Tom Sawyer

“Like it? Well, I don’t see why I oughtn’t to like it. Does a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day?”

The forecast is predicting a week of heat and sunshine, the first true taste of summer. Olga is at the cottage focusing on her yoga work. Books are calling to be read, the garden is beckoning for an audience, cold cans of beer are waiting to be emptied.

I notice, as well, the railings are showing signs of wear, dulled by the stark exposure to the sun, peeling from the onslaught of rain and snow. If the flaking is not addressed, the wood will fall into further disrepair, making the job more difficult.

Choices. Choices.

Damn. I need to paint the rails.

They are not the original when we bought the house more than 30 years ago. Those were replaced in the early nineties with a design Olga found in a housing magazine, the picture saved for the right opportunity when the flat roof needed repair. The new fixture became a signature feature of our home, creatively garnishing a typical suburban design to become a point of interest. “We are several houses south of the corner, the one with the white railings.”

They were rebuilt once, and over the span of its life, painted several times, each occasion looked on with equal foreboding. Two days of scraping, sanding and repairing; two days to apply primer and two coats, three in the most vulnerable areas.

Better get started before I lose this window of favorable weather.

126 feet in length, across the entire front and three quarters the perimeter of the garage. Eight posts with an indented exterior, topped with a cap. Spaced in between are 182 square spindles in total, 2 X 2 pieces held in place with 2 X 4s and a 1 X 3 ledge.

Where do I begin. Start at one end, scour for loose paint. Scrape and gouge and scrape. Bend over rail for the other side. Power up the cordless sander and methodically smooth the lines, rough up the remainder. One hour, one section. Move on to the next.

A handful of spots have started to rot and need repair so I am off to the hardware store for supplies, wood fill and paint. I expect two gallons will do the trick, or at least I would hope at this price. Day one complete. Dirty from the dust, worn out from the sun, I need a shower and that beer.

Odin joins me the next day, after his morning walk, deciding to hang around where there is shade until it becomes unbearable and moves indoors, still within earshot. I don’t have a choice. Patch up those damaged areas, layer the deeper crevices, paint over the bare spots. There are more than I had anticipated, making the decision to tackle the job even more prudent.

The job is mindless, lending itself to plenty of time for meandering thoughts. I remember a year when Olga and I hosted a Tom Sawyer rail painting party. Work friends were invited with the promise of unlimited supplies of beer and pizza, just bring along your own brush. I had completed the prep work in the evenings prior to the Saturday. T and P completed the ground level portion; D and J brought along their daughter and son-in-law who did a masterful job on the garage door; M and B climbed up and down the ladders and worked faster, not necessarily better, with every bottle and slice consumed. We had a lot of fun and laughs that day.

Day Three and the temperature has risen again, the sun relentless. The back of my neck burned, exposed from all the bending over yesterday. The paint needs constant stirring to avoid coagulation. Tedious repetition, up and down one side, inside and out, upside and underneath. Catch a drip, then onto to the next in the exact same pattern to ensure each side and corner and edge receives the necessary coverage.

The high school kids are walking back from McDonalds, in packs, loud and boisterous. None of them appear to take notice, at least when I stop to watch them momentarily. A couple with their dog stopped earlier to engage in some small talk, commenting on the beautiful work and the lovely garden and what a fine day. Our neighbour simply said hello after pulling into his driveway, before putting his head down and darting directly to his door. I was thinking about inviting him to help. Need to open another can. I am increasingly tired, the pauses are more frequent, longer with each stop. The job is almost complete.

Just the morning to finish up the project on Day Four. Paint cleanup, equipment back in storage. Stand back and admire the work. From the street, the rails glimmer again, putting a smile back on the house.

Like cutting the grass, or weeding the garden, or staining the chairs, I feel a sense of accomplishment, a source of pride in saying, “Yup, I did that. Doesn’t she look great”. I recall many an evening coming home from work, thinking, what the hell did I do today, what was achieved by writing those emails, answering those phone calls, reading those documents, chairing those meetings. I know exactly what occupied my time this past week although I must admit feeling more my age each time.

Tomorrow the lawn needs attention and then it is up to the cottage where the driveway needs weeding, the deck needs power washing and the dock needs fixing.

Three years into retirement and I am still figuring out this work-life balance.

Catch the mist, catch the myth
Catch the mystery, catch the drift

The world is the world is
Love and life are deep
Maybe as his skies are wide