Words&Dirt

The ability to imagine perfection is a mixed bag, chimeric and useful at once.  It drives us to do good work, but also signifies an unachievable goal without which we might be more content.  There is no simple way to evaluate our tendency to abstractly project a moment, product, relationship, or activity that somehow transcends worldly barriers and achieves a state of flawlessness.  Do such fantasies help us become the best versions of ourselves, or simply set us up for disappointment when reality sets in or delusion when it doesn’t?  Yes, yes, yes.  Acknowledging this, how, then, can we proceed?  How to put our ideas of perfection to work without becoming enslaved by them?

This is the kind of thing that goes through my mind when I am bent double over a bay of floorboards, tack hammer in one hand, strip of insulation in the other.  I know I should be squatting to save my back, but I did that the last half dozen times and now I’m bending over, dammit.  Although Sean laid out the bays to be the proper width for the insulation, the strips are lengthier than the bays, and must therefore be cut in order to fit properly.

Insulated bays

It isn’t long after I begin insulating that the question comes to me: When, if ever, will I cut one of these strips to finish a bay and have a leftover piece that is exactly the right length for the next bay?  I plunge into an existential crisis.  Why have such a thought at all?  Is it useful?  Will it help me work harder, get the job done faster?  Will it kick off a waterfall of disappointment as I proceed, bay by bay, row by row, and fail to come up with that one leftover strip that neither falls short of nor extends beyond the horizon of my next incremental task?  If it never happens, does it reveal a greater context of futility within which my puny endeavors laughingly reside?

My face contorts monstrously, but no one notices with my bandana covering my nose and mouth so I won’t inhale the particles of fiberglass that take to the air as I pull each new strip from the pile of insulation.  I keep going.  Pull the strip, lay the strip, cut the strip, tack it up. (Got to promote that airflow above the foundation!)  Repeat.  Repeat, repeat.  Dust, itchy eyeballs, sweat soaking the brim of my hat.  A dark room darkened by safety glasses.  Repeat.

And suddenly:

Providence

The moment is sublime, the strip a perfect fit.  I am a sailor who, after long days of durm and strang, looks up to see the first slice of clear sky and feels favorable winds arise.  The sensation soars––this is why we long for perfection, that blissful, bountiful deception.

My nose is running.  I sniff, pull the tack hammer from my back pocket.  I smile, tack the strip, and move on.  Repeat.

Insulation done

I join Dan and Sean laying plywood over the floorboards.  Now I’m watching two other junkies chase their high, still reeling from my own blast.  Sean is so careful.  He measures.  He measures again.  He thinks.  Dan waits.  We chalk line according to layout.  Sean calls numbers.  Dan cuts.  I cut holes for plumbing.  I carry.  Sean spreads glue.  Plywood bangs down.  Sean scrutinizes.  Sean frowns.  Sean wields the sledgehammer.  That’s better.

Sean smiles, vulpine.

Flatland

The next morning, I am tasked with putting up the pegboard in Ma’s new workshop.  It’s an easy job, but one that takes me a while.  I want to get it right.  I take measurements to center it above the worktable.

Wall sans pegboard

I want the pegboard to start one foot above the table, and mark the location of its lower-right corner.  Then I screw in the 1/2″ boards that will keep the pegboard off the wall.  I make sure they are plumb and aligned with where the top of the pegboard ought to be.

Mounting boards

Next I cut holes in the pegboard to make room for the outlet covers.  I measure their locations starting from the pegboard’s lower-right corner, then use the jigsaw to cut them out.

Cuts for outlets

I take the pegboard back into the workshop and discover that a couple of my cuts are off by a 1/2″ or so.  I go back and adjust them.  Sean says it’s no problem, and I am reminded why I am not entrusted with the execution of more important tasks.  I am learning.

Pegboard up

It’s Friday, and we want that floor done.  But we can’t finish until we put in a new header.  This is because we have to cut some studs in order to lay our last cuts of plywood.  With those studs no longer bearing weight, we need the header to hold the roof up.  The header will preside over two doorways, so we decide to use one long board instead of two shorter ones.  Sean goes to work with the sawzall, taking out sections of studs to make room.   I haul out the header, a weighty hunk of 4″x12″, nearly 16′ long.  Dan reminds me to make sure the mill made a proper 90 degree cut.  The mill botched it, so I cut an inch off to make the end square, then cut the other side to match Sean’s measurement.

Sean and I ascend ladders, header in hand.  We lift.  I blow hot air out the side of my mouth.  Sean shows no signs of strain; he is a bull.  We lift the header onto the plates, sledge it from both sides.  It goes in, but not all the way.  Sean goes back to work with the sawzall.  The header has a considerable crown––one end is curved down and won’t clear the plates.  Dan is careful below, and brings a jack to lift the header into place.  More sledging, followed by the nail gun.

Header installed

Now we finish the floor.  Sean groans, hammers, pries and pounds.  I stand by and offer the occasional inane suggestion.  Sean shrugs me off kindly and concedes, signaling for the nail gun.  Finality in compressed air, like a dying breath.

Dan adjusts the brim of his hat and squints into the gloom.  Sean is half-high, Dan sunnier.  They are happy enough.  I am ecstatic.

Done

And done

The floor is solid.  It does not creak.  It does not have low spots.

It is not a perfect floor.

It is a good floor.