Don't go in the bathroom

It’s almost mid-January and the weather has been clear, cloudless days with temperatures in the low seventies. The house was so super-heated that I had to throw open the upstairs windows, turn back the curtains and shades, and let the full day in. The night, too—as I couldn’t sleep in the hothouse conditions created by the freakishly warm winter days. I have done nothing on the house, other than to go over and fetch an old metal toolbox I want to use for some other purpose. It was down in the basement, so I brought it up yesterday to see if I could make it fit under the Ohio truck with some bolts and other fasteners. Into the box I’ll put the tools and tire-changing equipment needed in case of such an emergency. For some reason I like the idea of having it stored under the truck—down where I’ll mount the spare tire.

Today I drove out into the day’s unusual warmth, headed across town to a house on one of the many rivers that feed into the Chesapeake Bay. The owner there had emailed a response to an ad I’d posted for some obsolete shingles I needed for the exterior of the renovation project. His shingles were covering an old outhouse, he said. It sounded like an interesting outing, if nothing else. When I arrived, I found his wife inside the house, directing me to just go ahead and start removing the things. Her husband was down at the garage, putting brakes on the car. I had on my denim overalls, too hot for the day, and a baseball cap with the American flag emblazoned on the front. I took to the brittle shingles, cracking a good many of them, but not caring too much one way or the other. I didn’t need too many full pieces—mostly just patches here and there where some of the smaller shingles had been broken or subjected to abuse.

By and by my contact arrived from his garage down the quiet street. With long, flowing white hair, a bandanna and denim bib overalls similar to mine, I felt I was looking at myself in about twenty years—maybe sooner. He had considerably more girth, however, something that I aspire to but feel is not within my reach. Not at this time, anyway. We talked about the placid riverfront properties, the changes that have taken place back in this secluded area, the arrival of public water—and maybe sewer. I don’t remember if they had that, too. He said the property was once a honky-tonk of sorts, a watering hole where men and women met and had a good time back when moonshine stills were in operation. According to the oral histories he knew of the place, it was known for prostitution as well. I looked around me, at the sparse housing, the small places built for vacations or summer houses, the remote solitude of the tranquil and quiet setting.
“Those people had to be serious about having a good time if they came all the way out here,” I commented. The roads leading to this place were not great; back in the thirties it was most likely a mud bog.

In the garage was an old Ford from the 1930s—a total restoration project. It had been parked there for more than thirty years, he said. I went into the garage--not used to being opened up—to retrieve some more shingles. Three of them, to be exact. But these were intact, full pieces that were not broken. Inside was a technology museum of the past, every gadget that had had its day and probably worked still, more or less. He knew about them all, the boat radios, the citizen’s band transmitter and so on. The old Ford was nestled in a dark cocoon of gadgets, bottles, tools, the clutter of about forty years of hoarding and never throwing anything out. I felt right at home in there.

I gathered up my cracked and broken shingles, put them in the back of the car, and chatted for some time with my new internet friend. He showed me around front, the small yard ending at a pier that listed this way and that—its further end looking like an invitation from a funhouse boardwalk. The still water of the river rippled with a lone duck diving from time to time for some food. Far off were some buildings and the outline of the Key Bridge. You could hear the traffic as a muffled roar, not too loud but always present. My work there was done; I bid the man good-day, thanked him for the shingles, and was gone.

January 9, 2008

Toward the end of the day I cut and ripped away at what remained of the bathroom floor. It’s trash day tomorrow, and I wanted to leave a small offering. The floor is gone now; if you were to accidentally walk in there, you would end up in the basement. There is no reason to go in that place: The tub and sink and toilet and radiator are all absent, the pipes leading to these fixtures are gone as well. The two remaining radiator pipes I removed today. Fixing the large jaws of the pipe wrench on the old pipes, they twisted away—one by one—without breaking. They are old but stout pipes. I will most likely replace them anyway; these things are fairly inexpensive from the building supply place, and the old ones have a good deal of rust and scale built up inside. They don’t look so great on the outside, either.

The little bit of debris I generated fit easily into the plastic trashcan I inherited from the previous tenants. A good deal of the house is going into the trash, to be carted away a little at a time. I have even considered replacing ALL of the wood flooring on the first level, since it is not in great shape—showing scars and stains and wear from the many years of people treading upon it, dancing, throwing things down in anger. The floor has gotten the worst of it. But I have seen floors in homes much older that have been brought back to life by skilled refinishers. It would probably be easier to spend the time on refinishing the existing floors, rather than starting anew. I’ll have plenty of time to ponder this. Tomorrow is the last day of antibiotics for my bacterial affliction; I’ve taken it easy for the most part, tried not to push things, and feel that I am healing well. The warm weather has plagued me by its ill-timing. Had I not been sick, I would have made much progress on the porch, probably finished most of it in the comfortable outdoors of January in Maryland. At least that’s what I tell myself.