Adventures in home improvement

This past Friday afternoon I was out on our back porch engaged in a little home improvement: building a pergola.  Over the past week the big kids and I had stained the lumber and (mostly) cut it to size for the project.  But on Friday we finally started assembling it.

The first, and arguably most important, step of the pergola assembly required that deep holes be drilled into the stone-clad face of our house, and a long, unwieldy 2 x 6 board be bolted securely along the length of the of the porch.  This, by itself would be a daunting task to attempt with only an 11 and 13 year old handy for help.  But consider the fact that the drilling/bolting had to be done at a considerable height (almost 11 feet), we were heading into uncharted territory.

Thankfully, one of my neighbors was able to lend me a painter's ladder (the kind that opens up to an A-shape).    But it wasn't a very tall ladder (6 or 7 feet) and still required that I stand on the top step (something expressly forbidden on at least two separate warning labels on the ladder) with the drill held above my head in order to reach the place I had to drill.

However, since there was no other way to drill the holes and mount this long board... I drafted the two kids to brace the ladder tightly between them while I did my high-wire balancing act.

Everything was going just peachy as I drilled 4 of the required 5 holes into the stone.  As repositioned the ladder and began drilling the last hole I was silently patting myself on the back for coming up with such a workable solution to the accessibility problem.

Then, in rapid succession the following occurred:

• I told the kids that I was just about done with the last hole.
• I gave the drill a little extra push as the bit neared the desired depth in the stone.
• There was an odd clattering sound... much like one would expect to hear when driving a Buick through a symphony orchestra's percussion section and into the the French horns.
• I found myself sprawled on the stone surface of the porch, surrounded by the drill, electrical chord, upturned ladder and two terrified children.

I have no idea exactly how long I lay there, but I think there is an automatic restart procedure that most people go through after a fall that is not unlike the way a computer checks all of its components and sub-systems after a crash.

The first thing I did was reassure the terrified kids.  I had no business doing this, mind you, since I had no way of knowing how badly I was hurt.  But when your kids are standing over you near tears, the correct (and only) response is "I'm OK".

Once I had them momentarily mollified I started doing the inventory.  One by one I tenderly flexed my limbs and digits to see if everything worked.  Lots of dull aches and the sting of scraped skin... but none of the tell-tale electrical shock-like pain associated with broken bones. 

Once I knew I had the use of my hands, I started exploring my head and legs for blood.  A little, but not much.  Mostly scraped knuckles, elbows and knees and a rising bruise on my forearm and knee seemed to be the sum total of my injuries.  Not bad considering I'd fallen about seven feet onto solid stone amidst my entire collection of power and hand tools.

After a few minutes the kids asked sort of an obvious question:  "Why aren't you getting up, abba?"

I have to admit, I didn't have a reasonable answer for that one.  Everything worked and I was anxious to get up and 'walk it off' (as my baseball coach used to say after I'd gotten knocked down by a fastball).  But there was something oddly reassuring about remaining in a position where no further falling was possible.

Finally I allowed them to help me up to a sitting position and leaned heavily against the stone wall of the house. 

I looked from Ari to Gila and back again and asked "OK, what happened?"  No accusation intended, mind you... just a request for information.  Almost immediately the finger pointing began.

"She let go first"

"No I didn't, I only let go when I saw you let go"

"I thought abba was done"

I held up my hand for silence and did the fatherly version of the Jedi mind trick... you know, where you attempt to erase all memory of what has just been said and try to restart the conversation in a more productive direction.

"OK, maybe I wasn't clear... I'm not assigning blame here, I honestly don't remember what happened between when I started drilling the last hole and when I found myself on the ground.  Can you help me fill in the gap?"

As if by magic, my two children went from trying to throw each other under the bus to giving a remarkably detailed descriptions of what happened:

• Apparently, when I told the kids that I was just about done with the last hole, all they heard over the noise of the drill was the word 'done' and they both loosened their grip on the ladder.
• When I gave the drill that little extra push, the newly unsupported ladder flexed outwards allowing the bottom of the ladder to start sliding out from under my weight.
• That odd clattering sound (remember the Buick driving through the orchestra?) I'd heard was the spirit level, tape measure, saw horse, drill and ladder all crashing into each other on their way to the ground (and making contact with the falling human).

It was actually quite amazing to see them work together to reconstruct a fairly complex sequence of events once there was no blame being assigned.  But despite this remarkable bit of forensic analysis, I still had one question:

"OK, let's assume for the sake of argument that you thought you heard me say I was done.  Didn't the sound of the drill and the fact that I was still standing on top of the ladder make you think that letting go might not have been such a good idea?"

Instantly my two forensic experts evaporated... running to bring me a cold, damp washcloth for my wounds... an ice pack for my bumps and bruises... a cold drink to revive my spirits. 

As I sat alone there on the stone flags soaking up the late-afternoon sunshine, I felt my cheeks go red as I considered the untenable position in which I'd placed the kids.  I'd deliberately ignored not only a common sense rule... but one that was printed in big red and black letters in two separate places on the ladder.  Not a very good way to indoctrinate them on the need to observe safety rules.  Not only that, but if I'd really hurt myself badly (or worse, G-d forbid), they would have been guilt-ridden for years. 

As I lie here at 4:00AM Sunday morning feeling the sore stiffness of the bumps and bruises that will be with me for some time to come, I need to come up with a plan for the rest of this pergola construction so that the kids will take some valuable lessons with them to future projects of their own.

First and foremost is going to be a review of the importance of following written warnings on equipment.  We'll figure the rest out as we go along.  I'm thinking that having their dad serve as a handy cautionary tale will help them retain the lessons.