So, it is the first week of August. Historically the hottest week on the calendar for north Texas. The "real" grass on my lawn is now dead from water restrictions and withering heat. The substitute grass, such as Bermuda grass is also shocked and stunned by the heat and has not the ambition to do much growing. The crabgrass, the Dallis grass and assorted weeds are unfazed. I am fazed, and so come Saturday, I opt not to do any lawn mowing in the triple-digits. Inside the air conditioned house, I slip off into a mid-day nap in my reclining chair. So pleasant...
I find myself in a dream where a French maid, in a short black dress with a white lacy tool apron filled with a hammer, a power drill, lag bolts and nails comes to me with a glass of Beaujolais and as she bends down to serve me, she whispers softly in my ear, Je t'adore, Je t'adore. I raise one eyebrow and give a small smirk in return. So pleasant...
But I then awaken, and I realize the soft French phrase, Je t'adore [I love you] that I was hearing was not French, but is in reality an English phrase spoken by my wife, "The shed door, the shed door." Oh, yes. As I come to my senses, I recall promising her, that if I were to complete one significant project this summer, it was to repair the shed door.
The shed in question here was constructed by me and my Dad back in August of '92, and it was hot back then too. My parents vowed never to return to Texas in August after that. The shed was cobbled together with some 2x4's, wafer board and some roofing material picked up from the excess at home construction sites around the neighborhood. The shed stores lawn mowers, weed whackers, bikes, hoses and gardening supplies. It has also settled into the ground at the door end of late, making the operation of the shed door a function of finesse, friction and force. A combination of which I employed every time I went to remove lawn equipment. Upon my son's return from college earlier this summer, I delegated the lawn chores to him via text message while he slept in and I went to my office. An obedient son, he eventually rose to greet the noon day sun, and went to open the shed door. He applied force to counteract the friction as the sagging door scuffed into the dirt. He did not apply any finesse. In futility he forced the door off its hinges and finished mowing the lawn, leaving the shed door free and propped awkwardly against the doorway opening. When I discovered the fractured condition of the shed door, he replied, "Oh yeah - I was going to tell you about that." My wife interjected, "Yeah, you know that door was about to come off anyway - you should have fixed it." I had to agree, it took too much finesse, and now it was time to rehang the door and not hang the messenger.
I pull out my tool apron (leather, not lacy white) with a hammer, power drill some nails and dragged the unhinged door to a shady spot on the deck and dismantled the hardware hinges, and the ratty waferboard beneath the exterior paneling. It is a 45 minute job, that I decide I will complete over the next 2 to 4 days. One must pace yourself in this sticky heat. I sawed off the bottom 4" of the 2x4 frame, replace the bracing and tacked on the exterior paneling.
As fate would have it, Grant returns for 3 days back from college summer school, so I wait to enlist his help in the final stage of replacing the shed door back on it hinges and its latch. Now, with his help, it swings real pretty once again.
The next evening I retire to my air conditioned quarters. I slip off into a dream. My French maid in black dress and tool apron softly approaches and whispers in my ear, "Dormez vous? Dormez vous?"
Which I translate as a question about my recently completed carpentry project, "Door may move? Door may move?"
In my dream, I raise one eyebrow as I look her in the eye and smirk, "Oui. The shed door may now move." So pleasant...
I find myself in a dream where a French maid, in a short black dress with a white lacy tool apron filled with a hammer, a power drill, lag bolts and nails comes to me with a glass of Beaujolais and as she bends down to serve me, she whispers softly in my ear, Je t'adore, Je t'adore. I raise one eyebrow and give a small smirk in return. So pleasant...
But I then awaken, and I realize the soft French phrase, Je t'adore [I love you] that I was hearing was not French, but is in reality an English phrase spoken by my wife, "The shed door, the shed door." Oh, yes. As I come to my senses, I recall promising her, that if I were to complete one significant project this summer, it was to repair the shed door.
The shed in question here was constructed by me and my Dad back in August of '92, and it was hot back then too. My parents vowed never to return to Texas in August after that. The shed was cobbled together with some 2x4's, wafer board and some roofing material picked up from the excess at home construction sites around the neighborhood. The shed stores lawn mowers, weed whackers, bikes, hoses and gardening supplies. It has also settled into the ground at the door end of late, making the operation of the shed door a function of finesse, friction and force. A combination of which I employed every time I went to remove lawn equipment. Upon my son's return from college earlier this summer, I delegated the lawn chores to him via text message while he slept in and I went to my office. An obedient son, he eventually rose to greet the noon day sun, and went to open the shed door. He applied force to counteract the friction as the sagging door scuffed into the dirt. He did not apply any finesse. In futility he forced the door off its hinges and finished mowing the lawn, leaving the shed door free and propped awkwardly against the doorway opening. When I discovered the fractured condition of the shed door, he replied, "Oh yeah - I was going to tell you about that." My wife interjected, "Yeah, you know that door was about to come off anyway - you should have fixed it." I had to agree, it took too much finesse, and now it was time to rehang the door and not hang the messenger.
I pull out my tool apron (leather, not lacy white) with a hammer, power drill some nails and dragged the unhinged door to a shady spot on the deck and dismantled the hardware hinges, and the ratty waferboard beneath the exterior paneling. It is a 45 minute job, that I decide I will complete over the next 2 to 4 days. One must pace yourself in this sticky heat. I sawed off the bottom 4" of the 2x4 frame, replace the bracing and tacked on the exterior paneling.
As fate would have it, Grant returns for 3 days back from college summer school, so I wait to enlist his help in the final stage of replacing the shed door back on it hinges and its latch. Now, with his help, it swings real pretty once again.
The next evening I retire to my air conditioned quarters. I slip off into a dream. My French maid in black dress and tool apron softly approaches and whispers in my ear, "Dormez vous? Dormez vous?"
Which I translate as a question about my recently completed carpentry project, "Door may move? Door may move?"
In my dream, I raise one eyebrow as I look her in the eye and smirk, "Oui. The shed door may now move." So pleasant...
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