20th June 2008

Decked Out



We have long known that the steps on the east side of our house have needed replacement. This is mostly due to the fact that they were crumbling, sometimes right underneath our feet, and getting worse as each year went by.




Couple this with a bad appearance, an old-fashioned railing, a patchwork patio and sidewalk, and a weather-beated privacy fence and it was certainly one of the less-appealing aspects of our otherwise cute abode.




Moreover, it had become a safety hazard, especially carrying a small child up and down the steps in the dead of winter, snow and ice covering it in slippery bumps. So, it was decided that they must come out and be replaced,
and a deck might be just the ticker for replacing them in a fashionable and useful manner.




Now, whoever originally poured the concrete for these steps should really be congratulated, as it was about the hardest element known to man. Instead of cracking and splintering like normal cement does when you whack it
with a 20 lb sledgehammer, the tool simply bounced off with barely a thump. I sweated and swore and smacked and swung for several days but to no avail. Concrete blades in the circular saw, cold chisels and a hammer, and singing high opera notes did no good. In the end, I had to rent an electric jackhammer from Ace Hardware in Charles City ($65 for a day). My father and my friend Paul helped out the first night getting started on the behemoth.




Here Dad hammers away while Paul works on helping clear the debris broken loose. Despite the fierceness of the hammer, the going was slow and methodical.




Running a jackhammer was a lot easier than I thought. There’s a sweet spot to it where you want to be pushing down hard enough, but not too hard. Not enough pressure and it bounces all over; too much and it can’t pound the concrete correctly. Other than that, it doesn’t necessarily take someone built like a brick shithouse to run, although after doing it for hours on end, you gain an acute understanding of why most jackhammer operators are burly folk.




This was our progress after the first night of work for about 2.5 hours or so. The original plan was to only knock down the top step and leave the rest underneath; however, once we got the top step out of the way, we found that the wall of the house was rotted out and we’d have to at least get that exposed, which is what we did.




A hefty pile of debris after the first night. This also includes the flat concrete pad that was around the steps, which I broke out with a sledge earlier in the week.




The lovely wall we were greeted with once we broke out the steps. It’s clear through into the crawlspace, which probably explains why there was practically a breeze coming from the crawlspace this past winter.




Half done! Dad and I got the wall repaired, posts set, and joists hung all in a night, then he showed up the next morning and kept going. I overslept and woke up to find it already half done. He’s the industrial sort!




Another view of the half-done.




The privacy fence side of it all done.




All done! Up the stairs.




Side of the stairs.




East side of the deck.




North side of the deck.




Modeling the new deck with my son.




Down the stairs! Since this picture I have replaced the brick at the end with a board walkway. Tres pretty.




The decking on the north side.




East side decking.




And the final pile of debris, which hasn’t left yet but hopefully will soon!

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16th June 2008

Tired of the Racket

SHEFFIELD, IA, June 16, 2008 — A local resident was seen today taking a crowbar and beating the living tar out of most passing motorcyclists.   When approached and asked what he was doing, he calmly replied, “I’m tired of these posturing pricks gunning their throttles every damned time they go around the corner.”

Nathan Pralle, 30, hefted the 4-foot implement onto his shoulder in a casual pose as he waited on the curb for his next target.    “You see, I’m a guy — I appreciate the macho things in life as much as anyone else; football, hotties, and the roar of loud engines,” he explains languidly, “but these bikers are really squaredancing on my last very last nerve in stock.”

The curve of the road that passes by his house, Pralle explained, has a fairly high traffic load for this small 900-odd person burb in central Iowa, especially on the sunny days of summer when everyone and their dog is out enjoying the few brief moments of gleeful warmth.    But such giddiness is not to be found in Pralle who has clearly had enough of the noise.

“They turn the corner and then hit the throttle as hard as they can.   Doing it once just to hear that roar is fine, ” he says as he shakes his head, “but what the fuck are they trying to prove by doing it EVERY SINGLE TIME???   ARGH!!!  And god help them if they ever wake up my baby son from his nap.   Do they have kids?   No, they have a chrome dick extension and it’s having size issues.   Time to change that stinky diaper, and I am not handling out Huggies,” he growls.

An approaching two-wheeler from the east halted our interview and the vigilante lined up to see what would happen.   True to his predictions, the Harley, complete with leather-bejeweled rider, turned the corner and started to lay on the typically loud YAP! YAP! YAP! from the straightpipes.  Pralle suddenly sprung into action, sprinting into the street, yelling like a banshee on a bender and waving the crowbar wildly over his head in a war cry.    The biker barely got turned around to inspect the commotion behind him when he was promptly beaned senseless and the bike’s exhaust was flatted into linguine before Pralle placekicked the muffler and yelled at the fleeing motorist, “Let’s hear the sound of those pipes NOW, fucker!”

Puffing heavily, he returned to his post, setting his “justice stick” down and against a
maple tree, but not before he added a small notch to a growing list on the trunk.   “Looks like today might be a great day to be me, a really crappy-ass day to be a biker,” he grinned with a smile that would send sane men scampering into the foliage.

So, if you like to surf the pavement on a crotchmobile in this lovely weather of summer, enjoying the beauty of the season before plunging back into the freezing cold of winter, a simple word of warning goes out to you — avoid main street Sheffield at all costs or at least, for heaven’s sake, don’t forget your helmet.

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