I am man, hear me saw
The Globe And Mail
Friday, July 21, 2006
Sometimes a man needs to build something.
It doesn't really matter what he builds, as long as it's big, and as long as he gets to use at least five power tools while building it. If he doesn't own those five power tools and has to buy them new, all the better.
In fact, so strong is the urge to lay hammer to nail, that, for accuracy's sake, the very definition of "man" should be: an adult male human, occasionally builds stuff.
Men today don't often get to build things as part of their jobs. Instead, we sit on cushioned swivel chairs and peck at keyboards. We slurp bad office coffee and talk about mutual funds.
Occasionally, if we're lucky, we attend a meeting and receive a list of prioritized action items for ameliorating workplace productivity.
Late last summer, a compulsion for construction overcame me. Armed with a flyer from the local building supply store -- All lumber 10 per cent off! -- I approached my wife, Mandy.
"Honey, I'm building a deck," I announced.
She peered over her magazine. "You're whatting a what?"
"I'm building a deck," I replied. "You know, a deck; flat thing, made of wood."
I'd been wanting to build a deck for some time, but I figured Mandy would object because, truth is, we didn't need one. Anything we could do on a deck, we could do on the lawn.
And it's not as though chicken thighs and pork chops taste better when barbecued a foot-and-a-half off the ground.
But it wasn't about having a deck, it was about building one. I needed to reconnect with my inner man. I needed to hammer some nails, tighten some bolts. I needed to use a mitre saw, a reciprocating saw, a circular saw, a table saw, something with teeth that could cut wood; a beaver, I didn't care.
But first, I needed to get Mandy on board. Fortunately, at the mention of a sale, rational thought has a tendency to evaporate.
I showed her the flyer.
"Ten per cent off, huh?" she said. "Well, I guess a deck might be nice."
I could almost smell the sawdust.
I sat at the kitchen table and made a rough sketch. I took some measurements in the backyard, came back inside, and tweaked my design.
After two more hours and very little progress, I drove to the hardware store to look for a book on how to build a deck. I found one called How to Build a Deck .
I bought it.
Later that evening, the design finished, checked and rechecked, I called the building supply store and placed an order. Soon, a small mountain of lumber lay on my driveway.
Then the fun began.
Over the next two weeks, I spent every spare minute working on the deck, and, as I had hoped, I got to use almost every tool I owned: a pickaxe and a shovel to dig holes for posts, a reciprocating saw to crop the posts, a mitre saw to cut the joists to size, a circular saw to trim the deck boards, an electric drill to screw the deck boards to the joists.
Then there were the smaller tools: a hammer, ratchets, screwdrivers, a plumb bob, a level -- the list goes on and on.
The day after I finished it, Mandy and I sat on the deck in the chairs we'd just bought, lemonade in hand. We looked out over the backyard. We sipped our drinks. I shook my glass and watched the ice cubes bounce off each other.
Mandy watched a leaf blow across the lawn.
I pointed out a cloud that looked like a turtle. Mandy pointed out a cloud that looked like broccoli. I looked at my watch: we'd been outside for 15 minutes.
"I think one of those singing contest shows is on channel 7," I said.
"Let's go," she replied without hesitation.
As I stepped into the kitchen and closed the patio door behind me, I looked out at the deck. I glanced down at my left thumb, the victim of a wayward hammer, and grimaced at the sight of it.
The muscles in my arms, unaccustomed to actual exertion, ached from shoulder to wrist. But I had enjoyed every minute I'd spent putting that deck together, and if the cost was a purple thumbnail and a few sore muscles, so be it.
It's a lovely piece of work, I thought, turning toward the living room, perhaps we'll use it again some time.
