House – Page 20 – Ephemerality

September 28, 2017

Standards

I really like my indoor grow light basement setup. With the average first frost in the region to be around 10/19, I’ve been revisiting the setup and considering what I’m going to be keeping inside overwinter. And as I pondered the setup, I thought about how much easier things would be if I had a hose connected down there. And as it just so happens, it’s only about 10 feet away from the main water line.

This portion of the basement is where the laundry machines are hooked up, as well as a utility sink. The lines split off from here, feeding two external spigots, and there’s the whole house filter, the water heater, and the general myriad of lines for sinks and bathrooms. To me, the mess of copper looks like the depths of some steampunk facility.

In the chaos, the main water line passes through two spigots. The spigots are closed, with a central spigot which bypasses them–open. It looks like a setup for a water softener. I don’t know if one was ever installed, because the water here doesn’t need conditioning, but maybe it once did. Who knows? Regardless their intended purpose, it gave me an idea–could I just simply connect a hose to one of those spigots?

As it turns out, no. The threads were much too wide for a standard garden hose. But surely there’s an adapter, right?

Armed with this logic, I was off to Lowe’s to look at copper fittings. I quickly discovered that the maximum copper fitting size was 1 inch. Recalling how wide the spigot was, I gambled and bought a 1 inch to 3/4 inch reducer. I hurried home to see the fruition of my project, but soon determined that 1 inch was too small. Curious, why would they not make a copper fitting big enough to fit a copper spigot?

So I went to Home Depot instead. But I ran into the same problem here. None of the connectors were big enough. Staring blankly at the wall of copper, a store employee took pity on me and offered to help. I explained my plight, and he informed me that they don’t carry anything in copper bigger than one inch, but he could get me the needed size connectors in PVC.

I really wanted copper, but this project wasn’t for any high-impact application, so as long as it would work at all, I could live with PVC. So, with two PVC adapters and a brass threaded hose connector, I headed back home. I then attempted to attach the PVC to the spigot, and…it was too big. What the hell? I went up one standard size from one inch: 1-1/4. Why wouldn’t that fit? And it was only slightly too big, like 1/16 of an inch. Was this spigot metric?

I stewed over this dilemma, and concluded that I would experiment. So I wrapped the threads in a bunch of Teflon tape to fill the gap, cranked the PVC down, and filled the resultant void (due to the depth of the PVC threads) with a waterproofing adhesive. I let it cure for 24 hours. Maybe that would be sufficient.

It wasn’t. Even though I didn’t turn the water on very high, it was still the main water line, and the pressure was too great. The joint failed with a pop and I had to scurry over and shut the spigot. Curses.

Okay, experiment 2. I removed all the adhesive and Teflon. This time, I was armed with self-fusing silicone tape–something designed to seal high-pressure pipes (which I bought on a whim while I was returning the first batch of connectors). I wrapped the spigot threads with enough tape that it became an effort to crank down the PVC connector. This stuff was supposed to adhere to any surface and be completely waterproof. I let it sit for a bit, but it didn’t have any cure time so that hardly seemed to matter. This time, I decided to test it without any sealant, since the sealant itself wouldn’t hold the pressure anyway. I turned the water on, higher than I had turned it on with my last attempts.

And…it held. Huh, maybe this silicone tape is magic after all. I let the hose stay pressurized for a time, then shut it off and de-pressurized the line. I refilled the gap with sealant, figuring it might still help by adding support. And so far, it’s working as I had hoped. I’m uncertain of this solution’s permanence, and somewhat unhappy with the inelegant and hacked solution, but time will tell. And if it doesn’t hold up, then I’ll simply splice into the wash machine line instead. I know I can get proper connectors for that at least.

Still, the irritation lingered, and I searched for an explanation. Curiously, pipe fittings are not nearly as standard as I had thought, and the actual measurements are approximations which have changed over time. So whenever this spigot was installed, for whatever connection it was intended, is no longer a current standard. Sheesh. Maybe one day I’ll try soldering in a nice ball valve threaded for a garden hose, but for now, I don’t want to risk compromising the main water line and having to call in a professional.

Why the hell aren’t pipes all standard sizes? Another homeowner lesson.

–Simon

September 26, 2017

Art (Part 2)

I thought some bladed weaponry would look good above the mantle. Dad thought some full-size babe pinups would fit the space perfectly. But ultimately, I somehow ended up with sunflowers. I suppose pictures of the reproductive parts of plants is sort of like pictures of babes…roll that disturbing thought through your brain a bit.

Admittedly, I like sunflowers. I wish I had grown some this year. And I had been living in fear that the mantle would eventually be adorned with paintings of cabins in the woods, so I can live with sunflowers.

But it’s a lengthy stretch–99 inches to be exact, and Liz had acquired 4 individual pictures. This would create a ratio that would show every slight deviation in alignment, so they had to be mounted with exacting perfection. Fortunately, OCD can be leveraged to accomplish such perfection, so out came my tool kit and the drafting equipment (paper and pencil).

Okay…99 divided into 4 equal partitions would be 24 3/4 inches, so if I measure the exact middle, 49 1/2 inches, and the height is 40 3/4 inches, then the middle is…

…Also consider the width and height of the frames, and the locations of the mounting brackets, and the distance between…

I ended up with this nightmarish blueprint:

The kid drew the flowers in, I guess to complete the facsimile

At least the frames were light so I didn’t have to worry about mounts or studs. Studs are never where they’re needed, and mounts always seem to have a 50/50 chance of ripping the drywall out.

One more wall decorated.

–Simon

September 19, 2017

Slash and Burn

One should always strive to maintain a tentative peace with the neighbors, but as I’ve complained about before, I really dislike how a certain hippie neighbor (The Landscaper) pays no regard to his feral children running through my yard. Still, it’s a minor concern, so I let it go.

The Landscaper is a landscaper, so he told me. I don’t know when he landscapes, because I never see him leave his house, and his yard is maintained by said feral children. There are indications of professional landscaping, like the ornamental grass and the lilly of the valley patch, and his battle with BP that ultimately concluded in him getting to keep his oak trees, but that’s about it.

On one occasion, I spoke with him as he was outside spraying the property line with what I can only assume was Agent Orange. There’s even a patch where he had a 10-foot wide swath of barren and poisoned wasteland, because I guess he got overzealous–but it was all on his side so I couldn’t really complain. He dug a large hole there, which I had hoped was for a screening bush, but that was seasons ago and the hole still sits there, so I’ve taken to using it as a waste bin for everything his kids leave in my yard (footballs, golf balls, empty beer cans, etc.) At the time of his war on weeds, he had offered to spray my side, before BP defoliated the area themselves, but I had politely declined.

On another occasion, I saw him up in one of his oak trees with a chainsaw. A storm had broken a branch and it was dangling precariously, and he was dutifully addressing the hazard by cutting it down…3 weeks later. He had successfully sawed through the branch, but rather than dismount from the arboreal giant and then pull the branch away, he was attempting to throw the branch away from the tree while he was in it, but the branch was long and he couldn’t accomplish the task because he lacked the leverage. Rather than witness The Landscaper’s untimely demise at the limbs of a tree he fought so hard to keep, I helped him remove the branch, which he then ultimately threw into my yard–ironic, as I’ll explain, since I then cut it up and burned it.

I’ve split all the wood from my own oak trees that physics would allow, yet I’m left with a pile of tree branch joints. I can’t split these, because any way I strike them, the axe blade starts to go against the grain. So I’ve taken these chunks and sequentially thrown them into the fire pit, where they gradually burn away over the course of multiple fires.

One weekend day, as I was engaged in my general assortment of outdoor gardening/landscaping chores, I had such a fire going. Then, from The Landscaper’s house, I heard the screeching of a harpy:

“Put that fucking fire out!”

It gave me pause, not simply due to the rude nature of the comment under any circumstances, but also because I wasn’t certain if it was The Landscaper’s wife, or one of his kids. Either option would be a tad appalling, but I concluded it was one of the kids, because what adult would really speak in such a manner, unprovoked, to a neighbor?

Ultimately, I shrugged it off. I’m fairly accustomed to rudeness, having spent about 13 years in the service industry, besides which–I don’t answer to other people’s children, or anyone shouting from the window. I continued my practice of frequent fires, perhaps more frequent than before, for after all, I’m a suburbanite, and I default to passive-aggressive retaliation, because that’s what keeps me out of prison.

…besides which, I had checked the city’s ordinance on “recreational fires”, and mine always adhered to the requirements. So were I a total dick, I could light them as much as I wanted.

Then, recently, as I was ripping out my dead pumpkin vines and throwing them into my yard waste pile by the fire and chopped wood, I saw The Landscaper. He was approaching me, rather deliberately I might add, and without any indication from me that it was okay, crossed the property line (I now see where his kids get that from). His gait was more purposeful than I had witnessed previously (as on the rare occasions in which I do see him, he stumbles around slowly), which concerned me, but he’s an emaciated hippie, and I was holding a garden hoe at the time, so I suppose I could have just whacked him across the head were things to escalate.

But violence did not ensue. He announced his concerns: “Your fire…I have a problem with the fires.”

I waited, patiently, for further explanation. His initial statement had been blunt, and a tad rude, so perhaps he was revising his next words. I watched as the two neurons in his skull synapsed and he elaborated: “The smoke blows in our windows and it stinks the place up. I get having the occasional bonfire, but a fire for the right reasons, and not with anything wet.”

I considered. A bonfire would be against ordinance. And I wasn’t burning anything wet–maybe he thought I was burning the pumpkin vines. And what exactly were the “right reasons”? But rather than instigate an argument, I replied with the appropriate amount of fabricated concern to end the conversation as quickly as possible without appearing dismissive: “Oh, I wasn’t aware it was bothering anyone. I’ll be more mindful of that in the future.” I glanced past him at the smoldering stump, which was currently only emitting the tiniest wisp of smoke.

But The Landscaper continued: “Because it’s blowing into the house and it stinks the place up. It’s the wet stuff.”

I reiterated: “Okay The Landscaper, I wasn’t aware it was causing anyone problems. I’ll be more careful about that from now on.” Maybe he didn’t hear me.

“Because it’s blowing in the windows and it stinks. So…if you could just…not the wet stuff…” His train of thought had apparently exhausted itself, and he turned and left. I resumed weeding, having instantly pushed the conversation from thought.

But The Landscaper turned around as he approached the property line, and returned. “I dunno if we’ve met before, I’m The Landscaper. What’s your name?”

I paused for a moment. Not only had we met at least 3 times prior, but I had used his name in this current conversation. That, and introductions are usually given at the beginning of a conversation. “Simon,” I said.

“Nice to meet you neighbor. I’m not trying to be a bad neighbor, you know, it’s just that the smoke comes in the windows and sticks up the place, so if you could not burn the wet stuff, and, you know, I understand the occasional bonfire for the right reasons…that’s a nice garden you have…” This went on for several minutes, but eventually The Landscaper left. I resumed weeding, this time musing on what those “right reasons” might be.

A few minutes later, The Landscaper returned with something in his hand. “Hey, I want you to have this. I have a tree that grows these.” He held out a paw paw. I had picked them in the woods before, sometimes when hunting. The gesture amused me, but I thanked him for it.

“Ah, a paw paw. These grow around here don’t they?”

“Yeah, we have a tree. They’re pretty good.”

“Thanks, The Landscaper.”

“Yeah, it’s just that the smoke blows in the windows, and…” He reiterated another version of the above monologue, apparently using the fruit as a peace offering and excuse to express his concerns yet again on the smoke, the wet stuff, and “the right reasons”, but eventually The Landscaper left.

I recounted the story to Liz, and we revisited the plans to create some type of impassible barrier against that property line. Next year’s project–a survey and raised gardens. Hopefully raised beds will avoid the Agent Orange, and serve to further minimize unwanted conversation with a particular neighbor.

–Simon

September 9, 2017

Let There be Light

The house has a street light, or it did anyway. It survived the winter, but shortly thereafter rusted out and ceased to function. The glass panes had at one point been replaced with ugly plastic cutouts. The cutouts were never sealed into place, and I was constantly putting them back after the wind would dislodge them. This no doubt expedited the light’s end, since water was allowed to invade its innards.

I had often wondered why the plastic panes were there to begin with. I found out during the course of my project when the village elder came over to see what I was doing. He explained that the panes’ replacement coincided with the delinquent neighbor’s kid’s acquisition of a BB gun. Lovely.

Regardless, the lamp was in the plans for replacement, as even when it did function, it was still an ugly steel pole whose base had unevenly sunk, causing the setup to lean irritatingly towards the driveway. It looked pretty bad–bad enough that apparently I never got a good photo.

And so, armed with shovel and a brief moment of motivation, Liz went out to wage war on the derelict illuminating apparatus. Then she hit a tree root, got tired, then became disheartened after discovering the lamp was cemented a couple feet down. It wasn’t good cement, either. It crumbled upon being struck with the shovel. So then we had not just an ugly and non-functioning lamp, but now an ugly and non-functioning lamp and a hole. Liz abandoned the project, which was no doubt her plan all along, leaving me to tackle it on my own. She also rolled her ankle and collapsed in the yard–something which may have sapped her motivation.

Axe, mattock, shovel, and determination eventually yielded a complete hole around the lamp, but the pole went deep, there was a lot of concrete, and I was wary of severing the electrical line. Then I examined the pole where it currently protruded from the mass of masonry. It was really rusted. I pushed on it and it leaned further. Then I put my full weight against in and down it went, snapping off at the bottom and preserving the electrical wire–a fortuitous shortcut.

It was at this point that I recounted a discussion we had prior to digging–was the power off? I recall her saying that it was, but she insisted that she said she didn’t know. It’s obvious I should have clarified, or at least have gone to check myself, for when I began to wrench the pole free, an exposed and very much energized wire contacted the steel frame. Now, I had had the good sense to don leather gloves first, which insulated me, but the resultant shower of sparks out the top and into my face was nonetheless disconcerting. This is when I dropped the pole in a reflexive panic of self-preservation and we had a revisit of the aforementioned conversation. I then turned off the power, removed the pole, tested the line with a volt meter, and capped the exposed wire.

Then it was off to Lowe’s! Alas, it was apparently a popular year for street light replacements, as they were completely sold out of the one we wanted. So it was off instead to Home Depot, who did have a light we liked.

Back home, I pondered the instructions. I was pleased to see that I would not be required to drill down 3 feet. Instead, the light came with a simple mount for installing into existing concrete. Luckily, we had many bags of quickcrete–leftovers from the fencing install. I poured a new base, effectively raising it to the desired height. Then I leveled it, and waited overnight (it called for a 4-hour setting time).

The next day, I checked the wire. This would all be for nothing if the line had gotten damaged. Fortunately, it was still good. And so, I assembled the light. I had to assemble it completely so I knew how to orient the base. It was slightly off, but that was a minor irritation. I drilled the mount holes according to the instructions and set the bolts. Then I attached the pole. The lamp is top-heavy, and that made me nervous, considering there’s only 3 bolts, using a friction-anchor system, each 3 inches deep. But I suppose I’ll trust to the light’s engineering. The top wobbles, but the base is sound.

I also assured Liz that I wouldn’t use white bulbs. I used 3, 100-watt equivalent 2700K LED bulbs.

It does glow nicely, emulating a vintage street lamp. And my fears were put at ease when that night a front moved through and hammered the fixture with strong wind and rain. Hopefully it’ll last for years to come.

–Simon

July 2, 2017