Jump Start
Quietly tiptoe to the guest bathroom in the dark, which is still pretty light since it’s on the east side of the house, and the upper half of the plantation blinds are open. I can just see the sunrise between the houses across the way. Sit down, and hear a gentle splat to my right. A flat, black form has appeared on the wall next to me. Please, oh please, be a moth. Sure. The tree frog jumps on my chest, then leaps away, propelled by my shriek. Grant levitates from our bed, but I’m able to breath and yell I’m okay. Everyone survives; the frog is captured and released to the wild.
It may have joined us when I’d had the porch doors opened all day yesterday to put another coat of varnish on them. Spaulding came over Friday and sanded them with his electric sander. I’d offered to borrow it and do the sanding myself. He wisely realized I’d take all summer to get the 6 porch doors and the front door finished. He could knock out the porch doors in a couple of hours, then take his sander safely home to have when he wanted. He can come back when I’m ready to do the front door.
I do not have the stamina to work all day, so I’d planned to put a couple of layers of varnish with stain on our bedroom doors because they were in the worst shape. When they were done, I’d move on to the next set. My 26-year-old son does not understand. Nor would I have, when I was his age. On the other hand, by his insisting that he sand all the porch doors, I was faced with just having to do it. One more good sanding by hand, a layer or two of exterior spar varnish, and I’m done. I’m pleased I can still bush a straight bead when I varnish. Maybe not as good as when I lived on my wooden sailboat and varnished, it seemed like, weekly, but still damn good.
I’d hung a load of laundry on the line before I started painting. Then, when I’d finished 2 1/2 doors, the sprinklers came on. Odd, since I thought they were filled by the pump from the canal which only pumps when its electric cord is plugged in. No timers or automatic switch. Not willing to put my brush down, I watched the towels get a second rinse as I varnished. Then the sprinklers turned off. A few minutes later, they came back on. Off again.
Grant came back from his bike ride and confirmed the pump wasn’t plugged in. He plugged it, and the sprinklers came on. Unplugged, and they went off. Then they went on again. Huh? I kept painting, and he walked the yard trying to figure this out. He called Ross, who came over and showed him the timer that ran the sprinklers on city water, which Ross never got to work. He’s from South Africa, where, he said, city water is very expensive. So he’d added the canal pump to the sprinkler system and didn’t unhook the city water connection. Double huh?
After much looking and throwing of circuit breakers, we’ve tentatively decided the breaker that controls the sprinkler timer is the one marked “sump pump”. Rather than taking a chance on the septic system not working, Grant disconnected the hot wire from the timer. A poor solution, but it stopped the sprinklers from cycling every 10 minutes or so.
Grant took down the laundry and dried it in the drier. I put my brush in a plastic bag for the freezer (saves all that cleaning until the job is done), and picked up my painting tools. It was a two steps forward, one step back day. Our type of progress.
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I do not have the stamina to work all day, so I’d planned to put a couple of layers of varnish with stain on our bedroom doors because they were in the worst shape. When they were done, I’d move on to the next set. My 26-year-old son does not understand. Nor would I have, when I was his age. On the other hand, by his insisting that he sand all the porch doors, I was faced with just having to do it. One more good sanding by hand, a layer or two of exterior spar varnish, and I’m done. I’m pleased I can still bush a straight bead when I varnish. Maybe not as good as when I lived on my wooden sailboat and varnished, it seemed like, weekly, but still damn good.
I’d hung a load of laundry on the line before I started painting. Then, when I’d finished 2 1/2 doors, the sprinklers came on. Odd, since I thought they were filled by the pump from the canal which only pumps when its electric cord is plugged in. No timers or automatic switch. Not willing to put my brush down, I watched the towels get a second rinse as I varnished. Then the sprinklers turned off. A few minutes later, they came back on. Off again.
Grant came back from his bike ride and confirmed the pump wasn’t plugged in. He plugged it, and the sprinklers came on. Unplugged, and they went off. Then they went on again. Huh? I kept painting, and he walked the yard trying to figure this out. He called Ross, who came over and showed him the timer that ran the sprinklers on city water, which Ross never got to work. He’s from South Africa, where, he said, city water is very expensive. So he’d added the canal pump to the sprinkler system and didn’t unhook the city water connection. Double huh?
After much looking and throwing of circuit breakers, we’ve tentatively decided the breaker that controls the sprinkler timer is the one marked “sump pump”. Rather than taking a chance on the septic system not working, Grant disconnected the hot wire from the timer. A poor solution, but it stopped the sprinklers from cycling every 10 minutes or so.
Grant took down the laundry and dried it in the drier. I put my brush in a plastic bag for the freezer (saves all that cleaning until the job is done), and picked up my painting tools. It was a two steps forward, one step back day. Our type of progress.
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