Elephants dancing at my wake

May…

The worn deck boards are splintered and rotting in places—too far gone to bother with the semi-annual coat of stain. Parts of the deck are twenty years old, parts even older— evolved over the past forty-six years from a small entrance landing to a sprawling, wrap-around deck.

The various chunks maintain their separate identity—front, side, back—both in my mind and in their obviously varying construction techniques. If you don’t look too closely, the result is graceful. A bit big, but as a friend said after we added the newest piece years ago, “You really can’t have too much deck.” 

I wonder, though, as I haul the outdoor furniture from the shed in the spring and place it in small groupings. There are just two of us now to choose from the variety of seating options. It’s the deck of a cruise ship with two passengers.

“Shall we have our wine under the umbrella on the side, or in the shade at the back?”

Oh, let’s sit in the front, under the trees. The French lilac smells wonderful right now.”

The lilac tree is one of two we planted near the deck—the other a little-leaf linden. Both have thrived, and as always, we failed to take proper account of how big trees grow to be. These must now be viciously pruned annually lest they attack anyone approaching the door. They drop petals, seeds, and leaves onto the deck surface according to the season, where the get stuck in the small gaps between the deck boards, adding to the general sense of decay. There’s a three-week span in late July when nothing is falling from them except bird shit. 

The wood-framed flower gardens abutting the deck are collapsing, too, their rotting upper boards leaning outward or collapsing inward. 

I want to replace the whole thing. From the ground up. But I am old. I may not live here long enough to justify that. 

July…

Several contractors come to take a look while Jack shakes his head. I know what I want. He has an idea of what it will cost. 

“It’s not like we don’t buy green bananas,” I say. “It will add to the value of the house. For the kids.”

He’s not so sure. 

“It’s not that bad,” he says. “We can patch it up.”

But in the end, he agrees, perhaps because he realizes that, both statistically and realistically, I am more likely to live here alone. If I want a re-furbished cruise ship deck, I’ll have it.

The prices are higher than I thought, but I’ve stood my ground and am about to commit to a local contractor who has an artist’s approach to deck-building. But then our son, Robin, makes an offer we can’t refuse. He will build the deck, however we want it. No-no, he says when we point out he’s already overcommitted. He really wants to do it. We’ll only have to pay for materials, he says. But we all know he will be paid for his time. 

August…

We go away for a few days, and when we return the old deck is gone. The house is naked, as it was when we first saw it forty-seven years ago. I picture the old grey steps, the rickety laundry stoop, the outhouse along the back wall for the plumbing emergencies that once plagued us. 

September…

Robin has finishing the framing. The footprint will be unchanged—still huge and with an underlying structure is solid as a rock. No more warping and heaving.

Overkill, I think. This deck will not bend under a convention of elephants.

“It’ll last forever,” he says. 

“But we won’t,” I say, thinking of elephants dancing at my wake.

“I’m doing it for the house,” he replies.

I understand.

The new deck is a bit higher, to avoid some of the structural glitches that plagued the old one. It looks almost done, but I’m being cautioned that stairs, railings, and last-minute finishing will still take awhile….and, of course, it’s time for September rains.

• 

If you enjoy reading these blog posts, why not share with your friends?

And if you’d like to see a slide show from our farming years, click here and scroll down