The catapulting springs slingshot me up two rickety steps, through a front door that doesn’t latch and an obstacle course of boxes in the living room. I come to rest at the cabinet/shelves I built to replace the kitchen bar I’d torn down. This is the loudest ding; the highest pitch of vibrations: Another coat of paint; doors on the cabinets below.
If I can’t idle the chimes with stillness, I’ll drown them out with movement. There’s no need to pause, or look, or plan; just open the paint can and go. It feels good, this quickness with which I’m at work and the certainty of progress. These are things I’m no longer familiar with – certainty and progress. They surely didn’t exist when I began the cabinet. I was an amateur craftsman with an empty space to fill. There were false starts and necessary stops – measure and cut; rethink, remeasure, recut. There was also pressure to produce. I got myself into that mess, too.
“What’re we gonna’ do here?” I asked my wife, and waved a hand at the bar, which served as little more than an unsightly divider between kitchen and dining room.
“What do you mean?” she answered. I detected damage-control antennae coming out of her head.
“Well, we need more cabinet space, don’t we?”
“Yes, but shouldn’t we have water first?” She tried diversionary tactics.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll fix the water. What I’m thinking is, we can put a little knickknack shelf here.” I moved my hand up and down between the two turned columns that went from the top of the bar to the ceiling. “Then, I’ll put some plywood here.” I held an imaginary piece of plywood on top of the bar with both hands. “We can put little shelves on the dining room side, and cabinets on the kitchen side.”
“I have to finish painting the hall,” she said, and walked away. She was in denial.
This went on for a week as we worked on the house, preparing it to move into. I’d stop her and say, “OK, how about this?” Then I’d walk around the bar, pointing here and there, trying to give my new idea shape and dimensions. I don’t think she ever saw it.
Finally, the time came. It was late one night and she was tired, her defenses weakened. There were two weeks left before we were supposed to move in, and I called her into the kitchen. I put my hands on her shoulders and broke the news as if I was telling her I had to go into the hospital for some tests.
“We have to decide what we’re going to do here. Very soon, we’ll be marching in here with boxes, and unless you just want to stack dishes on top of this bar, we need to talk about it.”
“OK, but something simple will be fine.”
“I’m all for simple,” I assured. “But before we can see what simple is, all this trim has to come off. It’s cheap, it’s plastic, it’s ugly, and it’s in the way.”
“OK. Take it off,” she said, and slid a bucket into a neutral corner to sit and watch. I produced a wrecking bar and quickly dispensed with the trim.
“Now, this padding.” I put my hand on the vinyl-covered foam rubber that covered the corners of the counter-top and looked at my wife.
“Do it.”
With an almost vengeful release, I dispatched the pads. I opened the dining room window and tossed them into the darkness.
“All right, what do you think we ought to do?” I asked.
“How about some shelves on top?” she suggested.
“Yeah, I think you’re right. But what about down here?” I asked, opening the cabinet doors beneath.
“How about some shelves on bottom?”
“Yeah, that’ll be good. Just plain, open shelves, right?” I nodded at her expectantly. She shrugged and nodded.
“So we don’t need any of this,” I said, and hooked the wrecking bar on the one-by-two facing that framed the doors. With a few pries, a couple of jerks, and one well-placed swing, the facing was gone, doors and all. I tossed the entire mess out the window and listened as it crashed to the ground. I had tasted blood.
“This rotten piece of particle board is outta’ here, too,” I said, and it was – out the window.
“And do you see this?” I wasn’t waiting for an answer. “Nobody should have to put up with this.” Another piece of offensive – and defenseless – mobile home carpentry cracked and crashed. I felt large.
“This will be easier to do when this is outta’ my way.” I continued without looking at my wife, bringing the wrecking bar over my head, then down onto the counter-top – once, twice, three times – out the window. All that remained was the end of the bar, nice and square, with turned columns extending to the ceiling.
“Would you like to keep these?” I was out of breath and my wife was wide-eyed.
“No,” she answered.
“Are you sure? I mean, if you’d like to me to craft some kind of ornate something-or-other here, I’d be glad to leave these.”
“Whatever you think.”
Out the window.
“Now, this is starting to look up.” I spread my arms to welcome the empty space.
Sherry got up smiling and put and arm around my waist. “Let’s go home...just leave the wrecking bar here.”
If I can’t idle the chimes with stillness, I’ll drown them out with movement. There’s no need to pause, or look, or plan; just open the paint can and go. It feels good, this quickness with which I’m at work and the certainty of progress. These are things I’m no longer familiar with – certainty and progress. They surely didn’t exist when I began the cabinet. I was an amateur craftsman with an empty space to fill. There were false starts and necessary stops – measure and cut; rethink, remeasure, recut. There was also pressure to produce. I got myself into that mess, too.
“What’re we gonna’ do here?” I asked my wife, and waved a hand at the bar, which served as little more than an unsightly divider between kitchen and dining room.
“What do you mean?” she answered. I detected damage-control antennae coming out of her head.
“Well, we need more cabinet space, don’t we?”
“Yes, but shouldn’t we have water first?” She tried diversionary tactics.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll fix the water. What I’m thinking is, we can put a little knickknack shelf here.” I moved my hand up and down between the two turned columns that went from the top of the bar to the ceiling. “Then, I’ll put some plywood here.” I held an imaginary piece of plywood on top of the bar with both hands. “We can put little shelves on the dining room side, and cabinets on the kitchen side.”
“I have to finish painting the hall,” she said, and walked away. She was in denial.
This went on for a week as we worked on the house, preparing it to move into. I’d stop her and say, “OK, how about this?” Then I’d walk around the bar, pointing here and there, trying to give my new idea shape and dimensions. I don’t think she ever saw it.
Finally, the time came. It was late one night and she was tired, her defenses weakened. There were two weeks left before we were supposed to move in, and I called her into the kitchen. I put my hands on her shoulders and broke the news as if I was telling her I had to go into the hospital for some tests.
“We have to decide what we’re going to do here. Very soon, we’ll be marching in here with boxes, and unless you just want to stack dishes on top of this bar, we need to talk about it.”
“OK, but something simple will be fine.”
“I’m all for simple,” I assured. “But before we can see what simple is, all this trim has to come off. It’s cheap, it’s plastic, it’s ugly, and it’s in the way.”
“OK. Take it off,” she said, and slid a bucket into a neutral corner to sit and watch. I produced a wrecking bar and quickly dispensed with the trim.
“Now, this padding.” I put my hand on the vinyl-covered foam rubber that covered the corners of the counter-top and looked at my wife.
“Do it.”
With an almost vengeful release, I dispatched the pads. I opened the dining room window and tossed them into the darkness.
“All right, what do you think we ought to do?” I asked.
“How about some shelves on top?” she suggested.
“Yeah, I think you’re right. But what about down here?” I asked, opening the cabinet doors beneath.
“How about some shelves on bottom?”
“Yeah, that’ll be good. Just plain, open shelves, right?” I nodded at her expectantly. She shrugged and nodded.
“So we don’t need any of this,” I said, and hooked the wrecking bar on the one-by-two facing that framed the doors. With a few pries, a couple of jerks, and one well-placed swing, the facing was gone, doors and all. I tossed the entire mess out the window and listened as it crashed to the ground. I had tasted blood.
“This rotten piece of particle board is outta’ here, too,” I said, and it was – out the window.
“And do you see this?” I wasn’t waiting for an answer. “Nobody should have to put up with this.” Another piece of offensive – and defenseless – mobile home carpentry cracked and crashed. I felt large.
“This will be easier to do when this is outta’ my way.” I continued without looking at my wife, bringing the wrecking bar over my head, then down onto the counter-top – once, twice, three times – out the window. All that remained was the end of the bar, nice and square, with turned columns extending to the ceiling.
“Would you like to keep these?” I was out of breath and my wife was wide-eyed.
“No,” she answered.
“Are you sure? I mean, if you’d like to me to craft some kind of ornate something-or-other here, I’d be glad to leave these.”
“Whatever you think.”
Out the window.
“Now, this is starting to look up.” I spread my arms to welcome the empty space.
Sherry got up smiling and put and arm around my waist. “Let’s go home...just leave the wrecking bar here.”
