FROM THE VALLEY: All feet and spiders on deck, please

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October 8, 2009

Anonymous The Lockport Union-Sun %26 Journal Thu Oct 08, 2009, 01:18 AM EDT

It took me about five days to finish the projects that I had lined up to close the camp for the season. Painting some exterior walls and staining the deck were just two of the more time-consuming tasks — mainly because both necessitated the preparation process of pressure-washing.

I’d never worked with a pressure-washer before. It didn’t take long to realize that if you’re doing the job in your bare feet and a spider climbs atop your foot, do not try to remove it by giving him a dose of pressure-washer tsunami. I don’t know if the spider or I suffered more from that well-thought-out gesture. I do know that if the spider is still alive, he’ll carry my DNA with him until that time comes when he finally meets that great bottom-of-the-boot in the sky.

Whenever I do a project of this nature — that requires measuring the square-footage to see how much of the applicable product I’ll need — I wind up running out of the stuff before I’m finished. I never seem to buy enough. No different here. I bought (what my calculations deemed enough) deck cleaner, only to discover that when it ran out, I’d cleaned less than a third of the intended structure. A third! That’s not even close.

It sounds like a quick fix: hop in the truck, run to the store and buy more. Things weren’t quite that simple. I had to weigh in the fact that my truck was losing its muffler (I was not going to have it fixed there for reasons I won’t go into). Using it would introduce the possibility of waking the dead. This was not a desirable option — I feel that if someone is dead, it’s best that they stay that way, but that’s just me. It was also quite a few miles to the city where the store was.

As much as I would have appreciated getting a ticket for the loud muffler, I decided to forgo the trip and continue to use just the pressure washer and live with the results.

Good choice. When I was done, I couldn’t tell where I used the cleaner and where I hadn’t. Now all I had to do was let it dry and then stain it. No problem.

The stain: I ran out of the stain less than halfway through that project. The stuff I was using was a clear waterproofing product; I bought twice as much as I thought I’d need. I did this so that I wouldn’t run out and feel like an ass. So much for that.

I phoned my wife back home — 250 miles away. “Listen,” I said, “I ran out of the clear stain for the deck ... ”

“Wow! What surprise,” she mocked.

“Yeah, I get it. Let me finish,” I insisted, “I’ve got a gallon of the tinted stain (leftover from a previous job). Do you think it would be OK to finish the deck with that?”

“Not really.”

Not really. That was her answer. She wanted all the exact same stain. Understand that the only way this deck is visible to anyone is through a satellite surveillance-photo from Google Maps. No one will ever notice the slight color variation but, as always, her wish is my command. So after contemplating ways to circumvent her wishes (I lied in the last sentence), I came to the conclusion that I had no other option but to take the not-so-quiet truck to the city and get more stain.

And so, I did just that. I went slowly in an unsuccessful attempt to minimize the noise. When squirrels, statues and corn stalks cover their ears as you drive by, you know you’re making some serious racket.

Of course, by the time I got back, it had started to rain — on the very part of the deck that I’d been working — which needed 48 hours of drying time.

It finally did work out. For all intent and purposes, I was able to accomplish my goals. Actually, considering the situation, I was kind of proud of what I was able to do. I felt good about the mission. I was even able to tow the boat home with my crippled truck. A feat within itself.

I found my wife sitting at the computer when I got home.

“NASA called,” she informed me as she turned away from a Google map. “You missed a spot.”

That last paragraph? Not really.

And that’s the way — as the final camp story of the year goes — it looks from the Valley.

Tom Valley is a Medina resident. His column runs every Thursday. Write to Tvalley@rochester.rr.com.

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