Stair Project: Kick-off

Right now, somewhere out on the freeway, my shipment of Mexican tile is making its way here in the back of a big truck. It could be here tomorrow, possibly even later today, so the project manager called an early morning meeting.

A kick-off meeting sets the tone for an entire project. Management is there to put on a public face of authority and to inspire the troops to rise up and become something more than the stupid and lazy oafs that we are when left alone and unsupervised.

Meanwhile, over the weekend, I've been corresponding with my friend, the Floor Elf, about how to actually do the work for this project, because it will be much more tricky than it seems, more tricky than the project manager could ever guess (but what else is new?).

Sure, putting tile on the stair risers could be as easy as putting stamps on a letter. But the stairs are possibly the most dynamic structure in a house. They creak and bounce and shift and slide, not much, but more than enough to make tiles wriggle loose over time or crack or cause the grout to turn into dust.

We close the meeting on a positive note, as usual. The project manager hasn't passed around a schedule yet. Ha, she knows that this one is going to take a very long time...

On Lighting Up

Years ago I was playing piano in a crappy nightclub, the name of which makes me nauseous to remember, probably because I wish I hadn't wasted so many hours of my young life there.

For some reason yesterday a memory came into my head while at the doctor's office, seeing a my new doctor for the first time, a very young doctor, while I am not so young. My memory was from that pathetic nightclub in Arkansas. I can see it sitting there on the side of a freeway like some huge turd waiting to be flushed. And because of Google, I can see literally see that it is still there.

But to be honest I also had some good times there. I was much younger at the time.

The owner occasionally brought in some has-been musicians (like Sha Na Na and Jan and Dean), and we would be the opening act. On the particular night I'm remembering we had a woman (I can't remember her name) from Nashville who had one big record in the 1950s and then faded away. How old was she? 50? 60? None of us in the band had ever heard of her. Along with her was a man, her husband I think, also a singer but less well-known. And while he was red-faced telling jokes and shaking hands and talking loud, she was the opposite: pale despite all her makeup, a little wrinkled, a little gray, possibly in pain, possibly medicated, and quiet.

These two were alone--no band. So they arrived early to teach us her big song and then practice a few standards. She was clearly weak and shaky, but her partner laughed it away and joked that everything would be OK. Practice couldn't have lasted more than 5 or 10 minutes.

That night we had a packed house--apparently the place was filled with the woman's fans. She sat in a chair near the stage, greeting people quietly in her lacy dress with puffy sleeves. Why do I remember all this?

The man got on stage first, sang a few songs, told some jokes. But all of us in the band were worried when he introduced the woman and she quietly climbed the stage. She seemed like such a nice person.

Then, with the microphone in her hand she just turned on, lit up like a Christmas tree, sparkling with such charisma and singing with such strength that we all were stunned. She was the real pro, and she lasted for almost an hour on stage. Then she returned to her chair and she turned off again. Lights out.

I remember one thing in particular. At the end of the night I went over to her chair to congratulate her. Before I could say a word, she took my hand and pulled me close so that she could whisper into my ear. She lit up again for that instant, and I could imagine the beautiful young face that was once there.

"Thank you for being so kind," she said.

Calculating the Price

All personal shortcomings have their price, or at least I imagine this to be true if only to provide for some justice and meaning.

My fear of heights, for example, prevents me from doing certain projects, like fixing the drip, drip, drip of water that comes from the air conditioner on the roof and that, over time, had strayed from its intended course down the gutter and instead was crawling its way down the wall and onto the big tent awning over the back porch, collecting into a permanent damp spot on the canvas, breeding mold and mildew and turning the pretty green cover to black.

From underneath the awning the effect was not visible--everything is still new and green except that now some threads have given way and some fringe has become unfringed.

All this because I cannot climb a latter very far, certainly not the 20+ feet to the gutter, which is accessible only in this way.

So not only did my fear of heights delay the necessary repair work, it caused the collateral damage to the awning. Or did it?

We had to hire someone to make the repair to this and the other gutter boxes. Here's a photo that I took of him on the ladder. I was standing on the balcony outside my office, very much tempted to vomit at the sight of the ladder extending all the way to the patio floor.

We had to drop the awning in order to place the ladder, and this brought the moldy top into full view and convinced us that the canvas must be replaced.

But was the damage to the awning really my fault? Was this the price for my fear of heights?

We brought in an awning guy for an estimate, and he absolved me of all responsibility. It turns out that all of the older awnings around the house are coming apart and must be replaced. All of them are finally relenting to the Florida weather. The awnings have lived out their expected life span. There's nothing you could have done, he said with a smile.

Yes, I am not to blame. Now it's time to pay.

Letting the Stairs Dry

It's a waiting game now, waiting to see how time and the traffic of doggy toe nails will treat the stairs. I can tell that the finish is getting a little harder each day as it dries out. I'm using that same varathane that I put on my office floor a couple months ago, and my floor is as hard as a rock now.

So during this hardening phase we only allow the dogs to come upstairs once or twice a day. Of course Willow had to supervise, approve and take credit for the finished product.

The air conditioner guy stopped by on Thursday and, literally, walked into the house without knocking. He had called to let me know he was coming. But I had never met this guy. And who just walks into your house without knocking? He walked in wearing heavy work boots, then started to approach the stairs to get to the ladder on our balcony, and I yelled at him to stop. No shoes on the stairs! I made him get up to the roof from the outside. We did not establish a friendship.

Life is all about learning new things. For me, using stain on the stairs was a new thing. I've always avoided stain because natural wood is usually beautiful on its own. And stain can be a problem with damaged wood because the pigment can soak into deep scratches and darken them. But I was able to sand away most of scratches before staining.

If the stairs have lost any character as a result of the severe sanding I gave them, I don't really feel it. Plenty imperfections remain, and I'm not sure whether to brag or feel shame about them.

We're waiting now for more tile samples for the stair risers. More later.

Sanding the Stairs

With Cheryl away this weekend I had time to make a huge sawdust mess, but this time I covered the furniture and my piano with plastic first. I was committed to sanding down the stairs. No more hesitation. No girly half-measures. There would be much sanding and much sawdust in the air.

First step was to remove the spindles. I was assured on-line that spindles are difficult to remove and that I should be prepared to break a few.

So I gently encouraged the spindles to come out, getting to know each one individually, and they obliged me by not breaking, such is the nature of patience and common respect.

Time to sand, but after a few minutes with my orbital sander, it was clear that I needed more power, which meant a trip to Home Depot to rent an edger sander (a powerful tool for sure), except that Home Depot did not have one. The news could not have hit me harder. I wandered the aisles in a daze, not unlike that day almost 15 years ago when I was laid off from work and stopped on the way home to wander around in the grocery store looking for dry rice and beans and whatever food that my desperate position would allow.

In the power tool aisle I explained my situation to a man who was about my age. I was desperate about sanding these steps--today, it had to be done today. He looked a little sorry for me, but not really sorry. I'm sure he has his own troubles. I remembered that I had an old belt sander at home, a primitive awful tool that always leaves gouges in the wood, so much that I swore never to use it again, but now I had no choice. He agreed that I had no choice. I bought two new belts.

More later.

Not Like a Violin

After several days waiting for this stupid cough to go away, it's time to finish up the stairs, no matter how I feel. But no more chemical strippers and gooey mess. The stairs need a really good sanding, even though I will be sanding away whatever character remains amid the ugly scratches, dings and black spots.

I had this same feeling with the bathroom. After all, I could have replaced the broken tiles and made a huge patch job of it all. Then we could have said the bathroom was still "original." I wonder and worry about these things, still. Sanding the stairs will change the way they look, and I can't predict the outcome.

I faced the same dilemma years ago with my violin. Its finish was in terrible shape, and it literally fell to pieces one night as I was playing it--the neck separated from the body, which flopped around like a puppet. I was able to glue it all together, and then, impulsively, I also stripped away the finish. I stripped away the 100-year old finish. In retrospect, this was a mistake.

The stairs aren't like a violin, though. I tried doing a restore a few years ago, but it didn't work. I need to sand down to the bare wood. And to do this right I need to remove the spindles from the railing, otherwise I will have to sand in little circles around them, using my pinkie finger or something equally as small, and I don't have the patience for it.

Luckily I was able to remove one of spindles already, though almost by accident, so I believe I see how to get the others out.

More later.