I hope this alright. I have been culling a few pieces from the past as ‘filler’ so to speak. The idea is to bring a bit of history and context to the daily journal – whenever that resumes. Here is a another from the earlier days during construction.
I know why women live longer than men. It’s because men think they can build cabins all by themselves. They can’t. They need help. Lots of help. Or else they die.
I figure building is a bit like sex………….you need at least one other person to get anything done properly and, generally speaking, the more the merrier. Doing it all by yourself makes a mess and does nothing for your reputation. And there is the very real possibility of going blind.
You need two people for a number of things when building but, at the very least, to lift the beam off of your leg when the structure collapses or to turn off the chain saw when the serious bleeding begins (the sexual analogy ended at the previous paragraph for all but the very strange).
Building cabins alone can and will, I expect, kill you if not, at the very least, scar you and mar you beyond recognition. I should know. I have narrowly escaped death and/or permanent mutilation on numerous occasions. And, for the most part, I am still at the planning stage. I have actually hurt myself at the hardware store!
I know that eventually we all die. I can live with that, so to speak. It’s just that I never suspected I would be done in by a circular saw. I never expected to die of self-inflicted wounds. I had no idea that a half-inch drill could beat the crap out of me before I let go of it or that I could strangle myself in an extension cord. And am I the only person who can’t seem to work in protective clothing?
You know what they mean by protective clothing don’t you? They mean the bloody stuff is so cumbersome that you remove it when doing anything difficult and thus saving the gear, not you, from any harm. I have pristine protective clothing covering multiple lacerations in the healing stages. I have heavy gloves that aggravate the splinters in my hand. I have protective eye-wear I can’t see through which does not bode well for further mishap. And, of course, I have steel toed boots I limp in because the cap cuts into my foot. Fully clothed, I look great. Naked, I look like the poster boy for Workers Compensation.
Don’t get me wrong. I am very safety conscious. It’s just that I don’t always remain conscious. I have literally knocked myself out.
The other day I was carrying a heavy beam on a wet, moss covered slope when I began to slip. I immediately dropped the beam and moved a bit faster downhill to catch up with my own momentum. But there was more slip there than grip and I began to do an unrehearsed downhill two-step on ‘tippy-toes’. At a certain point in this Issac Newton-inspired Pas de deux, I had to choose between plummeting into the sea like a Lemming (OK, Walrus!) or slamming myself into a rock out-cropping head first. I chose concussion over submersion and only faintly recall the whole incident as a result. I rely on my wife’s account of events from about mid pirouette on. She seems to think I chose the better of the two options as it is easier to heal a head wound than dry clothes while building in the rain.
My wife claims that I tend to dwell too much on the danger. She keeps encouraging me to get ‘past it’. She said, “Hey! Just suck it up, Nancy-boy!” to me one time while I was lying in the emergency E-vac helicopter basket just before being hoisted up.
She’s impatient to get the cabin built, I guess.
“Go for it!” she yells whenever I turn on a saw. “Let ‘er rip!” I know she loves me but, then again, I am also heavily insured. What is not to love? “No guts, no glory!” It may not be that women naturally live longer, now that I think about it. Maybe manslaughter is simply more acceptable to them. “Damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead!” Who knows what the hell that means on a construction site but that stuff just keeps coming: “No pain no gain, Mr. Pussy!”
Doesn’t matter. We all gotta go sometime. It’s just that I was hoping not to be the cause of my own demise. But I think it is inevitable. I have an unregistered skill saw and, God knows, saws don’t kill people – people kill people. So, I am doomed.
In my case, the list of usual accomplices can include, hammers (I have brutalized myself with hammers), staplers (don’t ask – suffice to say that I do not advise using a stapler to fix a broken zipper unless you take off your pants first!). I have even been assaulted by a wheel-barrow making a break for freedom!
But, far and away, the most dangerous two tools in the box are the mini-grinder and the half-inch drill. I swear to God that my half-inch drill can bring Claude van Damme to his knees. My drill, should it ever turn on you, (which, when you think about it, is all that it is supposed to do) will twist you up like a kleenex in your nose. It does it instantly, too. One minute you are wondering how steel cuts through steel and the next, you are wondering how your elbow got stuck in your ear. Half-inch drills rule. And they rule with fear.
The mini-grinder is not as lethal but it is definitely more mean. Mini-grinders are the weasels of the tool world. Sneaky, quick and sharp. Especially one equipped with a ‘cutting disk’ – as if there was any other kind?! Ever seen a mini-grinder disk intended for a soothing massage or applying sunscreen?
Such a tool will take five minutes to cut through a piece of wire but will slice and dice your thigh in a nanosecond. If North America is ever threatened by a foreign country, I say we ship our adversaries a bunch of half-inch drills and mini-grinders first. Three weeks later, victory is ours. Not a bullet fired.
Don’t get me wrong. I am not afraid. Death by cabin is my destiny. I know that. The building supplies guys know that. There’s a kind-of-romance to it all. A bitter-sweet respect for the majesty of nature and the process of natural selection. The supply guys treat me as if I was a tragic hero, a martyr as yet unmade.
If you live by the pen, you will die by the half-inch drill. It’s only fair.
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