (and to have all ten fingers still). I just wish I were two people so I would feel as if I were making more progress….
I’m not a tool-person either. My tool chest is a trio of screwdrivers and a hammer (and duct tape, of course). Fortunately, I don’t have much use for even those, other than maybe hang a framed Sherrie York work of art on the wall. But even that “mundane” task gives me a sense of accomplishment, independence, and capability; and all three splash into other areas of my life.
Do remember, though, to keep the sweating equitable. None of this fever-shakes and aches in the middle of the night stuff. Save the Wonder Woman stuff for the pages.
Eduardo, I never thought of myself as a tool-person until I had to be. So I guess necessity really is the mother of re-invention! You have what you need now; if you need more, you’ll find it. As for the nighttime fevers and shakes, that’s just life with my own particular version of health. I do my best to prevent those symptoms from taking over, but I’m not perfect. (Which is not news, I know.)
The new blue trim is sooo beautiful. It brings the sky indoors. Well done, hammer-head. Now don’t take offense at that term…every year in the Santa Barbara Solstice Parade, the hammer-heads done their hammer head costume, and run up & down the parade route “bonking” people and making them giggle. It is the most wonderful fun. Back to Salida…. From milling those 1x6s to the installation, how satisfying that process must be. Isn’t it lovely and I mean love-ly.
Penny, I like “hammer-head” and I love the idea of the hammer-heads in the SB Solstice Parade! (Although come to think of it, I’m not technically a hammer-head since I use a pneumatic nailer with a 20-foot-long “tail” of air hose attached to a thundering compressor. Wonder what that makes me?) You are right: that blue and the process of milling and putting up the trim are loverly, filled with a lot of love for the house, the man, and this place. Blessings!
i really like hearing how you are working away at this huge task, one board at a time. i love that.
Velma, Thank you. I sometimes wish I could do this trim work more quickly because it’s such an endless and overwhelming job. But I’m getting to know the house, the trade, and myself in new ways. And the latter is probably why I wish I could do it more quickly….
How lovely this morning to look through your windows at “my” dear town of Salida. Your photos transported me. I will be so happy to come home this year.
And Salida will be happy to have you back. Bring rain….
I love the work of the hands and body, have spent my life at it. and can say that the mind is rarely left behind. Have come to appreciate the process as much or more than the end-product. It’s the process that keeps us engaged and learning. Your product of blue trim really sets off the room and the view though, and must be satisfying to live with. Look back at where you were a year ago–my how you’ve grown! Thank you for offering your readers the privilege of witnessing your path. Many blessings on your well-being and all endeavors…
Deb
Debra, I love the work of hands and body too, and have great appreciation and respect for those who are talented at it. Since I’m not, I’ve got perhaps a steeper learning curve than some. But one thing I have learned is that persistence counts for a lot, as does being careful. You’re quite right about the process being the gift–that’s what I love about writing. It’s the journey, not the destination! Thank you for your votes of confidence, and for the reminder about how far I’ve come. It is satisfying to learn that I am capable at the work of hands and body–if not wildly and elegantly creative, as Richard was. And it is very satisfying to finish what he began, in my own careful way…. Blessings to you too!
The love you and Richard planted there, that you are tending and burnishing with your finishing work will create a beautiful home the right people will fall deeply in love with, in their turn.
Diana, How lovely to “hear” your voice! I hope you’re feeling settled in your new apartment, and I was so sorry to read about the loss of José, your maintenance supervisor. (Love those Wool Aid hats, BTW, especially the purple one!) Thank you for your words on my house and this seemingly endless finish carpentry. I do believe that the love that Richard put into helping design and build this house, and that I am putting into finishing it will draw someone to buy it who will feel that warmth…. Blessings to you!
..I understand that energy..that need…that worn out. I only wish I could write it out the way you do!
Thanks, PJ. I have a lot of practice writing–about three decades worth. In writing as in so much of life, practice makes a difference in the skill. And practice helps in organizing our thoughts too, as well as in finding the words and metaphors to use to bring them to life….