One quick run was all there was time for. Sunday morning I met my long-time friend Ben
for a 6:30am run. We sweated in the warm
damp air for 6 miles together – which I extended to 11 before ending up back at
my parent’s home.
Everyone here in California kept calling my family’s trip to
South Carolina a vacation, and I just couldn’t seem to get them to understand
that it would be anything but a vacation.
It was a good time – but it was no vacation.
My parent’s new house had a carport laundry room
incompatible with Mom’s developing Parkinson’s, so several months ago we began
laying out plans to move a wall, raise the floor, and thereby incorporate the
laundry room into the rest of the house.
In a word, the project was a success. My brother-in-law Rich, 2 friends from my
formative years: Josh and Ben, my dad, and even Ben’s sister Sarah put in
countless hours over the 8 days we worked on the project. Mom even got in on the action the day before
we left by installing cover plates on the plugs and switches. We decided that it was physical therapy for
her – which had perilous probability of
transitioning to shock therapy.
No single work day was less than 10 hours long, with the average
closer to 12 hours, culminating in a 15 hour marathon on our last day. Ben and I jetted out in the dark on that last
evening to pick up lumber for the entry deck and get away from Lowes before
they closed. I suspect the neighbors
were on the phone with the sheriff as Rich, Dad, and I finally cut the last
pieces around 11:30pm. Eat dinner, pack
the tools, shower, and set the alarm for 4:45am in order to make our flight
home from Charlotte.
A notable exception
was Sunday, which was my “rest” day. I
woke at 5:30, pulled on running shoes after a cup of coffee, and plunged out
into the damp blackness wishing it would rain.
The rain would have pushed the humidity up from 95% to 100%, but at
least it would be refreshing instead of the stagnant cling that my scant
clothing assumed within minutes. I met
Ben at mile 3, and we reminisced down vaguely familiar cycling routes from many
years ago. After 6 miles of rolling
hills, I left him to get his family ready for church, and I finished the loop
back to my parent’s house. I showered and
joined the Sunday morning rush for church.
Sunday afternoon was highlighted by southern BBQ at a local
haunt, finishing drywall, and a “candid” family picture event. I’m no fan of family pictures, but this was
pretty close to worst case possible scenario.
We had 8 adults, 6 children under 10 years old – each with abbreviated
naps, 1 very patient photographer, and a half billion mosquitos. If our photographer managed to frame a single
shot through the haze of bug repellent without at least one person swatting
mosquitos or screaming (The screaming was mostly done by adults) it was a
miracle. My wife and oldest daughter are
spectacularly affected by the South Carolina state Vector, and were both
dressed to hide the optimum number of welts, irrespective of coordinating
colors. My wife was sporting 2 bites on
her jaw – disconcertingly suggestive of a domestic violence incident. By the time we were done, domestic counseling
wouldn’t have been out of the question.
Monday was back to work.
And, no construction project can be complete without a few
hours in a spider infested crawlspace.
Our plans of installing the HVAC “down the road” came to a screeching halt when the inspector quizzed us Thursday morning
about our intentions for the heating and air on his first visit. Whereas I had intended to just “rough in” a
vent that they could open up at a later date, I was now crawling around under
the house choosing which duct to tie into.
The laundry is conveniently located at the furthest point from the
crawlspace access – a short 2 minute slithering crawl through dead arthropods,
5o years-worth of fireplace ashes filtered down through the floor, and
ubiquitous fiberglass insulation. A
typical late afternoon run to Lowes accumulated for us the necessary supplies,
and I dove under the house again to finish the task just before dinner. I cut
into a 6” branch line and wrestled my “T” into place. “Hey, send down one end of the flex duct,” I
called out from my lair. Silence. I was either being ignored, or had not been
heard. I repeated my request, but as the
words were still vapor in my larynx, a dawning was occurring in my
understanding. They couldn’t find the
duct that we had picked up at Lowes. I
vainly grasped at recollection which didn’t exist. My mind’s eye could see my brother-in-law
hauling the box through the plumbing department, and I vaguely recalled it
again somewhere in the vicinity of lumber, but somehow not in the back of Ben’s
truck.
With our rough inspections occurring the next morning, dad
made trip 34 of 378 to Lowes for that wayward flexible duct. Back under the house, I lay on a blue tarp
with my head resting on a scrap of 2x4 realizing that the now sagging duct would
never pass inspection. The only good option
was to crawl back out and find some sort of strap. In turning around I rested my hand on a rat’s
nest of old tie wire. Hello. That will
do the trick. So I tied up the duct and
thrust the live end under the new addition.
Now, to haul myself and all my stuff out. With my hands full I eyed Ben’s tarp and
considered it a reasonable sacrifice in order to avoid a return trip. Again twisting around to head for the exit my
foot met resistance and I found it securely duct taped to a corner of the tarp. Hello.
That’ll work. So I crawled out
into the starlight with a large blue tarp hot on my trail. God in his beautiful heaven knew I needed a break. The next morning we
passed all of our rough inspections and were given the green light to get it
done.
And for all intents and purposes we did: The bright orange paint, the cabinets, the
mop sink that nearly cost me my sanity on that last marathon evening, and
finally the wooden deck and steps.
Mom and Dad’s appreciation was palpable, and I understand
the sentiment. But truly I wouldn’t have
had it any other way. My sisters who
live local are a solace to me as Mom bravely confronts Parkinson’s. So, I was honored to do this small thing for
my parents who continue to be our heroes.
Thanks to Ben, Josh, Rich, Sarah, and all those who donated
tools and labor, and most of all - the
cooks who kept us fueled and functioning.
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| The adults weren't the only ones exhausted after a long week. G made it to Dallas - and then crashed. |
