Cleanliness IS Godliness

Looking carefully at the cause and effect of jobs that don’t end well, the bitter taste of a very large percentage of them begins with the dust left behind on a poorly cleaned site. The failure to pay attention to the simple letter of the contract that spells out “broom clean” can have complicated (read “negative”) results.


A carpenter must always keep in mind that he has been invited into a home. Even in the messiest junk-filled place, no judgment should ever be made that it does not matter how much is cleaned up at the end of the day. Such a lapse of care can cost deeply.

Thoroughly disrupted by a renovation, the unsuspecting client is worn down by the details. When discovering muddy footprints at the other end of the house, the previous level of tolerance in the most patient client may suddenly collapse. The danger becomes that now impatient, they begin to look more closely and pick apart the actual work.

Once headed down that unsanded handrail, the dollars fall out of the final check at a far faster rate than hours on the punchlist. Once the trust has been squandered, it takes incredible commitment and grace to win it back.

Simple Rules:

No matter how convenient, don’t use their antique furniture for tools and coffee.

No matter how ugly the paintings, remove all from the walls because the one that surely will drop from so much pounding on the other side will be the one done by their great uncle once removed, worth more emotionally than your favorite tool.

No matter how grungy the furniture, cover it all if in doubt. Now there are packages of 9x12 rolls of 1 myl poly to make it so easy. When it comes 100% biodegradable, leave the package showing and really win points.




No matter how scratched or speckled the floor, use a drop cloth. Leave a trail of 4x15 cloths all the way to the side door, even right out to your truck if you have enough.

No matter how much dog poop is in the yard, pick up every nail (use a rolling magnet over and over) just in case the client walks bare-footed.

No matter how much the clients insist it really doesn’t matter, this is the one time it is appropriate to ignore them.

I’ve found lugging the big heavy air filter from job to job has paid off immeasurably. It only begins to collect all the fine dust, but cleans enough to win the “A” for effort. With the invention of “3rd Hands”, a spring-loaded pole with cushioned ends to avoid scars on the floor and ceiling, it is a snap to isolate the construction from the rest of the house.

And with a crew of young, brawny guys who don’t know any better, stop a moment in the routine to wipe down the toilet and quick mop the bathroom floor. On some jobs, the price of a portalet is far less than a thousand apologies.

All of this cleanliness comes with a price tag, of course, but don’t be afraid to pass at least some of it on. In the second presentation, the one that really separates the competition, explain the few (or 2000) extra dollars as a selling point, spin the dirt as one more reason the client will be happy when all is done.

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Views From Above & Below

From high on a scaffold, sweaty and loaded with tools, it is easy to look down with envy on the boss rolling onsite in his clean pickup and dress slacks. He carries his clipboard and a set of plans, points his fingers a lot and makes a few calls on his cell phone. He is full of encouragement, and sometimes disapproval, and perhaps a suggestion about bracing that really makes no sense at all. Soon he is off again, not to be seen until Friday afternoon. Up that high, it looks pretty easy to own your own business.

For me, the decisive moment struck at a quiet intersection waiting for a school bus to unload. I had no kids on the bus, not even kids of my own that age. The sun burned the Vermont leaves golden on that Friday afternoon. Winter was fast approaching. I saw those kids skip and dance toward their homes, and suddenly I was sure it was right to let my business go.

That sun was going down too fast. The bank deposit needed to be made within the hour, and I still had to get my check from the client not answering his phone. The crew had learned long ago to meet me at the parking lot so they could turn their checks to cash for their weeks’ hard work. If those kids didn’t move faster, I might not be able to make all the pieces come together.

I had contracts lined up for the coming winter, but 30 years experience had taught me they could easily melt to nothing. With 2 or 3 crews of guys living hand-to-mouth, the Holidays for me were less about time with my own family and more about surviving the cost of paid days off, year-end bonuses, and a party to celebrate all the good work accomplished in the past year. Workers comp was going up, good labor going down. I was often awake in the middle of the night, or sitting at such an intersection, with my heart beating too fast and my head spinning with too many questions and not enough answers.


After countless conversations in lumber store parking lots, I know there are some, but not very many, who are able to run a construction company as well and profitably as the professional magazines imply. With focused attention, a healthy bank account, a truckload of determination mixed with humility, and a commitment to leave the client’s home “broom clean” each and every day, one can be successful.

But for most of us who jump off that scaffold and go to work for ourselves, we learn the business is as full of minefields as opportunities. Like fingers in the dike, we’re meeting the next client while the last witnesses the crew sneaking away an hour early, the lumber company gets the check this week while the IRS (I know all resources stress not to do it) gets postponed until next. The snowball gets rolling and it becomes all too easy to be crushed under the weight.

As I moved past that school bus on that late Friday afternoon, my own heart settled into a rhythm that brought happiness and health back into perspective. By the next spring, I was still holding a clipboard, but my shirt bore the logo of someone else’s name. I could play cards or watch a movie with my own kids at night. And tho I still have to figure out how to pay some back, I’ve begun to get some sleep.

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A Good Carpenter is Hard to Find

This month, this year the news is full of interest rates compared to housing starts, and how the construction business is in a slump. What few people are talking about is the rising age of the average carpenter and its effects.

The health of the housing industry is clearly documented as a marker for the economy as a whole. A warning sign of trouble, new home sales are also seen as the light at the end of a recession. Few dispute the importance.

Therefore, like global warming a few years ago, a shortage of skilled people to build and repair our homes looms to plague and confound expert predictions, and threatens to influence our economy in frightening ways.

As an employer, I’ve witnessed this for many years in my own microclimate. The qualified, responsible, productive and reliable applicants are usually weather beaten, comfortable in worn clothes, perhaps missing the tip of a finger. Now it is easy to think maturity and family responsibilities bring out the best, but 30 years ago I was competing and working with many young guys who believed themselves to be working towards a career as builders and craftsmen.

The business has always been transient, so perhaps you didn’t always see the same young guys on a given crew for very long, but there were plenty of eager strong muscles around. As a way for ski bums to earn their next winter or to pick up dollars for a few months in a new town, construction has served the youthful well.

Now, however, in this age of computer riches within easy clicks, wearing a nailbelt is not so fashionable. I see guys try it, but many do not last long. It is dirty, uses untested muscles. In the winter it’s cold, and the summer too sweaty. Too exhausted to go out and party, many don’t appreciate the good night’s sleep.

The effect of this shortage can be devastating. With contracts to perform and a shortage of labor, I’ve put men in charge who inadvertently committed costly mistakes. In demand, the experienced guys require higher wages and the cost of a house rockets higher than a barrel of oil. Clients are bewildered that no one returns their calls, not understanding how busy the good ones are.

Like learning to build green and turn off our pick-ups at the lumber company loading dock, we need to attract a younger generation to an honorable profession. Vocational tech schools, builders’ associations, and journals all help. Perhaps more blogs--invitations in their medium and language—can help.

Bottom line requires that we all help each other to raise the bar and attract new blood. This needs to be a business where hard work has its reward and one doesn’t make the kinds of mistakes as I have made, that hurt clients and subs and himself alike, leaving an otherwise honest, motivated and qualified builder wanting to quit.

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Roof

These chapters are best viewed in order:

Design

Foundation

First Story

Second Story

Second Story Addition

Roof




This new world of technology is so full of uncharted territories. The click of a button opens the world so immediately—and so irreversibly—to portions of a web better left ignored. In my enthusiasm to announce my nascent blogging efforts, I indulged in sending an EMAIL which strikes too closely to my own form of SPAM.

But larger than the issue of sharing private addresses in too public a way is the response it invited from someone representative of many I have hurt in this business. This issue is forefront in most moments of my every day and seriously affects the comfort of my immediate family. I am not shirking from responsibility for causing financial pain as a businessman, but it was something I was planning to address in “Chapter 2” of my blog.

In no way do I intend to represent myself as an expert in all corners of remodeling. In fact, this blog is a direct result of shutting down my own business, having been clearly unable to balance a masterbuilt product with a satisfied client, a profitable business, and a sustainable lifestyle.

If anything, my purpose is to caution any and all other eager carpenters from leaping into a similar venture with only a truck full of tools, confidence, and the best of intentions. From the other side, I’d like to help prospective clients to understand that a remodel is much more complicated than simply tearing a kitchen apart and putting it back together again.

Any expertise I prefess to put before the reader concerns the knowledge that no matter how thorough the plans and quality of experience at the start, the actual execution of the project is what really matters. While risks can be minimized, no one is immune from the problems. A carpenter with no formal training can, with a single-contract, become a multi-million dollar business. Conversely, an established company may hire a crew chief who fails to reveal he (or she) is an alcoholic going through divorce, and places a foundation wrong, bringing down the whole house.

Shelter is one of the original three needs. In the big picture, we’re all just trying to keep a roof over our heads. Some of us can help the process. Others definitely cause harm and expensive penalties. For most, we fall in that nebulous middle ground: a swampy, tenuous, slippery place where we attempt to maintain a foothold the best we can, and keep each other company along the way.

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Second Story Addition: Fire on the Mountain

These chapters are best viewed in order:

Design

Foundation

First Story

Second Story

Second Story Addition

Roof




The flames could be seen from anywhere in the Valley, giant rolling, towering columns dancing in the dawn light. Racing around the side of the mountain to get there by truck, I could see them almost all the way, all the time trying to make them arise from another spot, an empty place.

But there was nothing else it could be.

On February 4, 1978, Tom and Lane's house burned and life became marked as "before the fire" or "after". The linseed rags smoldered in the dark empty entry all through the wet night, only taking hold and turning to flame to waken us to the horror at dawn. Leaping from the truck, I could hear the sirens so far away beginning the long climb up the mountain. At the window I'd just built so carefully, I strained to see inside, but all was black and amazingly still and silent compared to the roar around me (little did I know how close my escape from death just then, how stupid to be so close to the inferno hidden by soot on the hot, ready-to-explode glass).

Desperate to make a difference, I grabbed the hose and tried to spray the back wall, but it only was a drip, drip of useless drops (of course, the lines were broken inside). I threw the hose on the fire and with a shovel beat out sparks falling in the grass all around me.

In truth, it was all useless, way beyond my control and ability. What had been so lovingly brought to life was dying before me. Nothing to do but stand out of the way and weep, four of us huddled, comforting each other where no hope could be found. When the windows finally did blow, great balls of fire as big as Volkswagens lept out, and 25 years later talking to me on the phone as she weeds the garden, Lane still found glass.


Finally, the trucks (hundreds of them it seemed--fire trucks followed pick-ups) arrived onto that tiny lot, men pouring out and running everywhere. I saw three from the lumber company, one who had delivered the concrete and helped us so patiently when our forms blew out. Two more had hooked the pipes in our trench to the water system below. They all came to help and soon it was out.

The house (too young to be a home yet) was still standing, but freshly oiled, it was scorched all the way through. We would have to tear it down, and the worst call--telling Tom and Lane the sad news--was still ahead of me.

Roof

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Second Story

Thesechapters are best viewed in order:

Design

Foundation

First Story

Second Story

Second Story Addition

Roof




Spanking fresh out of college with a writer's degree and no idea how to use it, the invitation to help my sister build a house on the Oregon Coast was a perfect distraction. "On the edge of the Earth", Lane and Tom had purchased a chunk of cliffside 400 feet straight up out of the ocean, on the side of a mountain sacred to the Northwest Indians for its spiritual energy.

The Nehalem Valley had three little communities of a few hundred people each, and was otherwise home to eagles, elk, sea lions, and a cove for whales. You can enter on Highway 101 from the north or south, or one bumpy curvy road over the mountains, but regularly after a storm, there is no way in or out.



The lot was cleared and leveled enough to fit a small house, a pile of lumber and a few cars. I set up my tent in the bushes just a little below and off the path that circled the property. We cooked on an open fire in the rocky pit left from an ancient tree. My wages were $25 a week and all the beans I could eat. The view strethed 45 miles down the coastline and forever out to sea.

This was paradise.

An architect building his dream, Tom had designed this sweet little cottage--very green 30 years before the concept became popular. The toilet was considered a composting toilet, but was really a well-vented 50 gallon drum and a hole in the floor, which was later abandoned once kids were around. The "refrigerator" is still working fine: just a cupboard with holes to let the warm air out and the cool air in. The countertop came from a tree on the property. The walls were oiled wood salvaged from other buildings.

Tom was working largely in theory and the carpentry experience of a few summers. I had last worked for Krutsky several years earlier and was very clouded by my studies and dreams in between. But together, and with the passing help of a few friends, we rolled up our sleeves and got to work. Determination was our most valuable tool.

Being our first poured foundation, the forms broke and spilled 2 yards of concrete down the slope. With electricity unavailable until the utility trench--hand dug 300 feet down the mountainside--was fiinished, every board, every piece of plywood was sawn by hand. Utilizing rickety step-ladders and crafty supports, just the two of us were able to raise the massive 18' header that was the keystone, the arch that framed the ocean view.

Each night, tired, we ate our beans, and in the darkness, huddled by the fire, I played guitar in tune with the Ocean's murmurous roar. We formed deep friendships with neighbors who invited us to shelter when it rained too long, hard and miserably. Weekly, we drove the two hours inland to their home in Portland where Tom and Lane had business, and I walked the city streets. And we could shower.

Each step of the way, like a significant moment in a lifetime, was ackowledged and ccelebrated. Reaching the highest point, an evergreen was nailed to the ridge honoring all of the trees that go into the building of a home. The first and last shingles on the walls were important events in completing the shell, especially to us living in tents. Insulation installed meant at last we could move inside, out of the deepening cold of November, to a mat on the floor. Gradually, Tom and Lane moved in their most precious possessions: the persian carpet, Great Granny's jewelry, their 6 favorite records.



When the floors were sanded--a long exhausting week of noise, grit and strain--they finished all the wood surfaces with Linseed oil, threw the rags in the back corner, and went to Portland for the rest of their belongings. Readying to move on to explore opportunities for a writer in San Francisco, I remained behind, staying at one of the neighbor's who needed help on an addition of their own.

Second Story Addition

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First Story

These chapters are best viewed in order:

Design

Foundation

First Story

Second Story

Second Story Addition

Roof


The first morning of summer vacation after 2nd grade began as sunny and bright, and as all vacations should, full of promise and excitement. Then a dump truck lumbered down our little lane, pulling a backhoe, and it got all the better. A truck I recognized followed. Overcome with curiosity, I raced after them and discovered an addition to my school was about to begin.

Every working day of that summer, I was there. Designed (as it turns out) by my father and contracted by the man who had already framed 2 additions to our own home in my short life, this was an adventure. The ease with which that machine broke ground and gobbled dirt into huge piles was marvelous, still a satisfying sight for me on a project today. I signed my name in the fresh concrete and made “mudballs” out of the spillage, piling up an arsenal that my friends dared me to use against other “friends”.

Ed Krutsky was a Pennsylvania traditional Quaker living in a cooperative community. A craftsman by trade, he knew his way around many subjects as revealed in countless coffee-break conversations with my mother over many years. He employed carpenters of similar diversities, likely setting the all-time record for a construction company with college degrees. His three teen sons were there, growing into the business, including Ned who was featured in the book "House" by Tracy Kidder, a great read for anyone involved in a building project.

Also on the crew was an old black man, Harold, who chewed and spat and smelled of liquor, though I didn’t really understand at the time. At minimum wage (then probably $1.25), he defined the expression “grunt labor”, but he was as sweet, gentle and encouraging to me as any man could be. He gave me a shovel and let me fill the trenches beside him, showing me that you stood behind and shoveled forward effortlessly into the hole instead of twisting, turning and dumping, so it could be done in a zenlike way all day long, day after day.

The rest of the crew began to trust me to fetch their tools. Soon, I was carrying the 2x4s and nailing off sheathing. The first fiberglass itch in my throat came that summer as they let me staple, then cut the insulation. By the end, I was painting, measuring and nailing baseboards in the rush to get finished before school reopened in September. It certainly wasn’t the most efficient use of man per hour, but I didn’t slow anyone down, and no one could be cheaper (they used to joke about my paycheck on Friday afternoons, but Ed never wrote me one).

Sometimes my friends came with me, but not joining in, they were soon bored and wanting to move on. They didn’t feel the sweet soul-satisfying whack of driving a nail home. They couldn’t see the progression as concrete led to wood, led to sheetrock, led to finish.

And they certainly could never know the silent fierce pride I felt years after looking from the baseball field at the building I’d helped create out of sticks and sweat.

Second Story

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Foundation

These chapters are best viewed in order:

Design

Foundation

First Story

Second Story

Second Story Addition

Roof



My father was an architect, designing schools, labs and offices. A part of every vacation was looking at buildings along the way. As an adult, I'm still learning that many of those were not actually his, but destinations for us which he viewed like an artist in a museum. Early memory for me is of a bewildered weary group of kids on the sidewalk looking up, looking around, going in, coming out, and back in the car again.

My earliest memory is awakening from my nap to see a giant steam shovel ("Mike Muligan!" my Mom called) approach the house to make mountains of dirt for me to run over.

We had five additions put on this architect's home. It was not unusual to see it featured in Sunday supplements or a part of house tours. On a little lane, cars often slowed down and circled back past the house of glass. At night, they could see right in and, mischeivously, we'd be five little kids dancing wildly.

My father built the original house on evenings and weekends after the War, moving into a small unfinished space with his wife, her grandmother, and their baby. He built the master bedroom after the second child, just before me.




The living room came next with memories not only of the excavator as mentioned, but also of our dog falling into the cellar hole, my first time on a ladder (2 rungs), men with sledge hammers knocking holes in our wall. The "Girls' Wing" was built in 1961 when I was old enough to hold boards for my Dad and learned a mouthful of curses, a carpenter's tool when things still don't fit right after the third cut.


In 1967, after several years successfully designing buildings for a new company with the strange name of "IBM", and a house full of teenagers, he designed a 2 story redwood work of art. Completely separate from the main house with a pool table and fireplace, the Octagon is counted by many at high school reunions to be one of the best memories of the day.

Finally, the pool was added in the back after the kids had mostly moved into their own lives--my first job as a contractor. Painted black to reflect the impression of a pond, rhoddendrons and sculptures dangle over the water, and natural stones of all shapes come right to the edge.



A home divided by plastic walls and still coated with dust is normal to me. Plans on the table, sketches of addtions never built, talk of the next project is completely familiar, invigorates my brain like food in the belly.

I am born and bred a remodeler.

First Story

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Design

These chapters are best viewed in order:

Design

Foundation

First Story

Second Story

Second Story Addition

Roof


The start of a new year always invites an evaluation of the past and future. How well did I do? How far do I want to go? Is anything working? Should I be proud or do I want to shrink away from the challenges that face me?

I fill my time with charts and spreadsheets to get a sense of what happened, and draw a plan to predict what lies ahead. Much depends on my mood, the weather, the contracts in place, and mostly on the rate of rings of the phone. If Projects are in full swing, it's easy to be confident. If, however, each morning of early january has the liesurely taste of coffee and ability to roam on the internet, panic creeps in to eat away any satisfaction of profits. Then is the time to make work.

For 30 years, I have looked forward to a year of building projects. Through recessions and booms, I have managed to always have a plan on the table, a load of lumber on the way, a roofing crew poised, a craftsman measuring the final piece of trim. At an early age, I recognized the danger of tired knees and stooped shoulders, and vowed I would not be carrying plywood at 50. For many years, I was able to contract jobs large enough to require crews and organization enough that my tools became clipboards, cell phones and laptops. Let others do the labor and use my brain, charm and conscience to lead the way. If I just worked hard enough, I could bring the Dream to life.

But the job description can grow from a "guy in a pick-up" to a multi-million dollar business, sometimes as quickly as it takes to stumble upon a client in dirty jeans with deep deep pockets. In my lifetime, the contract has transformed from a handshake to hand-scribbled notes to 14 pages of exclusions witnessed by a lawyer.

Sadly, I am one of the many who has been overwhelmed by the fluctuation, the ebb and flow of an occupation that has more pitfalls than all the types of nails and screws combined. No amount of well-intended and skillful hands can always meet the deadline, stay underbudget and not leave any dust at the end of the day. In fact, it is the carpenter who works slowly, carefully, over measures, keeps his eye on the blade, and sweeps up regularly who manages best to have a client call him back.

There is no magic, no set rule. The truth is that we come in to your house, bang and thump for days, months at a time. No matter how thorough the planning, beams are not where they are supposed to be, and electrical wires show up instead. We tear out your kitchen and spend lots and lots of your hard-earned money as if it were our very own Christmas. We see you in your underwear at dawn and let your traumatized dog in and out, in and out, in and out.

We become part of your family, and you've never hated anyone so much at 2 in the morning when the tarp that is supposed to cover your roof is flapping in the wind.

When the dust settles, almost always things look much much better. Although it was more difficult than expected (easy to blame your builder), the client lives happily ever onward. The builder should be able to pay his bills, and hopefully adds another picture to his portfolio.

But everyone also knows the tales of horror which abound around renovations. Some contracts are better left half-done, and someone always tells of the contractor who took the money and ran. It's a business as unpredictable as the homes being remodeled, and as varied as the carpenters and clients who meet one fine evening and part months later in anger and frustration.

This is a Blog to educate and inform, share productive news and pass warnings of changes on the sites. Plenty of magazines show pictures of the finished job and smiling clients who spent fortunes most of us will never have. I'm interested in sharing with the common folks, the guys on the job and the hard-working owners who stretch themselves to have the renovation they really can't afford. This blog is about the truth. I hope you'll join me on the scaffold.

Foundation

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