Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Up on a Ladder
He was twenty feet above the driveway with the only thing in his vision being old pine clapboards that desparately needed to be repainted. The plan they both agreed on was to do one side of the house each summer, but that time of year was no longer available since he spent it at school having moved from teaching music to year-round administrative work. This side of the house had gone much longer than four years between coats as a result. It took time to grind off the remains of seven different colors of lead-based paint and to repair the cracks in the boards that barely hung on the studs of the Bonnell Street home. Over one hundred and fifty years ago these unbeveled pine boards were created from timber at a local sawmill. The parrallel saw kerfs on the back of the wood revealed to the trained eye of a consultant brounght in years before that these were cut from the tree trunk using reciprocating, steam-driven saws not a circular saw which was invented in 1850 but used only in the large cities.
He had the time to do the work on the house now since he only worked part-time and was receiving a pension for all the years of teaching children music as well as handling the thankless job of being a principal of a public school. Spreading the drop cloths and raising the ladders, he worked long without breaks so he could cross this job off his long list of repairs, getting the house ready for the winter.
This residence was home base for different jobs across the state in different schools as a teacher, supervisor, vice-principal, then primcipal before retiring at age 59. He moved into the house twenty nine years before, with his wife pregnant with their first child while completing his master's degree. Both decided that this town was where they wanted to raise their family. After looking at many houses within the Borough limits, they fell in love with this little half colonial with its pumpkin pine floors, two working fireplaces pine shutters and pine siding. They could see the potential for a beautiful home and bought it in a private sale advertised in the Hunterdon Democrat, a weekly paper for the county.
While up on the ladder he had turned sixty; no time for much celebration since the days that the temperature climbed above fifty degrees were very few now. Twenty eight years in the same house while his wife's family members and friends had moved many times. He had repaired and remodeled the house as if it were his prized sailing schooner, constantly working one project after another to improve the house. He thought about being sixty and still painting his house, not hiring some Hispanics to do it, but he always liked doing the work; work that tired but relaxed him, knowing that he accomplished something tangible and beneficial, unlike the amorphus accomplishments of academia.
But it was a constant challenge to overcome the fear of falling off the ladder and dying or worse yet, becoming crippled for the remainder of his life that kept him alert. A prayer went up before each daily assent and a thankful prayer completed each day of work, hoping that his future prayers would be answered regarding his safety; not for him, but for his children and his little grand child. Dying is a very selfish thing to do when you have family counting on you. You look down and consider how long your life would be in miliseconds if you fell. Dropping a tool and noting the time was a morbid reminder of just how brief that span of remaining life would be.
Once up in position facing the cracked pine boards it was the sounds he heard that fascinated him. As if blind, only seeing the wood before him, he tried to identify the soulds and where they originated; the jets above going to Newark or Kennedy from the west, the local Fire siren summoning the volunteers, and the buzz of the leaf blowers around the area, blowing leaves into their neighbor's yards for starters. There also were the sounds of children kept by Jill the professional baby sitter two houses down using her cackly singing voice to senerade them as they played on the swings in her backyard. There were her huge dogs that sat like lions digesting their kill that jumped up and challenged occasional passersby, especially those with dogs on a leash. the older kids would venture away from her house by riding bikes and they would come into the driveway where he had his ladders, creating the potential for something falling on them. He cautioned them not to come too closely and they heeded him. There were also school busses stopping at the sitter's house for children to be picked up and dropped off. There were junior high and senior high students walking to and from school and chatting to each other or to someone on the other end of a cell phone. Sometimes joggers or little old ladies that would pass by, all not knowing that he was up there spying on them except the children who knew.
His body would give him signals that he was doing something unnatural, or at least a new activity it wasn't used to. Pain in the arms, weakness and numbness set in so frequently that he had to switch hands on almost every dip of the brush to keep going. He was thankful he was ambidexterious. Constantly climbing the ladder took a toll on his legs, but hoped this exercise would stregthen them. After a few days of this routine his arms gained strength and endurance. The hands that could hardly hold the brush at the end of the first day could keep going supposedly forever. His legs did carry him up and down with a lighter step. Fatigue and hunger were not there, only thirst, giving him the strong conviction that we, the human race, were designed to toil all our days as Moses penned from the oral tradition he captured thousands of years ago in the book of Genesis.
Of course thoughts stomped through his head in an endless march. Sometimes he had to force his mind to change thoughts because he kept recycling embarrassing moments or failures. And why was a sixty year old out of work, retired early and working part time for a low wage? Why couldn't he continue as a principal? Was it all politics or was it his desire to quit the job that was causing him to have high blood pressure and gain weight? He certainly made a lot less money.
But money was never his highest goal. He loved conserving resources, drawing food and fuel from the land, creating music, writing, as well as getting a lot of exercise. If calories could be burned gardening, building a rock wall, or repairing something on the house, then two things were accomplished. If not, then he preferred bicyling, in-line skating, running, walking, or kayaking. He dreamed of having solar panels on his house giving back some kilowatts to the power company and watching the meter go backwards, but that would be a lot of up-front money to start. No, it was other things he liked more than money itself. Of course, he liked the things money could acquire, but making do, creating, solving problems simply was how he managed. He needed a workbench, so he made one out of scrap lumber, wood pegs, and glue. It still sits in the old basement, unable to be removed since it was built there and is too large to be taken out of the stairway or window.
So painting the house, one side a year, was an obvious choice. How long would be be able to continue doing this? Would the day come when he would fall off the ladder like the tool that dropped and bounced off the driveway 1.5 seconds later? This is one reason he is on the ladder now; so he can get the house ready to sell to move into a more efficient, new house with siding or plaster that doesn't need a side painted a year, or ever. But in gaining that conveninece would he miss the old wood, the cracks, the paint, the smell of linseed oil and turpentine as he seals the wood in preparation for the priming, caulking, and painting? Would he miss the smell of the wood fire or the creak of the tung oiled pine floorbooards when you move through the house?
Yes. And the sounds of laughter of little children. Soon his grand daughter will fill his mind with pictures of a toddler moving through the house buy stopping at each landing, which was made to conform the house to the contour of the land, sitting down, turning around, backing down to the lower level, then standing up and continuing on to the next one. She would repeat this process all day if she could because it is fun; just like climbing up and sliding down the stairs, especially the narrow winding back stairs leading to the master bedroom from the kitchen. The house is alive with memories and will be filled with many more before it can no longer be painted or repaired.
He had the time to do the work on the house now since he only worked part-time and was receiving a pension for all the years of teaching children music as well as handling the thankless job of being a principal of a public school. Spreading the drop cloths and raising the ladders, he worked long without breaks so he could cross this job off his long list of repairs, getting the house ready for the winter.
This residence was home base for different jobs across the state in different schools as a teacher, supervisor, vice-principal, then primcipal before retiring at age 59. He moved into the house twenty nine years before, with his wife pregnant with their first child while completing his master's degree. Both decided that this town was where they wanted to raise their family. After looking at many houses within the Borough limits, they fell in love with this little half colonial with its pumpkin pine floors, two working fireplaces pine shutters and pine siding. They could see the potential for a beautiful home and bought it in a private sale advertised in the Hunterdon Democrat, a weekly paper for the county.
While up on the ladder he had turned sixty; no time for much celebration since the days that the temperature climbed above fifty degrees were very few now. Twenty eight years in the same house while his wife's family members and friends had moved many times. He had repaired and remodeled the house as if it were his prized sailing schooner, constantly working one project after another to improve the house. He thought about being sixty and still painting his house, not hiring some Hispanics to do it, but he always liked doing the work; work that tired but relaxed him, knowing that he accomplished something tangible and beneficial, unlike the amorphus accomplishments of academia.
But it was a constant challenge to overcome the fear of falling off the ladder and dying or worse yet, becoming crippled for the remainder of his life that kept him alert. A prayer went up before each daily assent and a thankful prayer completed each day of work, hoping that his future prayers would be answered regarding his safety; not for him, but for his children and his little grand child. Dying is a very selfish thing to do when you have family counting on you. You look down and consider how long your life would be in miliseconds if you fell. Dropping a tool and noting the time was a morbid reminder of just how brief that span of remaining life would be.
Once up in position facing the cracked pine boards it was the sounds he heard that fascinated him. As if blind, only seeing the wood before him, he tried to identify the soulds and where they originated; the jets above going to Newark or Kennedy from the west, the local Fire siren summoning the volunteers, and the buzz of the leaf blowers around the area, blowing leaves into their neighbor's yards for starters. There also were the sounds of children kept by Jill the professional baby sitter two houses down using her cackly singing voice to senerade them as they played on the swings in her backyard. There were her huge dogs that sat like lions digesting their kill that jumped up and challenged occasional passersby, especially those with dogs on a leash. the older kids would venture away from her house by riding bikes and they would come into the driveway where he had his ladders, creating the potential for something falling on them. He cautioned them not to come too closely and they heeded him. There were also school busses stopping at the sitter's house for children to be picked up and dropped off. There were junior high and senior high students walking to and from school and chatting to each other or to someone on the other end of a cell phone. Sometimes joggers or little old ladies that would pass by, all not knowing that he was up there spying on them except the children who knew.
His body would give him signals that he was doing something unnatural, or at least a new activity it wasn't used to. Pain in the arms, weakness and numbness set in so frequently that he had to switch hands on almost every dip of the brush to keep going. He was thankful he was ambidexterious. Constantly climbing the ladder took a toll on his legs, but hoped this exercise would stregthen them. After a few days of this routine his arms gained strength and endurance. The hands that could hardly hold the brush at the end of the first day could keep going supposedly forever. His legs did carry him up and down with a lighter step. Fatigue and hunger were not there, only thirst, giving him the strong conviction that we, the human race, were designed to toil all our days as Moses penned from the oral tradition he captured thousands of years ago in the book of Genesis.
Of course thoughts stomped through his head in an endless march. Sometimes he had to force his mind to change thoughts because he kept recycling embarrassing moments or failures. And why was a sixty year old out of work, retired early and working part time for a low wage? Why couldn't he continue as a principal? Was it all politics or was it his desire to quit the job that was causing him to have high blood pressure and gain weight? He certainly made a lot less money.
But money was never his highest goal. He loved conserving resources, drawing food and fuel from the land, creating music, writing, as well as getting a lot of exercise. If calories could be burned gardening, building a rock wall, or repairing something on the house, then two things were accomplished. If not, then he preferred bicyling, in-line skating, running, walking, or kayaking. He dreamed of having solar panels on his house giving back some kilowatts to the power company and watching the meter go backwards, but that would be a lot of up-front money to start. No, it was other things he liked more than money itself. Of course, he liked the things money could acquire, but making do, creating, solving problems simply was how he managed. He needed a workbench, so he made one out of scrap lumber, wood pegs, and glue. It still sits in the old basement, unable to be removed since it was built there and is too large to be taken out of the stairway or window.
So painting the house, one side a year, was an obvious choice. How long would be be able to continue doing this? Would the day come when he would fall off the ladder like the tool that dropped and bounced off the driveway 1.5 seconds later? This is one reason he is on the ladder now; so he can get the house ready to sell to move into a more efficient, new house with siding or plaster that doesn't need a side painted a year, or ever. But in gaining that conveninece would he miss the old wood, the cracks, the paint, the smell of linseed oil and turpentine as he seals the wood in preparation for the priming, caulking, and painting? Would he miss the smell of the wood fire or the creak of the tung oiled pine floorbooards when you move through the house?
Yes. And the sounds of laughter of little children. Soon his grand daughter will fill his mind with pictures of a toddler moving through the house buy stopping at each landing, which was made to conform the house to the contour of the land, sitting down, turning around, backing down to the lower level, then standing up and continuing on to the next one. She would repeat this process all day if she could because it is fun; just like climbing up and sliding down the stairs, especially the narrow winding back stairs leading to the master bedroom from the kitchen. The house is alive with memories and will be filled with many more before it can no longer be painted or repaired.
