Weightlifting for Seniors

While going out to the garage to fetch a Stillson wrench early this spring, I noticed that some sort of varmint had recently chewed a small entry portal at the bottom of the door.

This made me feel somewhat anxious, since I had no way of knowing if I ran the risk of cornering a rabid, toothy rodent as I fumbled through the clutter.

I had been putting off my door replacement project for too long. Since we intend to repurpose the space into a production studio for our fledgling, hand-made paper flower business, it was time I started by reconstructing the shallow step into the space. After observing various masons at work, I felt confident that I had sufficient skills for the rudimentary task.

One Saturday I bought a bag of concrete, no need to say where, along with a very flimsy plastic mixing trough, and set out to work.

First I dug a hole. Then I constructed a plywood form and mixed up the cement.

The 80 lb. bag made enough mix to neatly fill the form. I even tossed in a short length of rebar for reinforcement. Later, I went back and bought a 60. lb bag of mortar mix to set the stones in place. I mixed up the whole bag, carefully set the stones and found myself with 55 lbs of leftover wet cement.

Thinking quickly, I remembered another sink hole/varmint entry on the far side of the garage. I picked up the mixing tub and carried it around the building and the thin, plastic trough began to crack under the weight of the wet cement.

When I was younger I could lift pretty much anything in my path but half way through this journey I suddenly realized I had outlived my ability to carry heavy loads in my arms.

The varmint hole now contains the overflow of my project and the step came out much better than I had predicted, but my back still aches from the effort. My flabby arms and weak back no longer pose a threat to beer kegs, engine blocks or tango partners.

I have three days off next week. If it isn't raining, I intend to make a new door for the garage with a section of sheet metal fashioned into a kickplate to dull the ever-present rodent teeth in their pursuit of the inside of my garage.

If the lumber I need to buy for the project is too heavy, I know now I'll have to make two trips from my truck.

Gym, schmym. ben.guerrero@sbcglobal.net

Wisteria Lame

Early black and white photographs of my childhood home capture the wisteria that grew on a trellis by the arch-topped living room door.

Through years of renovations, the bush bloomed with ferocity every spring – its lavender petals hanging like Japanese lanterns, followed shortly by the fuzz-covered teardrop pods.

Melissa’s childhood home had a wisteria of its own, and as we relocated ourselves to Rust Hinge Road, she grabbed one of its progeny and immediately planted the sapling next to the gate. It took root with ease. By the next year, it had woven itself into the chain link fence.

The wisteria required constant pruning lest it take over our lives. Mornings we would find it reaching toward our cars or eyeing the house walls hungrily. It grew fast. On a warm summer night you could almost hear it growing.

But spring would come and go and it just wouldn't bloom. We googled it and asked professionals and nobody had a definitive answer. "Give it fertilizer." "Starve it." "Drive a nail into its trunk." "It's probably a male so it will never bloom."

Why did the neighbors have such success with their wisterias and we got nothing but harassment from ours?

This question went through are heads along with the endless “clip, clip, clip,” of Melissa’s pruning shears.

So, we have thought long and hard about the wisteria by the gate. We considered digging the plant out and hauling it away, but its network of tendrils, just below the surface, most likely will further propagate successive generations of non-flowering variety. Meanwhile our wisteria lay fallow, quiet and conspiratorial – as if it was up to something.

We once heard that it takes seven years for a wisteria to bloom, which filled us with hope when it had been by the gate for six years. Now at eleven years, something is up.

This morning, as I walked by the gate I noticed something peculiar: the wisteria, covered with flower buds was about to pop. In a day or two we will have something to celebrate. What did we do differently? Was it the mild winter? The other bushes we yanked out? Who knows?

Maybe it can read our minds.

OK, what am I thinking now? ben.guerrero@sbcglobal.net

Have a Seat

Every trip out to Lake Polvo has been a big money eaters. Each time we go out there, we rent a car at the airport which costs more than an airplane ticket. So, last time we were there we bought a used car from our Realtor’s husband. If I told you the maker of the car, you would be extremely impressed, or label me a snob, but no need for that, the car is over twenty years old and has some issues.

For instance: it’s full of sand, there’s no radio, it needs shocks installed, the right, rear window is propped up with a two-by-four, but the biggest issue of all: there’s no front passenger seat.

“You shouldn’t have any trouble getting one,” my Realtor’s husband told me as he folded my check into his wallet.

Once back at Rusty Hinge Road, I quickly located several seats in online junkyards. They were available for almost half what I paid for the whole car.

On EBay, I found one going for cheap and, best of all, it was local!

I met the seller, a charming, ponytailed Englishman in a waxed cotton jacket, at a storage facility a few exits down the turnpike. He knew a lot about my car, and as we loaded the seat into my truck, he told me a million problems inherent to my year, make and model, stating if “thus and such” was wrong then the car was ready for “the dustbin.”

For the moment, that was the least of my worries.

I had to find an affordable way to get a 70-pound car seat out to Lake Polvo. My new “mate” told me the best and cheapest way was to ship it via a large and well-known bus company, named after a popular racing dog.

I contacted the bus line and after fighting through undulating piles of debris in our garage, I wrestled it into a $15 box I bought at a large and well-know truck rental service, then drove it a few exits up the turnpike and bought my seat a seat.

My gardener is prepared to retrieve the unwieldy box at a Chevron Station 45-miles away from downtown Lake Polvo, when and if it arrives.

Tune in next month for more.

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