You might have guessed, from the way I start every single blog I have written, every night for the last 725-ish days, that there is a running soundtrack in my head. Nearly every moment of the day, I am zoned out listening to a collection far more eclectic than any radio station that has ever existed, and it's only audible to me. There's a better than 50-50 chance that I'm tapping my feet or bouncing my head to the beat, and if there's no one looking but me and the cats, I'll probably sing and dance a little too. It could be anything from old television commercials to current summer anthems to the Alma Mater of the University of Colorado. I don't discriminate. But lately, one song has been stuck in my head, with good reason. Every time I look outside, my husband is working tirelessly, more machine than man. We worked all day long on a very physical project, a complete overhaul of the deck, but when I was ready to pack it in and make dinner, I looked out the dining room window, and there he was, picking weeds out of the rose and canna lily garden. I've started calling him "John Henry," after the man of legend who challenged a steam hammer, won, and then died of exhaustion and stress. (For the record, I don't want him to end up that way. I keep begging him to slow down and maybe waste a little time on computer games and junk food. Anything to convince me he's actually human.) Naturally -- and yes, if you knew it, you'd know it is a given -- I hear Charlie Robison's voice in my ear, singing on top of a surly guitar lick, "John Henry moved a mountain, outta nothin' but a hammer and sweat. Well, he beat that damned machinery down; he said you ain't seen nothin' yet..."
The current big project is going to take at least a week, maybe more to finish, even with both of us working at it. Yesterday, he started prying up deck boards, a few rows at a time, and set them out in the yard. Even though he power washed the whole thing a couple weeks ago, the boards were set too closely for this humid environment. They swelled together almost instantly after they were first installed years ago, and ever since have trapped dirt and dog hair and mold between them. Plus, they started graying again almost as soon as he shut off the power washer. He built a couple sawhorses, and today I set about scrubbing each one with a bleach-based deck wash. Once they were rinsed and dried in the sun, we carried them around to the garage (just in case it rains as predicted), and I stained each one with two coats of a stain/sealer. I've finished only four rows so far, but I am in love with how it looks. I will only get to enjoy the effect for a couple months, but I'm gambling that someone is going to see it this summer, and it will seal the deal for them to write us a good offer on the house. I think it will be that pretty.
I worked myself to the breaking point today. I've come so far in two months, since the surgery, but I cannot keep up with ol' John Henry. I stood on my feet for hours, wearing long sleeves, long pants, heavy shoes and nitrile gloves in the sun. Every time I stopped to rest, my feet seemed to hurt worse for having the pressure of my body off of them. By the time that, in my fatigue, I forgot to shut the gate behind me, allowing Murray to trot off down the street in his pony cart, I was completely unable to chase after him. I had to send the man six houses down, around the corner, to collect him. Now I can't even sit with my feet on the floor anymore, and that's after an Epsom salt soak. I have to get up and do all of this again tomorrow? I must be insane. Did I say I liked the stained deck boards? No, I meant that I am totally indifferent to it. They can remain half stained, half raw, and I won't care, right? Right?
Maybe it's just the fumes talking.
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