Day 7: Finishing the Porch and Step Unit (Almost)

I wake up shortly after the sun rises, have a cup of coffee, and head outside to finish my little porch/step unit. I remove the decking I laid on top the night before, mark the corners, then pull the unit away from the trailer so I can get to work leveling the ground under the frame.

I have no idea where my shovel is. I have no idea where any of my yard tools are, in fact. I thought I packed them up, and brought them with me when I moved to California two years ago. I don't remember giving them to anyone, or leaving them anywhere. But they weren't in the stuff my sister graciously let me store in her garage, and, for the life of me, I have absolutely no idea what happened to them.

This is true of a number of other things I thought I'd packed and brought with me. My fondue pot, for example. I have all the forks and think, surely, I wouldn't have kept the forks and not the pot itself. But, again, it isn't in any of the stuff I had in storage. Neither is the huge aluminum stock pot in which the mountains of summer tomatoes I've grown over the years have been turned into equally huge batches of putanesca, and the twenty some pounds of potatoes it's routinely taken to meet the demands of my five boys at Thanksgiving have been boiled and mashed. I can't find either of the dishracks I had when I left Portland. My crock pot, chemex coffee maker, and all my cookie sheets likewise seem to have disappeared.

It's all either yard stuff or kitchen stuff, so you'd think that maybe I just missed a couple of boxes that got inadvertently moved/stuck in a corner of my sister's garage at some point. But think again. All of this stuff is really big. Not the kind of stuff you'd really be able to pack in a box at all. So where'd it go?

Like every other time I've noticed, or been reminded that I'm missing something I'm pretty sure I packed and brought with me when I moved, I start obsessing on trying to think of where all this stuff could be. I am doing this, today, while simultaneously trying to think of what I can use to level the ground instead of the shovel I apparently no longer have.

I poke at the soil that I need to move. Not that hard. Really soft actually. Mostly just fine grain dust blown in from the surrounding desert by the wind. A couple of really pretty rocks. A lot of broken glass. A lot of nails, screws, nuts, washers, bolts, and other construction debris.

I put the rocks in the pot that holds my pomegranate. Usable hardware goes in the bucket I have for that purpose. The glass and other trash goes in the garbage.

I've decided I can probably just use a short length of 2x4 to get the level surface I need, and go to work moving dirt first this way, then that way, and checking my progress with a level. Two hours later the whole area front to back, side to side, and corner to corner is level and smooth.

Because the ground is so soft - and the wind blows so hard sometimes - I decide I should probably scavenge the park for four concrete paving squares so I don't find myself having to do this particular job at any point in the near and foreseeable future.

It makes for a nice break. Walking the park like this is a lot like beach-combing. It has the same rambling, zen-like feel as well as thrill of discovery when you stumble upon something that catches your eye. I always seem to find pennies no matter where I go. I found a medal bearing the legend "High Desert League" once. I'm currently on the look out for these 1" square tiles that seem to get brought to the surface every time we have a really big wind in the hope that I'll eventually find enough of them to actually tile something.

As a result of my wanderings, I know exactly where to find the pavers I need. Takes about ten minutes, and I find three more pennies in the process, but no little tiles. Oh, well. Maybe next time.

The pavers go in. I check and work them a bit until they all register level, then stand inside the frame of my porch/step unit so I can lift it into place and secure, with screws, to my trailer itself.

I am in process of siding the unit when I realize I am running out of screws. I do a quick calculation. At the rate I'm using them, I'll have just enough to finish the siding, but not enough to put in the decking on either the porch or the stairs.

It's the middle of the afternoon. The temperature hit 95 a couple of hours back. I'm sweating, dirty, and could definitely use a little break from the heat. I tell myself I'll just finish the siding first. I don't realize how long this will actually take. Three hours later, I get the last plank secured. I have two screws left. I haven't eaten. I'm dehydrated. My eyes hurt. My hands hurt. My skin hurts.

I clean up my work area and put away my tools. I wash my face, change my clothes, grab my purse, and head into town to cruise the air-conditioned aisles of the local hardware store for the screws I need to actually finish my porch/steps. I have a snack wrap and iced coffee at McDonald's. Check my email. Check my Facebook page. Check in with my sister and a couple of friends who have written wondering how I am and how it's going.

As I head home, I decide I really don't want to work anymore today. What I really want to do is just sit, maybe read a little, maybe knit, maybe listen to a couple of the podcasts I downloaded while I had access to the internet at McDonald's, maybe just walk the park and look for some more of those little tiles.

So that's what I do. Because I can. Because there's no one here who has any expectations of me other than myself. There's no one here to disappoint or upset or anger. There's no one here to make me feel like I'm being self indulgent, lazy, and irresponsible. There's just me.

There was a time when I was absolutely terrified by the idea of there being no one but me to think, care, and worry about. No one with whom to fundamentally relate, identify, and give me/my life any sense of meaning, purpose, value, and importance. No one but me to define the things I believed, felt, thought, said, did, needed, and wanted.

To all of those people who walked by my side, talked to me, and held my hand when I very suddenly and very unexpectedly found myself in that position and was so very, very afraid for so very, very long - I just want to say - it took me a while, but you were right - I have found all of those things for myself in myself, and there just being me is, at last, ever so much more than enough.

Day 6: The Porch That Was and Will Be

What I really wanted to do today was repair and/or replace and rehang my front door so it opens to the right instead of the left. What I realized is that I can't even take the door off its hinges by myself unless I have a front porch first.

I've known from the start that I was going to have to build a new front porch/step unit. The old one was so poorly built, was so rickety, and was so compromised by dry rot that I wouldn't even try to use it. Just pushed it aside, pulled out the original metal step unit from under my frame, and have been using that to enter/exit the trailer instead.

I have the materials to build one. Two weeks before I moved, my brother-in-law tore out a ramp/porch unit at his house and set all the usable lumber aside for me to take/use as I saw fit. (actually, my friend, Rod, tore out the ramp while my brother-in-law, Dave, did the porch unit apparently). Saved him from having to pay to have it hauled away, and gave me more than enough for the porch/step unit I had in mind.

To clear the area, I had to take the old unit apart. It was a beast of a thing. Way too much lumber, way too many nails, and not nearly enough screws to make it any kind of real pleasure.

Old porch/step unit

Men seem to have a real thing for nailing stuff like this together instead of using screws like I think they should. With repeated use, nails work loose no matter how many of them you pound into whatever you're building. It's really hard to get a precise, square join because of all the pounding you have to do to get them in. And when they either fall apart, or you have to take them apart, you have all these really sharp, sometimes really rusty things poking out everywhere that have to be dealt with.

Welcome to my morning.

Three and a half hours after I start, I've finally gotten the old unit broken down, if not into all of its constituent parts, then into most of them with a couple of bits, too tough to break apart, sitting in my dump pile smirking at me and my panty-waist upper arm strength.

They are not the only things I've given up on.

I'm learning that, unless it's absolutely necessary, it's better to simply acknowledge that it's really too hot some days to do any kind of really heavy manual labor.

Today is one of those kinds of days, and building a new porch unit is one of those kinds of jobs.

I make a pitcher of iced coffee, pour myself a glass, turn on the fan, throw on my bathing suit, and spend the next four or five hours staying cool while I wait for the temperature to drop below 95 again.

95 is my limit. I don't have a thermometer, but for the last twenty years, when the temperature hits 95, I reliably break into a solid sweat sitting still that won't stop even in front of a fan.

The first thing everyone asks me when they find out where I'm living is whether or not I have an air conditioner. I don't, and I don't plan on buying one either. I don't really like them. I'm one of those people who get really cold really easily, and I have a very hard time getting warm again. Air conditioners make me really cold - so cold I end up going back outside just to get warm again. All that back and forth - in addition to whatever's being recirculated in all that cold air - take their toll on my immune system.

Besides, I really like being hot. Hot is summer, and not a lot of clothes. Hot is slow. Hot is languid. Hot is people sitting together in the shade, drinking iced tea, fanning themselves, and talking about how hot it is. Hot is being reminded that you're part of, and effected by the passing moods of the season. Hot is loving a soft breeze. Hot is sleeping under sheets in a room that smells like the sun. Hot is being aware of the skin you inhabit.

Most of all, hot drives you experience water in ways that cold cannot: the sheer pleasure of its taste and feel on your tongue, the shudder of still surprising delight that explodes in your mouth when you bite down on a piece of ice, the softness with which it parts and surrounds your feet as you step into it, that odd hesitation you feel about giving yourself over to its cool welcoming embrace that just moments before you were telling yourself you had to have, the deep breath you take when you dive to meet it face to face again, and the subtle exhilaration you feel when you surface from its depths to float, dance, and play in its arms.

Water makes hot days like this, not simply bearable, but immensely and sublimely enjoyable.

Getting wet, drying out, and getting wet all over again simply feels better than going inside, being surrounded by cold air, and coming outside into the hot air again. One is actually pleasant. The other most definitely is not.

For now - until I have the time/space to set up my little pool - I spend my afternoon hours running through, standing in, or sitting right next to my Miss Spider sprinkler. I read. I make lists. I play games on my kindle. I drink iced coffee. I listen to music.

At five, still in my bathing suit, I go back to work. By eight, with the sun going down, and the light fading, I have all the framing for the porch cut and screwed together. I lay decking over the top and give it a couple of tentative steps, then a couple of good bounces, to make sure it's solid. It is. The ground under it will need to be leveled tomorrow morning before I do anything else. Not my favorite job, but it'll go fast, and by the end of the day tomorrow I'm thinking I should be able to have the whole thing done and ready for its first coat of paint.

We'll see. One thing for sure. It's definitely going to be at least this hot again.

Day 5: Almost Cold Water

One thing I forgot to mention about what I did after yesterday's AT&T fiasco (other than getting to eat Moons Over My Hammy) was that I found someone to take that horrible hot water heater off my hands.

When I first visited the park where my trailer is located, there were about six or seven units that had been abandoned, were structurally unsound to the point of being dangerous, and would have cost more to make habitable again than they'd ever be worth. Between the time I signed my lease and the day I moved in, park management had decided (or, more likely, been forced by some higher authority) to have these trailers demolished and their remains sold for salvage or carted off to the local dump.

My friend, Rod, standing in front of one of the more structurally unsound trailers that were still sitting in the park on the day of my first visit - the two trailers in the background were also slated for demolition.

My first official day in the trailer, the crew had just started demolition on the third to last unit destined to meet such a fate. Yesterday, they were in the process of finishing that job. So, after the AT&T guy left, I just walked down to where they were working, and asked if anyone would be interested in taking this brand spankin' new 40 gallon, 240v hot water off my hands - no charge - just had to get it out of the trailer and off my property by the end of the day.

In retrospect, I think I was probably taking out a little of my anger at AT&T on the hot water heater I hated so much, but I found a taker and the water heater was whisked away never to be seen by me again.

The other thing I forgot to mention is that, on an equally vindictive whim, I ordered a faucet for my kitchen sink from the local hardware store. Vindictive because, even at just $35, I knew I couldn't actually afford it, and would probably end up having to go without coffee for a couple of weeks if I bought it. But I bought it anyway, and walked out of the hardware store thinking it was probably worth no coffee to have a faucet that was manufactured specifically for my kind of sink with all its special parts included.

The faucet will arrive at 4pm today, and I'd really like to get the cold water intakes plumbed so I can hook it up once I make the run into town to pick the thing up.

As far as the plumbing game goes, this level was a total no-brainer. I had all the right parts. I'd borrowed this really cool tool from my brother-in-law, Dave, that looks like a big pair of pruning shears but, instead of branches, this thing is designed specifically to cut pvc/cpvc pipe. Took me about five minutes to figure out how to use it, and, man oh man, I totally fell in love with it. Put the pipe in, set your blade to where you want the cut, squeeze hard til it clicks, then again til it clicks, then one or two more times, and you're done. Precise, clean cuts with very little effort. My kind of tool.

I started at the toilet with the tank line connector/shut off valve assembly. Did the same on the opposite side of the same wall for the kitchen sink. Connected them with a tee to a single length of cpvc. Ran that to an elbow, another length of pipe, another elbow, another length of pipe, and out to connect to the cold water main valve at the back corner of my trailer.

Using a plastic female part to connect to a metal male part is always going to give you problems. The metal is stronger than the plastic, so if you don't thread it exactly right, you're going to end up stripping out the female end. The advice I got was to use lots of teflon tape, go slow, "feel" for the right connection before you do any hard twisting. twist just enough to fully seal the connection, and no more.

Worked for me. Three hours after I started, I had cold water running into my toilet tank with no leaks there or anywhere else in the line.

With a couple of hours left to kill before I could pick up my kitchen sink faucet, I decided to take care of some of the other small plumbing tasks that were on my list. I connected the shower drain to the main septic line, and caulked the seam where it joined the shower pan. While under the trailer, I noticed that the line draining the toilet had developed a drip, and discovered that I'd somehow not primed/cemented one of my joints. It was a tight join in an awkward spot, and took over an hour to wrangle into place. Outside, I added another six foot length of pipe, with straps, to my septic vent to take it over the top of my roofline. Then, with twenty minutes to go, I pulled the few screws holding from the very back aluminum siding panel very wonkily in place, reseated it in its corner channel, smoothed it out, and screwed it back onto the frame.

It took me longer to run into town to pick up my sink faucet than it did for me to install it. It fit perfectly. It had all the right parts. It works, and it looks great.

The water coming out of the tap, however, is definitely not cold. Now this was something I'd noticed when I used the hose, but I'd just assumed that's because the hose was laying in the sun and I wasn't running the water long enough to get it really cold. Wrong. The water never gets really cold. No matter how long you let it run. In the middle of the day, it actually comes out hot enough, long enough, to fill the sink with enough warm water to do dishes. I have no idea why this happens. I'm assuming it's because the mains are buried so close to the surface here that they pick up the radiant heat from the sun all day. Guess I'll find out whether or not I'm right when winter comes.

For now, the fact that it isn't cold made for the single best, most wonderful shower I've ever had in my life. Brought my hose in through a window, snaked it into the bathroom, hung it over the shower curtain rod, and attached my spray nozzle. Went outside, and turned it on. Came back inside, stripped, got into the shower, turned the nozzle on, and spent 20 glorious minutes standing under the lukewarm water getting fabulously, wonderfully, luxuriously cleaner than I've been in a week.

Clean me, clean sheets, warm night, soft breeze redolent with the scent of sage, and a big open sky full of stars. 

I am really starting to love this place.

Day 4: The AT&T Fiasco

I am in the middle of assembling the drain line for the kitchen sink, and getting it reconnected to the septic main, when the AT&T guy shows up. It is 2:00 o'clock, about 104 in the shade with no breeze, and I am lying on my back under the trailer covered in dirt when I see a pair of legs walk by.

I know immediately who it is, and give him a little shout as I roll myself out to meet him. He is a nice guy. He has my modem. He is here to make sure I have internet service at the post, as well as to set up my modem and make sure everything works. There is one problem. The tablet he has is telling him my account has been deactivated.

We agree this is obviously some kind of computer error. I know I didn't call to cancel or otherwise deactivate my service. He doesn't understand why they would send him all the way out here to install a modem on an account that's been deactivated. He calls his supervisor. His supervisor checks, and verifies the fact that, according to his computer records, my account has in fact been deactivated. His supervisor is also at a loss as to why they would have scheduled an install under those circumstances. He decides to transfer my guy to someone in AT&T's big, official, customer service department. My guy gets put on hold immediately, and remains on hold for the next forty minutes. It is really hot. He is really big. He is really sweating up a storm, and I am afraid he is going to stroke out unless he finds some water and shade. He parks himself in his truck with a big bottle of ice water. I go back under the trailer to finish hooking up the kitchen drain.

Eventually, I can hear him talking to someone and walking over to see where I've gone. He is obviously very confused, and very frustrated with whoever he's talking to. He's been told my account has been officially, and permanently deactivated for over a week. He's trying to explain that, according to his records, that can't be true because I'd called to report the problem I was having less than a week ago which is when the install order had been placed. He is being told that apparently doesn't matter. He is insisting that the deactivation has got to be some kind of mistake. He is being told that doesn't matter either. He hands the phone to me.

I mistakenly think that if I explain how we arrived at this point, the customer service representative will be more open to actually addressing the problem I have.

I tell her about ordering service a month ago, and being repeatedly assured that my modem would be shipped to the address where I was living rather than to my trailer. I told her I'd received an email from UPS a week later letting me know the modem had, in fact, been shipped to the trailer and was being returned to AT&T as undeliverable. I told her I called AT&T to notify them of the problem, and ask that they reship the modem, as promised, to the address where I was living. I was assured it would go out the next day. I told her that, a week later, still having not received the modem, I called AT&T again to find out where it was. I told her I'd been informed that, apparently because the first modem had been returned as undeliverable, their computer program had automatically canceled all other outstanding orders associated with my account, including the one to ship the modem to the right address this time. It told her it was because of this error that the customer service representative had scheduled today's delivery and installation in the first place.

I tell her, for all those reasons, deactivating my account has to be yet another mistake.

She tells me she understands why I might feel that way under the circumstances, but even if it is a mistake, there is nothing she or anyone else at AT&T can do to fix it at this point. If I want internet service, I am not only going to have to order it all over again, I am also going to have to give AT&T another deposit again.

This stops me in my tracks. I ask her what happened to the deposit I already gave them. She tells me I need to submit a formal request asking that it be credited back to my checking account. She offers to submit that request for me. I take her up on that offer, and am put on hold while she does so.

My guy is still there. I have his phone. He can't leave. He asks me what's going on. I tell him. He is incredulous. He tells me there's probably something I should know about my line. It doesn't work. It's been vandalized, and had all the wires torn out a long time ago. I tell him I was concerned about that, asked, and was assured by AT&T that someone had actually come out here to make sure I wouldn't have any problems getting my modem hooked up. He says he knows. There's a note in my records verifying that visit. He says someone is going to be in really big trouble when he gets back to the office. What you should know, he tells me, is that if you order service and they come out to do the install, they're going to have to replace all that equipment, they're going to charge you for it - at least $300, probably more like $500 - and they're not going to tell you about it until you get the bill.

It is at precisely this moment that the customer service representation takes me off hold to tell me she's submitted my request, and that my deposit should be credited back to my checking account within the next 5-10 business days - before slipping into sales mode and brightly/cheerfully asking me if I'm ready to give her the information she needs so we can get my order for internet service in and I can get online again as quickly as possible.

I lose it at this point, and simply start ranting and raving at her about promises and trust and money and people/companies who can't do their job right or take responsibility for the mistakes they make or even offer to try to make up for the inconvenience/problems they cause. I know it is not her fault. Every couple of sentences or so, I apologize for being so upset and angry. She's just the person who had the bad luck of being given this call. I'm just really frustrated. It's really hot. I'm really busy. And I really, really, really can't believe any of this is actually happening.

She asks if I want to order internet service today or not. I tell her I really need to calm down and think about it. I have little reason to trust that she'll be able to give me what I want anymore than anyone else has. I tell her I'm not going to feel comfortable having anything to do with AT&T until I'm given some reason to trust them. I tell her giving my deposit back will be the first thing AT&T has to do to get me to even consider being a customer. She says she understands, and we leave it at that.

I give my guy his phone, thank him for driving all the way here, being so nice, enduring all this heat, and trying to help me get this huge mess all sorted out.

He leaves. I'm in a daze. I go back under the trailer and finish getting the kitchen drain line hooked up to the main septic line. I fill a bucket with water, and pour it into the sink. No drips. No leaks. None under the trailer either.

I am really tired. I think I deserve to treat myself to some real food and a little air conditioning.  I decide to really treat myself and indulge my extraordinarily unhealthy love of Moons Over My Hammy with a side of country gravy at Denny's. They also have wi-fi there. I email my friends to tell them I'm okay but had yet another problem with AT&T so still don't have internet at the trailer. I log into FB and catch up on what my kids, my friends, and the world at large has been doing for the last three days. I let the waiter talk me into ordering a banana split which I can't quite finish. I'm stuffed. Full of eggs, and ham, and cheese, and toasty golden bread, and hashbrowns, and coffee. I'm caught up with everyone. My kids are good. I'm good. It's all good.

I find it very hard to be unhappy in the company of Moons Over My Hammy. It makes everything better. I am really glad that Denny's is one of the few actual restaurants we have here in Mojave, because I think there are probably going to be at least a couple of more days like this ahead when I'm going to need to lose myself in the joy of all that mouthy deliciousness in order to feel better.

Tomorrow I'm doing the cold water intake lines, and installing the kitchen sink faucet.

Tonight, all I have any interest in doing is driving myself home, and putting myself to bed.

Home. I called it home. It's working. I'm smiling. Inside and out.

Day 4: Installing & Plumbing the Kitchen Sink

I got up early today, excited about finally being able to have my own access to the internet again. The technician was scheduled to arrive sometime between noon and 4. I had at least six hours to wait. I started working on the kitchen sink right away.

I measured the width of the sink rim to determine the size of the hole I needed to cut. Drew it out, at size, on paper. Cut that out, and used it - first, to figure out where the hole needed to go - then, to trace the outline of that hole onto the counter itself. Put a super big bit into my screw gun, and drilled a pilot hole big enough for the blade of my jigsaw to fit through. Got out my jigsaw and began cutting away.

I love my jigsaw. Unlike the circular saw, it's light and relatively easy for me to control. It's also really old. It only has two speeds: on and off. It's really powerful, really loud, and has a really raw feel compared to all of the more modern jigsaws I've used. It was a castoff from someone who had moved onto something a little more sleek and refined. It has become one of the most used, and therefore most loved tools I've owned over the years. More than any other tool I've owned, it's also taught me to simply relax, stop pushing so hard, and just let it do the job it was designed to do. I like that it stands up for itself to me this way.

Right now, I am letting it take it's own sweet time to cut the hole for my kitchen sink. It growls along, slowly but surely making its way down each side, and asking me at every corner to back off, and give it a little more room so it can make the turn. I do. As we get to the end, it starts shuddering to let me know it expects a little support in order to get through the last two inches. I reach under the counter to lift the piece that's going to fall to the floor once we're done, and finish the cut.

The sink fits perfectly. It's just a bar sink, so it's small, but just the right size for my kitchen. I find the clips I need to secure it to the counter, get that done, and move on to getting its drain done.

This is a two step process. The first part involves giving the drain the immediate outlet, p-trap, and stand pipe it needs to reach the sanitary line. The second part involves getting the sanitary line in, running it to the main septic line, and attaching it there.

I knew the second part was going to be a lot of work. I thought the line installed by the previous owner to drain this sink was pretty makeshift at best. I was planning to remove it altogether, and replace it with a more streamlined arrangement that brought it up through the floor right under the sink itself.

It was the first part - the part that was supposed to be really easy - that ended up giving me the most trouble in the end. I have done this part a hundred times. You just secure the outlet pipe to the sink drain with the little screw-on collar that holds its gasket in place. Secure the p-trap to the outlet pipe with same kind of little screw-on collar. Twist and turn everything around until you get the straight line between the p-trap and the sanitary line you need in order to connect those.

Easy breezy. If you've ever had to go under your sink, and take everything apart to look for something or fix a clog, you've pretty much done this job yourself.

My problem involves parts. Remember me telling you about the hundred or so very special parts you need to get your sink hooked up to the sanitary line? I didn't have the right ones. The sink was here when I moved in. I'd scavenged a bathroom sink I'd found curbside for the outlet pipe, p-trap, gaskets, and screw collars I knew I was going to need. I'd just done this job for my sister, and had been given a bag of various parts by her neighbor that I'd brought along as well. Out of all those parts, I couldn't find an outlet pipe/gasket/collar combination that actually worked with my sink. Specifically, I couldn't find a gasket that wouldn't simply push itself through the collar under pressure, and just fall out on the floor.

I literally spent two hours, sitting on the floor, in front of the sink, trying every possible combination I could make in the hope of hitting upon one that would actually work. I never did. In the end, I made do. I assembled the combination that worked best, used a lot of teflon tape to secure the collar to the sink drain, tightened as much as I could without losing the gasket, then laid a thick bead of silicone around the bottom to both hold it in place and keep it from leaking. I was counting on gravity - on water preferring to drain rather than pool - to make it work until I could afford the parts I obviously needed to get the job done right.

The sanitary line was a cakewalk by comparison.

Day 3: The Other Counter Unit

I'm supposed to build the second cabinet/counter unit I need to make my little kitchen space more functional. My plan is to take a dresser I have, top it with another one of the doors I have, raise the whole thing to the same height as my other counter. It'll be placed across from, and with its drawers facing that counter. Not only will this give me some of the storage space I need, but it will also separate my kitchen from the rest of the living area.

My issue is that I don't have enough floor space to do any of this work. I make some. Turn my bed sideways, and surround it with some trunks and boxes. Move the dresser I'm going to be turning into cabinet today into the kitchen area. Move the dresser I use for my clothes into the bathroom area, along with a 24" wall cabinet I saved from being taken to the dump. 

I start stacking boxes as high as I can get them. Boxes sitting in another set of shelves are removed, and added to the pile. I get some shelves hung on the wall over the counter I built yesterday, and fill them with whatever I think they'll safely hold.

Four hours into my day, not only do I have the room I need, but it's also starting to look more like a place where someone actually lives rather than a place where they store their stuff.

I decide to hang some curtains around my sleeping area to add to that effect. I am quite pleased. It looks very cozy.

Around 2:00, I turn my attention back to the cabinet I'm supposed to be building. I have to empty the drawers. They're full of all my Christmas lights and decorations. These go into boxes and are added to my pile. Next, I go over the whole dresser to repair and reinforce all its joints. I decide to leave the top on, and just cut off the half inch of overhang on each side.

I am hoping I can do it with the little battery-powered panel saw I have. I am always hoping that I will find the thing that saw was meant to cut. I've had it for almost ten years. It came with my screw gun, as part of a kit that also included a reciprocating saw, hand-held vacuum, and flashlight. It is very light, even with its battery attached. When you turn it on, it sounds like it has enough power to cut through a bank vault door. It just doesn't. You get about 2 inches into any cut, and it just gives up. I've tried it on 2x4s, 1" ply, 3/4" ply, 1/2" ply, 1/2" pine shelving, and even some 1/4" fake beadboard paneling that I thought for sure it would be able to cut through like butter. Same disappointing result every time. Mostly it just sits on my work bench gathering dust.

I'm pretty sure it's not going to be able to do the job this time either, but I give it a try anyway. It doesn't. I go back, and get out my jig saw to see if that'll do the trick. It does, but only with a lot of effort and I'm afraid if I persist, I'll burn it's little motor up. I go back, and get my circular saw.

I have a love/hate relationship with this particular tool. I'd love to be able to control it well enough to actually get it to cut a straight line. I hate the fact that I simply don't have the upper arm strength to make that happen. Every time I use it, I feel like I'm wrestling a cow. It bucks, it broncs, it pulls hard first to one side, then another. Only it's not a cow. It's a saw. It can cut off my fingers in a flash if I'm not careful, and I'm perfectly aware of that fact.

For me to be able to exert any kind of real control over it at all, I have to set up some kind of guide system against which I can rest one of its cutting plate edges. Even then, it's a real test of my strength to hold it to that guide while I'm actually making my cut.

It's really my only option at this point, so I get out the stuff I need to make a guide. Twenty minutes later, I start cutting and realize the blade is too worn to made the cut without burning the wood as it goes. I don't have another blade. At $20 a pop, I can't afford to go out and buy one either. Trying to make the cut with the blade I have is going to make it even harder for me to keep it from wandering. I decide I really have no other choice.

The cut turns out to be just as ugly, burned, scarred, and uneven as I thought it would be. I get out my jigsaw and trim it up as best I can, but it's still an embarrassment. I let it go, and set up a guide to cut the other side. This one goes much better than the last, but it's the edge that will go against the wall. It's the other one everyone will see. I kick myself for not taking that into consideration. I know, from experience, that the first cut is always worse than the ones that follow because it always takes a little time to get familiar with what you're up against. I tell myself I'll try to remember that next time, and move on to attaching the legs.

The legs are square - a set of four that came with an Ikea bathroom cabinet I assembled for one of my clients who'd didn't like the way they looked so had me replace them with something else. They are an inch and a half too short to raise my dresser to the height of the other counter. The door I want to cut and attach to the top is just shy of an inch thick. I can either make up the difference with a series of shims, or I can forego the top, put 2x4 blocks at each corner, and attach the legs to that.

I decide it's going to easier all around to just forego the top. I get my blocks cut and attached. Next come the metal plates for the legs, then the legs themselves. I flip it over. I move it into place. I replace all the drawers. I stand back to admire my handiwork. I am very pleased.

I have a kitchen.

Tomorrow I will unpack my kitchen things, fill my drawers, fill my shelves, and get rid of a whole bunch of boxes in that pile. I will cut the hole for my kitchen sink and get its drain line installed.

And tomorrow, after a month of waiting for AT&T to get my order right, they will be sending out a service technician to bring me my modem and reconnect me to internet.

It's going to be a great day. It's been a great day. It's been a great three days. I can hardly wait.

Day 2: The Sheetrock Interlude

There are at least a couple of people out there, reading this, who know how I feel about doing this particular kind of work. I don't simply dislike it. I hate it. I hate everything about it. And I hate everything about it with a passion that borders on madness.

There are a lot of reasons I feel this way. Sheetrock is bulky. It's heavy. It's hard to lift. It's hard to keep in place once you get it lifted. It cuts easily, but never clean enough to keep the paper on the back from shredding, lifting, or wadding up on itself. It's messy. It demands a precision with the screw gun that I've never quite been able to master - not enough pressure and you won't be able to cover the screw with mud - too much and the screw will punch through the paper altogether rendering it absolutely useless. The corners break and won't lay flat anymore. Web tape catches on your knife, and pulls away from the wall. Paper tape bubbles and folds. Both require a heavy first coat of mud to fully bury them into the wall. Most people don't use enough, and are pretty sloppy about applying it, so if I'm going to be left to finish the job - which, even when I'm just being hired to paint, I'm frequently expected, by the general contractor, to simply do as a matter of course for reasons that make absolutely no sense whatsoever to me at all - I prefer to do this part as well.

Once that first coat of mud is dry, you have to sand it, which sends a shower of very light, very fine gypsum dust flying into the air. This dust gets everywhere. All over the ceiling, all over the walls, all over the floor, all over anything sitting in the room, all over anything sitting in the next room. It gets in your hair, in your eyes, in your ears, up your nose, on your lips, in your mouth, on your teeth, down your throat, into your lungs, and all over your skin. It's thirsty and attaches itself with a vengeance to any moisture it finds. You cannot simply blow your nose and be done with it. You have to sniff up some water, rub it around a little, sniff up some more, blow that out, and do it again. Wearing a mask definitely helps, but you're still going to end up going through this ritual at the end of the day and wondering what all that stuff is doing to your lungs.

It's nearly impossible to get rid of no matter where it goes. It's so fine, it simply passes through the filter on most vacuum cleaners and just ends up being spewed out the back to settle somewhere else. You can get a special filter for your shop vac that will actually catch most of it, but those tend to fill up and start choking on the stuff within just a couple of minutes of heavy use. Sweeping it up just sends a good part of it right back up into the air. Getting it wet turns it right back into mud.

You have to go through this nightmare at least three times because every wall needs at least three coats of mud. Most need four. Some need five.

I have sworn time and time again that I will never even consider doing another sheetrock job, no matter how much I'm offered, or how badly I need the money. But I'm good at it. Really good. The money people offer me to do it is substantial, and there have been many times when it's the only work anyone has available for me to do at all. So I do it. I just really hate doing it.

Today I hate it even more than I usually do. It's hot - easily over 100 degrees in the trailer even with fan blowing. I can't do the work I want, and was planning to do because there's a big hole in the wall I'm working on. It's a hole I didn't leave, in a wall I'm pretty sure I'm eventually going to tear down and move. It encloses a bunch of wires that terrify me and a hot water heater I'm quickly coming to absolutely detest. I've had to tear apart a different wall to get it done. I'm covered in dust. The leftover mud I'm using is full of tiny bits of debris from some other job. My tape is bubbling. The mud is drying so fast I don't have time to work any of it to my usual smooth finish. I haven't eaten. I'm dehydrated. I have a headache. I'm cursing. I'm swearing. I think I'm never going to get done with this wretched job - until, of course, I actually do - and suddenly, miraculously, just like every other time I've found myself in this position, my irritation with life in general simply disappears.

I change into my bathing suit, then take myself and my tools outside. I get the hose. I get some shampoo. I get some soap. I get clean. My tools get clean. I drink some water. I eat some food. I take an ibuprofen. I start to feel human again.

I come back inside the trailer to look at my work. Definitely not the best job I've done. But at least I no longer have to look at the water heater with all its scary wires anymore. And, of course, I can now get that counter built.

Takes me about two hours. It's not a complicated job. All I really have to do is cut the counter top to length, screw legs on one end, set the other end on top of my little refrigerator, and attach it to a couple of studs so it won't go anywhere.

I'm repurposing a 21" wide slab door for the countertop. I got the door - along with three others - for free through Craigslist. I've used doors for this purpose before. The only requirement is that they have to be flat, and they have to be solid. You can tile them if you want. You can laminate them. Or you can just slap a couple of coats of good paint on them like I'm planning to do - top, sides, underneath, and especially the edges of any holes you cut for a sink - and resign yourself to having to touch them up every once in a while.

The legs come from Ikea. They're metal. They have a big metal plate on top that attaches to the counter with screws. They come in two sections, the bottom section fitting into the upper one via some kind of fancy Scandinavian screw mechanism that allows you to adjust them to whatever height you want. I pulled them out of a trashcan somewhere about seven years ago, fixed the screw mechanisms, and have been using them for a variety of purposes ever since.

My little refrigerator was a last minute, very unexpected, and very welcome gift from a friend. He'd been using it in his classroom at North Hollywood High, and had given it to another teacher when he'd retired in June. If he'd known I needed it at the time, he would have given it to me instead. But he hadn't, and we'd left it at that. The week of my move he called to tell me he'd contacted the teacher in question, explained the situation, and gotten her to agree to let me have it. I just had to go pick it up.

( BTW, Preston, if you're reading this, please know how deeply touched I was by everything you did to get me the refrigerator I needed so badly but couldn't afford to buy even second-hand. It meant so much to me. Still does. And I'm also, by the way, still sorry I threw away your iced tea.)

So, my second day in the little trailer was definitely not as thrilling, or action-packed as the first. It did involve sheetrocking, but that's all the sheetrocking I should have to do here - at least for a while anyway. And, despite that particular bit of unpleasantness, I did end up getting my first counter unit installed.

Tomorrow I'll start on the second, more complicated one.

For now, I'm going to pour myself a big iced coffee and go sit outside to watch the stars come out. There are so many, they take my breath away. That feeling of awe I experience is, I know, the gift of yet another friend given on a night just like this a very long time ago that touched me deeply, and is still abundantly pregnant with meaning for me all these years later.

I cannot think of a better way to end my day than in the company of all those stars and all those thoughts about all the people in my life who have given me so much.