Carpenter to General Contractor
I woke up in a dimly lit room, stretched out on someone's sofa, wrapped in a sheet. Roy was asleep on the floor. We must be at Josh's house. Josh was a night-shift worker who had covered all his windows with thick drapery to darken his home for daytime sleeping. If I had done that when I worked nights as a phlebotomist, I probably would have gotten better rest; one of my hospital colleagues swore by masking her windows with tinfoil.
Josh's living room was as quiet as it was dark. No one stirred, except me. I was awake and energetic, thinking about the next steps toward striking out on my own and starting my own general contracting business. Since I returned to Virginia, after my Texas Road Trip, with a plan to take carpentry to the next level, I had meticulously studied architectural drafting using two books I checked out from the Fairfax County Library, along with various publications I researched on local and national building codes. This knowledge, combined with nearly ten years of hands-on construction experience, building structures from blueprints created by architects and engineers, taught me what I needed to launch my own construction company. But general contracting isn't just carpentry; jobs typically encompass multiple trades. A builder requires a thorough understanding of each occupation to plan tasks and bid on jobs effectively. Fortunately, I knew a few professionals I could consult or hire for the vocations in which I was not so adept: Roy for painting, Robert for concrete work, and Aaron for tasks requiring heavy equipment.
All things considered, I was ready to make the move. I even had my first customer, Mrs. Miller, who had named her newborn son after me (not really, but that's the story I tell). Nothing was holding me back but my own apprehensiveness.
"Are you awake?" Roy grunted.
"Yeah, just lying here contemplating the meaning of life."
"Well, I hope that includes breakfast!"
"Yes!" I said, sitting upright with vigor. "No doubt you have a good restaurant in mind?"
"You know I do, Matt," Roy grinned. "Josh is working tonight and won't be up for hours. Let's get dressed, grab a bite, and head back to Virginia."
"Yeah, let's get back," I said. "I have work to do."
That evening, Bob called and asked me to report to the Ford project and clean mildew from the baseboards in the basement of the new addition we had finished months prior.
"Baseboards, Bob? What about the Hubbard job? I could be helping out with framing. Anyone can clean baseboards."
"I already have a crew working on that. You don't need to worry about it."
"I'm not worried, Bob, I just thought it might be a better use of resources."
"Meet me at the office tomorrow morning, and I'll get you the supplies you need."
"Okay, Bob, see you tomorrow."
The parking lot was empty when I arrived. A moment later, Tracey's car appeared from around the corner.
"Hey, Tracey, can I walk you up?"
"Sure, uh, aren't you working on the Hubbard project with everyone else today?"
"Nope. Bob wants me to clean baseboards in the Fords' basement."
"What?!"
"Yeah, I think he wants to let me go, but can't find the words, so he's trying to make me quit."
"He likes you, Matt, but I believe he thinks you have become too independent."
"What makes you say that, Tracey?"
"I don't know, it's just a feeling."
"Well, he went to all this trouble to enervate me with lowly work. Let's see how this unfolds," I said.
When Bob arrived, he gave me a bottle of cleaner and a roll of paper towels and told me which baseboards to clean. Tracey was holding back, but that's okay; I could see what was happening.
An hour later, I finished with the baseboards and drove back to Bob's office. Tracey was sitting at her desk, anxious and uneasy, awaiting the inevitable showdown.
"Did you remove the mildew?"
"I cleaned them, Bob, but I didn't see any mold or mildew. Maybe the customer cleaned them."
Tracey fidgeted.
"Matt... I'm not sure how to say this...," Bob began. "I like...Well...Have you ever thought of going into business for yourself?"
There it was.
"Is this your way of letting me go, Bob?" I said, smiling.
Tracey squirmed. I thought she was going to burst.
"No, Matt, I just..."
"Say no more, Bob. I understand. You don't even have to pay me for the work I didn't need to do today."
Tracey forced a nervous smile.
"It's just that work is slowing down a little and I have too many carpenters," Bob said.
"Enough said, Bob. I've been thinking it is time I took my career to the next level, anyway."
"What are you going to do now?" Bob asked, relieved, as though he had just conquered a week's worth of undertakings in a single hour.
"Well, today, I think I'm going to the movies," I said, grinning, as I made my way toward the door, "and tomorrow, I suppose I'll be your newest competitor."
I walked out the door and down the stairs toward the parking lot. I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall in Bob's office after I left; I'll call Tracey later to get the lowdown.
I left my truck in Wells and Sons' parking lot and walked a block down the road to the Clifton Store. Holly was working alone, busy preparing for the lunch crowd.
"Hi, Matt, it's a little early for lunch. Are you working in Clifton today?"
"No, strangely, Bob and I just parted ways, and I thought I'd have a breakfast taco to celebrate."
"Oh no, what are you going to do?"
"Start my own general contracting business."
"That's awesome, Matt. Do you have work lined up?"
"I have someone who pledged to be my first customer if I were ever to strike out on my own, but I haven't contacted her yet."
"Well, before you do, Larry and I have a project that might interest you. We need a retaining wall to keep the ground from the uphill side of our lot from sliding into the driveway. We had an architect look at it, but he never got back to us."
"I would be happy to have a look at it."
"How about after lunch?"
"Sounds good."
I met Holly and Larry at their house, located at the fork of the road, just up the street, and took some measurements and made notes.
"I'll do some building code research this afternoon, determine a materials list and cost, and get back with you tomorrow morning with an estimate. Will that be okay?" "That would be terrific," Larry said. "Every time it rains, we have to shovel dirt back up the hill. It's getting old."
That night, I studied retaining wall construction in one of my code books, which showed the 6x6 pressure-treated lumber I had planned to use for the walls positioned horizontally, with 6x6 deadmen buried into the ground to support the vertical retaining wall. I drafted a scale drawing of the implementation, including all details and specifications, then prepared a time-and-materials bid, and presented it, along with the drawing, to Holly and Larry at the Clifton store the next morning. I told them I would need to hire Aaron and his forklift to handle the dirt work. They accepted the offer, thus establishing Bray Building & Design's first business.
That afternoon, from my bedroom office in Woodbridge—which I dubbed my Woodbridge Office, from then on—I ordered the necessary materials from a lumberyard in Manassas and scheduled delivery for the following morning.
The phone rang.
"Hey Matt, it's Jeff!"
"Hey, Jeff. It has been a while. What's up?"
"Do you want to join the Tuesday night swing dance lesson in Rockville?"
"Tonight?"
"Yeah, it's Tuesday, isn't it?"
"Why not," I said. "I'm on my own clock now."
"What?! Did you leave Bob?"
"Yesterday morning."
"Good for you, Matt. Do you have work lined up?
"Yes. I have a retaining wall project starting tomorrow morning, and then I have a free-standing deck and playscape for another customer in Fairfax Station. I should be okay. We can talk more tonight."
"Great. See you at 7!"
It unexpectedly occurred to me that I had better job security as a self-employed general contractor than I would have working for Bob, since I had at least two months' work lined up. The Bobs of the world can always fire you without notice, leaving you with no job and no paycheck. Start your own business, build your own safeguards, and secure your income by keeping plenty of work in the queue. Of course, security lasts only when things are booming; when they're not, the capricious construction industry, combined with an economic downturn, can send a contractor to the poorhouse in a hurry. Fortunately, in 1988, Virginia was a bustling, vibrant, and prosperous place for builders.
That night, I met Jeff in Rockville for the weekly swing dance lessons at the country-western bar. The gals at the Tuesday night sessions were like Jeff and me, just out to meet people.
After a few superfluous dance lessons, it was time to cool off with a cold beer. Jeff was ahead of me, ordering the first round.
"So, you're not working for Bob anymore," Jeff said.
"Nope, but I have no regrets. Working for Bob was a good thing. For a solid year, I earned a steady paycheck while learning about New England architecture and getting the lay of the land. It was like getting paid to go to school."
"Yep. That's how it was with me, too," Jeff said. "So, what do you think about Tuesdays?"
"The dance lessons?"
"Yeah."
"Let's make them recurrent."
"Hell yeah," Jeff said. "Bring us another round, barkeep!"
"I like the middle-of-the-week crowd better anyway; not so many drunken fools as there are on the weekends."
"Me too," Jeff said.
At one of the Tuesday night swing dance lessons, I met Marie, born and raised in Montpellier, France. Both of us, better-than-average two-steppers, hit it off on the dance floor, and occasionally, over the following weeks, just the two of us would meet at the club on non-Tuesdays. However, we never did anything official together until one weekend, when I asked her to join me for the annual spelunkers' camping trip in West Virginia—an event Roy told me about—where cavers from all over meet to party and let loose. 'Ask Marie to come along,' Roy had said. 'You will get to know her better.' Well, one detail Roy masterfully left out, which we discovered upon our arrival, was that it was a clothing-optional event. I wasn't sure how Marie would react, let alone how I would, given that I had never seen her unclothed. But when she saw the campers undressing, she dropped every stitch without hesitation. I joined in as did everyone else, and the group of fifty or so spent the next 48 hours in the buff. Needless to say, there was no laundry to do after THAT weekend.
A week before Aaron and I finished the two-week retaining wall project, I called Mrs. Miller to share the news of my new general contracting business, Bray Building & Design.
"That's great, Matt," Mrs. Miller said, "but we already knew; a little bird told us."
"Who?"
"No matter. Steve and I have a project we would like you to design and build. We envision a treehouse theme for little Matthew, so he'll have a safe place to learn and play as he grows up. It should include a sandbox, a slide, a swing, and a comfortable area for adults. An actual treehouse might be impractical. Can you come by the house tomorrow morning around 9 for a brainstorming session?"
"I'll be there. It sounds like a fun project."
The next morning, the Millers and I sat on their new deck, the one that I built when I worked for Bob, drank coffee, ate donuts, and chatted for over an hour about design options as we gazed at the thick grove of trees—oak, hickory, poplar, maple, birch, pine, and dogwood—surrounding their backyard. I had an idea in mind and went home to draft it on paper.
A day later, I presented my drawing to Mrs. Miller at her breakfast table, showing a 10-foot-diameter, head-high, free-standing hexagonal cedar deck (matching the design of their existing 1100 square foot deck) with a tree protruding through a hole in the middle, a beam extending on one side for two swings, and a slide on the opposing edge.
"Steven is going to love this, Matt," Mrs. Miller said. "How did you come up with this?"
"While we were talking yesterday, I eyed an oak tree in the woods just beyond the groomed part of your back yard and thought an elevated free-standing deck built around the trunk would give it a tree house feel. This sketch is based on our discussion, including the wrap-around wooden adult-sized bench on top, and the sandbox below."
"When can you get started?"
"I'm finishing a retaining wall project in Clifton this week. I should be available next Monday, if that works for you."
The job, a design-and-build-as-you-go project, took about 2 weeks to complete. I enjoyed building the playscape for the Miller's toddler, especially when I saw how much he enjoyed it. Perhaps I had built something that might shape his adult life. The creativity he discovers on the playscape could lead him to a career in architecture or engineering, or transversely steer him toward neurology or orthopedics.
The next project I built for the Millers was a Chuppah for an upcoming Jewish wedding ceremony. It was their wedding gift to the young couple, and I knew the design had to be special. The Millers wanted it built in three sections that they could easily assemble at the wedding site, disassemble afterward, and reassemble in the new couple's flower garden.
These projects were enjoyable and helped pay a few bills, but it's complicated trying to make a living from small jobs, especially during the front-end construction phases. Drinking coffee and eating donuts during the design phase pays nothing, and much of the work requires the same level of effort regardless of project size—ordering 10 sheets of plywood is the same level of effort as ordering 100. I needed a large project that would provide work for weeks, preferably months, to generate revenue in my company's bank account and ensure its survival during the slow winter months.
Weeks passed. A cold front had dropped morning temperatures below freezing for a few days, but by noon, temperatures had warmed into the low sixties. It won't be long until another winter is upon us, I thought.
It was an election year. George H. W. Bush had just defeated Michael Dukakis. Reagan was out, and Bush was in. 'Business as usual' was Bush's promise to the country. We'll see.
One sunny afternoon, a few days later, while driving down Clifton Road, relishing the magnificent brilliance of another New England fall, I saw Aaron's truck approaching on the opposite side. He saw me, too, and began flashing his headlights. He motioned for me to pull over as he passed. There was a clearing up ahead in a valley of trees adorned with every conceivable shade of autumn. I pulled off to wait for Aaron to turn around. He soon appeared from around the bend, slipped in beside me, and rolled down his window.
"Hey, Matt, I have been trying to get in touch with you."
"Hey, Aaron, what's up?"
"There are some folks who live near the Millers who want an estimate on a new detached garage. I don't know squat about building garages, but I told them about you. If you land the job, maybe you can hire me and my backhoe for the foundation work, and we will both have work through the end of the year."
"That sounds fantastic! Who are these folks?"
"The Shuckleys," Aaron said, passing me their number, written on a crinkled matchbook.
"Thanks, I'll call them tonight."
Mr. Shuckley was delighted to hear from me and wanted to meet the next morning, which I was happy to do. A detached garage was the project I needed to ensure my company's survival.
After I met with Mr. Shuckley to discuss the details (location, size, etc.) of the new garage, I went home, taped a fresh sheet of vellum onto my drafting table, grabbed a cup of coffee, and went to work drawing the site plan, the foundation plan, the elevations, and wall and roof details. With the design in hand, I created a material list and an estimate for labor cost and scope, and scheduled a meeting with the Shuckleys the following evening at their home.
An hour before the meeting, I put the finished drawing in a new cardboard tube and the written estimate in my briefcase. I showered, shaved, and dressed in my newest jeans, a white button-down shirt, blue tie, and khaki overcoat.
I arrived at the Shuckleys after dark, dressed like an architect, with my drawing tube and briefcase. A porch light came on as I climbed the steps to the front door. I rang the doorbell, even though the porch light was on, thinking it might have been motion-activated. Mr. Shuckley answered the door and invited me into their foyer to meet his wife and teenage daughter.
"Matt, why don't you have a seat at our dining room table?" Mrs. Shuckley said. "Would you like something to eat or drink? Coffee? A big slice of chocolate cake?"
"No, thank you, I'm fine," I said, feeling a little nervous.
"So, what do you have for us?" Mr. Shuckley said.
I removed my drawing from the cardboard tube and stretched it out on the table. Mrs. Shuckley used salt and pepper shakers, a sugar bowl, and her left thumb to anchor the corners, while Mr. Shuckley, a structural engineer by trade, systematically examined the drawing.
"This all looks in order, and quite excellent work, Matt. Do you have a cost estimate?"
"Yes," I said, as I removed the folder from the lid of my briefcase.
"Your estimate looks in order, too," Mr. Shuckley said, "It prescribes a down payment of $8,000 to get started."
"Yes, I will need money up front to purchase materials and such."
"No problem, Matt. Let me get my checkbook."
"If you would like more time to think over the estimate...," I said, wondering who the fool was that just offered the Shuckleys a chance to reconsider.
"That won't be necessary, Matt," Mrs. Shuckley interrupted while handing me the check.
"Thank you," I said, while dropping their magnificent $8,000 check into my briefcase. "I will convert my drawing to blueprints tomorrow and apply for the building permit. As soon as the permitting authorities approve the plans, I will break ground."
"That all sounds great, Matt. We are excited about our new garage!"
"I am too," I said, delighted.
I left the Shuckleys' home ready to explode with joy, but I made sure I was several miles down the road before I let loose a triumphant, "WOOHOO!!!!!"
When I returned home, Jack and Sue were having dinner.
"You weren't gone very long," Jack said as I walked through the door. "Did everything go okay?"
"Yes," I said with an ear-to-ear grin.
"What? You got the job? That's excellent!" Sue said. "Let's celebrate! Are you hungry? We have extra."
"No, thank you, Sue, I'm too excited to eat."
"You're welcome to sit with us and enjoy a cold beer if you want," Jack said.
"I would like that," I said, feeling exuberant that a once impoverished carpenter from the economically depressed state of Texas could somehow stumble across the treasured fortune of gratifying work and the steadfast friendship of my new friends, Jack and Sue.
The following morning, I woke still bursting with enthusiasm, got dressed, and drove to a fast-food restaurant for pancakes and eggs on my way to deposit the Shuckleys' check in my bank account. Eight thousand dollars was almost enough money to build the entire garage, including labor, leaving me with the final payment for profit. That is, if all went to plan, which is unlikely, because construction projects rarely do.
After I left the bank, I engaged a nearby graphic design company in Falls Church to translate my original vellum drawing into eight blueprints. I attached one of the blueprints to the Shuckley's building permit application, submitted it to the building code authorities, and called Aaron.
"Hey, Aaron, It's Matt. Are you ready to go to work?"
"Hey, Matt, you know I am. Did you get the Shuckley job?"
"Yes, as soon as they issue the building permit, we can get started."
On Friday of that week, the Fairfax County authorities approved my blueprints—my first officially approved design—thus giving me the green light to begin construction. I asked Aaron to meet me at the job site on Monday to work on the site layout.
It was cold and clear that Monday morning. I arrived early, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, and began setting up the transit level I had rented on Saturday.
At the top of the hour, Aaron rolled into the driveway in his jet-black clattering Ford diesel pickup truck. He hopped out of the cab wearing jeans, a camo T-shirt, and a John Deere cap.
"Aren't you cold?" I said.
"I won't be when we start working," Aaron said while lighting a cigarette.
"Well then, let's get to work!"
We agreed on an hourly rate for his labor, with an additional charge for backhoe work. The local building code in Fairfax County required concrete footings to be at least 24 inches below ground, ensuring they were safely below the frost line. It was hard to imagine, as a carpenter from Texas, that the ground could actually freeze to that depth.
By late morning, we had the site laid out, and by the end of the day, Aaron had dug all the trenches for the 8" x 16" concrete footing.
"We worked well today, Aaron. Tomorrow, I'll pick up some form material and #4 rebar at the lumberyard and should be back here around 8. Will that work for you?"
"Yes. I think I'll leave my backhoe here; we'll need it again at some point."
"Good thinking," I said.
I arrived the next morning with a few sheets of CDX plywood and about 20 2x4s to build the forms, and rebar to reinforce the concrete. I went to work cutting the material, while Aaron constructed the forms. By noon, I expected to finish the forms before quitting time, so I borrowed Shuckley's phone to place the concrete order. The concrete company said they could deliver by mid-morning the following day. Work was proceeding to plan.
Once the concrete footings hardened, it would be time to lay the 8-inch cinder block to complete the perimeter foundation. Neither Aaron nor I was a skilled mason, but I knew someone who was. Robert. He's the man for the job, I thought, and called him that Tuesday evening.
"Hello, Matt. It has been a while. I heard you're on your own now."
"Yes, and I'm loving it. How did you know?"
"A little bird told me," Robert said with a chuckle.
"Well, when you talk to Tracey again, tell her I said hello."
"How do you know it was Tracey?"
"A little bird told me."
"Ha," Robert laughed. "What's up, Matt?"
"I have a small cement job that I hope will interest you. It involves laying approximately 100 linear feet of CMU; three courses of 8-inch block, and one course of 4-inch."
"I'll have to do it over the weekend," Robert said.
"That would be great. How much will you charge?" I asked.
"I can complete the whole job on Saturday and Sunday for $300 if you supply the mortar and concrete blocks."
"That sounds terrific, Robert. See you Saturday?"
"I'll be there!"
On Wednesday, I met Aaron at the Shuckleys' at 8 a.m. to pour concrete in all the 8 "x16" footings. It was a clear, dry day, with temperatures in the mid-seventies. While waiting for the concrete delivery, we used the transit level to re-shoot the form elevations to ensure they were precise. At 9:30, we heard the beep, beep, beep of the cement mixer backing into the Shuckleys' long gravel driveway. When he reached the garage site, the driver pulled the air brake, hopped out of the cab, and began configuring the discharge chute for targeted concrete deployment. We asked the operator to pour small amounts into different sections of the forms, while Aaron and I climbed into the trenches with hoes and rakes to spread the wet concrete evenly within the forms. Finally, without a rest break, we used trowels to scrape and smooth the cement surface, ensuring it was level with the tops of the transit-leveled forms in preparation for Robert's upcoming mortar and block work.
We finished pouring the footings around noon and gave our farewells to the mixer driver. Exhausted, starved, and covered with cement dust, we drove to the Clifton store for double-meat cheeseburgers and fries to annihilate in the cab of Aaron's truck.
"Concrete waits for nobody," I said as I removed my burger meal from the paper sack and flattened it on my lap for a plate.
"Yep. Once you start pouring concrete, you're committed to finish the job no matter what," Aaron said. "Even if you feel death coming on, you'll just have to suck it up and keep working!"
We devoured our lunch, slap-happy with fatigue, chuckling at the absurdity of staving off death to finish a concrete job.
"Aaron, there won't be much to do tomorrow, or Friday for that matter, once we remove the forms from the concrete footings. In fact, I can do that by myself. There's no sense in both of us coming out for an hour's work. Robert will be here on Saturday and possibly all day Sunday to lay the concrete blocks. I'm coming out to assist him, and I could use help shooting elevations, if you're not busy."
"No problem. I'll see you on Saturday," Aaron said.
"I ordered a couple of yards of gravel fill rock to be delivered on Monday. When Robert finishes his masonry work this weekend, we can start prepping for the concrete slab."
"There's supposed to be a strong cold front moving through next week, on Friday after Thanksgiving Day, with sub-freezing temperatures and several inches of snow," Aaron said. "Do you think we can pour the slab before it hits?"
"That's my goal. We'll be cutting it incredibly close," I said, "especially with the holiday coming up."
When I returned to my Woodbridge Office that Wednesday afternoon, I called a lumber yard in Manassas to order 400 linear feet of Concrete Masonry Units (CMUs), enough mortar mix to set all the blocks, and a roll of welded wire mesh for the future concrete slab. They agreed to deliver the shipment by noon on Thursday.
I arrived at nine o'clock on Thursday morning and plugged some rock and roll into my Jambox radio. With the music setting the mood, I broke out my 22-ounce framing hammer and a pry bar and began removing the wooden forms from the concrete footings. I finished the job in under an hour and decided to straighten up the site while I waited for the materials to be delivered.
Job site cleanup is a task usually assigned to laborers or helpers, but when you are your own general contractor with no full-time employees, you have to fill in where you are most needed, whether it's making an executive decision or sweeping up the last pile of dust. That day, it was job cleanup. I enjoyed order and organization on my job site. Working in clutter is inefficient and unsafe, I thought, remembering the time I stepped on a nail on my first carpentry job. Furthermore, a contractor who maintains an organized job site inspires confidence and demonstrates pride in their work. There's nothing wrong with that.
Shortly, the flatbed delivery truck carrying several pallets of concrete blocks, one pallet of mortar mix, and a roll of wire mesh arrived. The driver, sporting a long, greying goatee, hopped out of his truck and, without a word, began unloading the materials. He forklifted the single cement pallet close to one corner of the footing trench and looked my way for approval. I nodded and gave him a thumbs-up. He tipped his hat and began unloading the cinder block pallets, staging them evenly around the trench.
"How's that?" the driver said, after he killed his forklift engine.
"I couldn't ask for better, Syd," I said, noticing his name sewn onto his work shirt, "and our block layer certainly won't complain."
"That's the idea," he said, stroking his beard. "Just sign my delivery ticket and I'll be outta your hair."
"Thank you, sir," I said. "You have yourself a fine day."
After Syd left, I laid out the tops of the concrete footings for the 8-inch cinder blocks with a carpenter's pencil and a blue chalk line, then packed up my tools and left for the day.
On my way home, I decided again on Pizza-Pizza for dinner on Thursday and Friday nights. The convenience of the fast-food pizza joint near Jack and Sue's house led to a significant increase in pizza consumption during my first year in Northern Virginia. Fortunately, I was still young and active, and managed to maintain a slim physique thanks in part to the calorie-burning nature of construction work.
Jack and Sue were in North Carolina, squeaking in one last craft show before Thanksgiving, and I had the house to myself for the next few days.
Friday morning, I brewed a pot of coffee, prepared a fried-egg sandwich, and worked on the materials list for the framing package, which I planned to order as soon as we finished pouring the concrete slab on Tuesday or Wednesday of the following week. Saturday morning, I filled my coffee cup and walked out the front door.
Thick fog obscured visibility beyond the width of two houses, and dew drenched the surfaces of my pickup. Temperatures were slightly warmer than they had been, in the mid-50s, I guessed, hoping the sun would quickly break through the clouds.
I drove slowly through a light mist to the Shuckleys' future garage and was astonished to find Aaron and Robert already working. Aaron was checking fluid levels on his backhoe while Robert unloaded his masonry tools and prepared to mix mortar.
"Hey, fellers!" I hollered as I stepped from the cab of my pickup. "I see you guys are getting an early start."
"Good morning, Matt," Robert said. "Thanks for staging the blocks around the footing. That's going to save me a ton of work."
"You're welcome, Robert, but the delivery driver did all of the work."
"Syd?" Robert asked.
"Yes, how did you know?" I asked.
"Who else?" Aaron said. "He's the only driver that would have cared."
"That's right," Robert said, "he's a good man."
Robert mixed the first batch of mortar and began laying the concrete blocks along the blue chalk layout lines I popped on Thursday. Robert completed the first course of 8-inch block by 11:00 a.m. and had almost finished with the second course by lunch. After we ate a quick meal on the job site, Robert commenced his work while Aaron and I checked elevations.
"They're spot on, Robert," I said. "You have a feel for laying block that I've never noticed before."
"It's like anything else you do repititiously," Robert said. "If you lay enough block, you get the feel."
By the end of the day, Robert had completed laying all the 8-inch blocks and had started on the last course of 4-inch blocks.
"Let's finish up tomorrow morning. I'm beat," Robert said.
"Sounds good, Robert," I said. "You have done more than enough today."
"It doesn't look like there's going to be much for me to do tomorrow," Aaron said. "I think I'll take Sunday off, if that's okay with you, Matt."
"Absolutely, Aaron. Robert and I will likely be out of here by 10, if not sooner."
I stopped for breakfast tacos on Sunday morning on my way back to Shuckleys. The sky was overcast and was beginning to look ominous. When I arrived, Robert was working on the last stretch of 4-inch blocks.
"Damn, Robert. What time did you get here today?"
"I arrived about 6:30 and went straight to work."
"The skies are getting dark! Do you think we're going to get some rain?"
"Yeah, Man, the bottom's fixin' to drop out. I'm going to lay these last few blocks and get the hell out of here!"
"That sounds like a good plan, Robert."
Mr. Shuckley emerged from his house wearing a Redskins football jersey, with matching socks, cap, and coffee cup.
"You boys better get under cover," Mr. Shuckley said.
"Good morning, sir. Yes. That's what Robert was saying."
"You guys are doing a fantastic job."
"Thank you, Mr. Shuckley. We try to do our best," I said.
Robert nodded.
"When are you planning to pour the concrete?" he asked.
"I'm thinking Tuesday, or Wednesday, depending on the availability of the concrete company."
In preparation for the impending storm, Robert hurried to pack up his tools while I secured loose items around the job site.
"I'll see you guys next week!" Mr. Shuckley hollered as the wind picked up. "I'm heading in."
"Us too!"
At that moment, a lightning bolt lit the sky, followed by an explosive clap of thunder.
"This is it!" Robert hollered as he dashed for his truck.
A gust of wind kicked up a dust storm that swept across the job site.
"Thanks for everything, Robert!" I yelled, trying to holler over the wind and heavy rain, while handing him a check for his work. "I'll see you soon!"
"So long, Matt!"
The deluge descended upon us, as Robert predicted. I sprinted for the shelter of my cab, but got thoroughly drenched before I could shut the driver's side door. I dried my arms and face with a towel and sat in the warmth of my truck, out of the rain-cooled air, while I waited for the intense storm to pass.
While driving home Sunday afternoon, the skies began to clear on the horizon, and I started thinking about the next steps. With the 4-inch perimeter blockwork finished, the form for the concrete slab was complete. Aaron and I could spread the gravel fill and lay the wire mesh in a couple of hours and be ready for concrete delivery.
Monday morning at six o'clock, I called the concrete company, thinking that we could handle a delivery as early as 10 a.m. that same day.
"We have lots of orders coming in, Matt," Bill, the dispatcher, said, "We might be able to squeeze you in on Tuesday, but can't make any promises. At this point, someone will have to cancel."
"I'll keep my fingers crossed," I said.
Later that morning, Aaron and I prepped the foundation for the slab, and I began loading my truck bed with construction debris. At the same time, Aaron used his backhoe and end loader to backfill the trenches around the concrete block and grade the entire site.
"I guess we'll see what happens tomorrow, Aaron. All we can do is hope someone cancels their concrete order. If not, who knows when we'll be able to pour the slab."
"Yeah, the front that's supposed to blow through on Friday will drop temperatures into the teens for several nights. We can't pour the slab in that kind of cold," Aaron said.
"Yep, we would certainly be jackhammering it up, if we did," I said. "Well, I'm heading to the landfill to get rid of this rubble. I'll call you tomorrow, one way or the other."
Tuesday morning, I called the concrete company with high hopes.
"Hello, Bill, this is Matt. Any good news?"
"I'm sorry, Matt. We had a cancellation, but two of our drivers called in sick this morning. Our next availability is Friday, after Thanksgiving."
"In the snowstorm?"
"Uh...yes," Bill said.
"No thanks, Bill. I'll call you next week."
"Okay, Matt, have a good Thanksgiving holiday."
"You too, Bill."
I called Aaron afterward, shared the news, and told him we would regroup after the holiday weekend. He was disappointed by the delay but excited about having such a great project to work on, and he looked forward to next week.
Jack and Sue rolled into the driveway around noon and began unloading their van.
"Hey, Matt, do you want to have Thanksgiving dinner with Jack and I at my parents house?" Sue asked.
"I would love to," I replied. "Do I need to bring anything?"
"Just yourself," Sue said.
"You know, the Oilers are playing the Cowboys that afternoon," Jack said, smiling. Maybe we could sneak off and watch a little of it."
"Hell yeah! That should be a good game."
Thursday morning, Sue cooked the last of the side dishes she wanted to take to her parents' house. Around noon, we loaded the food, some beer, and wine into their car and drove to Arlington.
Sue's parents lived in an upscale, hoity-toity (Sue's parents lived in an upscale high-rise apartment building near downtown Arlington, with a distant view of the Potomac River and the tip of the Washington Monument. Their spacious living area was immaculate. Fine furnishings atop a sea of thick, white burber carpet filled the room of sculptured walls and ornate trimwork.), high-rise apartment building near downtown Arlington, with a distant view of the Potomac River and the tip of the Washington Monument. Their spacious living area was immaculate. Fine furnishings atop a sea of thick, white burber carpet filled the room of sculptured walls and ornate trimwork.
Sue's attractive, divorced sister, Robin, whom I had already met at one of Sue's famous dinner parties, was peeling potatoes in the kitchen when we arrived. Her two-year-old daughter was content in the TV room watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. Robin was delighted to see us and strolled over to join the civility.
"Mom and Dad, I would like you to meet Matt, our roommate for the past year," Sue said, seeming embarrassed by the delay. "Matt, you already know Robin."
"Hi, Robin," I said, with a slight wave.
"We're pleased to meet you, Matt, we have heard a lot about you," Sue's dad said. "I understand you are a carpenter."
"I am pleased to meet you both," I said, "and yes, I am a carpenter."
"Who do you work for?" Sue's mom asked.
"He's a general contractor," Sue said matter-of-factly. "He works for himself."
Jack nodded—he and Sue were not about working for the man.
"That's fantastic," Sue's dad said.
Robin gazed at me with her alluring blue eyes, possibly contemplating my worthiness as a potential mate and father figure, then visibly shook her head, as if permanently dismissing the thought.
"Hey, Dad, show Matt your workshop," Sue said proudly.
I looked around, wondering how on earth a workshop would fit into this pristine, unsullied home.
"Sure, step this way, Matt," he said, walking toward a door to what appeared to be a coat closet.
When he opened the door, the warmth from the glow of a closet filled with shiny, glimmering tools filled the room. There were three shelves of new or polished power tools at the rear of the tiny closet, with a light fixed beneath each shelf that lit the shelf below. Every wall surface, including the back of the closet door, was covered with pegboard and neatly crammed with every tool imaginable: screwdrivers in multiple sizes, pliers, wrenches, cutters, clamps, squares, pencils, straightedges, tape measures, and a supply of nuts, bolts, and washers. Also, hinged flat to the inside surface of the door was a 2-foot, 2x12 oak plank that could be raised to a horizontal position, supported by a wooden post, to serve as a functional workbench. It even had a bench vise attached to the end.
"That is awesome!" I said. "I've never seen anything like it in my life. You could build just about anything from the tools you have stored in this tiny space." "That's the idea," Sue's dad said, smiling. "Your workshop would be a terrific feature story in a magazine or TV show," I said. Everyone agreed, but they weren't quite as enthusiastic as someone like me—and probably Jack—who had an occupational appreciation for construction tools.
After dinner, Jack broke out a couple of beers and motioned for me to join him in the TV room for the Cowboys/Oilers football game. It was a treat to watch Houston beat Dallas, only a stone's throw from Washington, D.C.
After dessert, when the evening was over, we said our goodbyes and left Sue's parents' house around eleven o'clock with a large paper sack of leftovers. On the drive back to Woodbridge, sleet began to splatter against their windshield.
"Looks like we're in for a stretch of cold weather," Jack said. "Is it going to affect your garage project, Matt?"
"The below-freezing temperatures are delaying the concrete work, but if it warms up next week, we should be back on track."
"That may not happen," Sue said, "I heard the bitter cold is supposed to last a while. Can't you pour concrete in freezing weather?"
"No," I said. "If the water in the concrete turns to ice before the slab hardens, the chemical reaction between the water and cement stops. If the ice melts back into water, the chemical reaction resumes, but the result is a slab weakened by the broken chemical reaction process. If that happens, the slab would need to be jackhammered up. It's not a chance anyone should take."
"Is there no way to pour a slab in freezing temperatures?" Jack asked.
"There is," I said, "you can add accelerators to the concrete mix so that the chemical reaction takes place before the water has time to freeze, and you can use heaters and insulated blankets, but I don't have experience with either. If only I could build the garage structure before pouring the concrete. I could heat the building and pour the concrete any time I want...wait...wait just a minute...I CAN do that!"
"How can you set the walls without first pouring the slab?" Sue asked.
"The walls of the garage attach to a 4-inch concrete block foundation that is above the level of the concrete slab and is already in place. In my design, the wooden structure and the concrete slab are entirely separate components."
"It sounds like you worked out a solution," Sue said, grinning.
"Yes. I am back in business! Thank you both for helping me hash this out!" I said.
"That's what we're here for," Jack chuckled.
The next morning, the sun shone with unobscured brilliance through my unshaded windows, a little too radiant for me, if I should say so myself; just the opposite of Josh's living room the morning after the Preakness. I buried my face in a pillow, looking to catch a few more winks; is that snow that's making the room so bright? I hopped out of bed and hurried to the nearest view overlooking the back yard. The meteorologist's prognostication was spot-on. The whitest, most luminous snow I had ever seen covered the world outside; at least half a foot blanketed Jack and Sue's picnic table and the gable roof of their backyard shop. The thermometer I had placed outside my window read 26 degrees.
There won't be any work today, I thought. Not outside work, anyway, so I began fine-tuning my framing materials list to present to Manassas Lumber on Monday. The following week's weather forecast called for overnight lows in the teens and twenties, mid-forties highs, and dry skies—perfect framing weather. With all my weekend work completed, I chose to relax a little and enjoy the holidays. I had a passing notion about inviting Tracey to join me at the movies to watch Earnest Saves Christmas, then, I thought better of it—she was probably hanging out with her dumb boyfriend anyway—and concluded that a large Coke and a big ole popcorn was all the company I needed.
I got back home at sunset, which was still early; November days are short in Washington, D.C. When I walked through the front door, Sue hollered up from the basement, "There's a turkey sandwich in the refrigerator for you, Matt!" "Thanks, Sue!" The sandwich sat on a plate, next to a six-pack of beer, with generous sides of sausage dressing and mashed potatoes.
After I ate, I grabbed a beer and retired to my room to read a new issue of Fine Homebuilding magazine. I was intrigued by an article about the release of two new architectural and design books written by an architect and theorist named Christopher Alexander, who wrote The Timeless Way of Building, and A Pattern Language, which identified 253 patterns for laying out towns, communities, neighborhoods, and homes, based on the "timeless way" humans, throughout history, have naturally designed and constructed their own dwellings, without the aid of designers or architects.
On Saturday morning, I found the nearest bookstore and purchased copies of the two books, which still have their place on my bookshelf more than 40 years later.
On Sunday afternoon, I called American Airlines to reserve a round-trip ticket from Dulles Airport to Corpus Christi, departing on December 21st and returning on the 28th. That gave me three solid weeks to frame the structure of Shuckley's garage before I departed for South Texas to enjoy the Christmas holidays with my folks. With Aaron's help, I could frame it in half that time, but the weather would also need to cooperate.
Monday morning, I ordered the framing package, with delivery set for Tuesday. Aaron had prior commitments on Tuesday and Wednesday mornings, but could work on Thursday and Friday, and even on the weekend if I wanted. Before heading home, I bought groceries so I could make lunch each day. There weren't any restaurants near Shuckley's house, and driving to the nearest one could cost an hour of productivity, which I wasn't willing to give up.
I arrived at Shuckley's on Tuesday mid-morning to find the delivery driver unloading a sizeable banded bunk of building materials. I signed her ticket, and she was gone. It was 23 degrees, but the skies were clear and calm, and I was ready to work. Only small patches of Friday's snow remained in shaded areas beneath the surrounding forest canopy.
I set up my cut station in an open area in front of the future garage door and ran extension cords from the Shuckleys' home to my circular saw and jambox. If I had had a smooth, flat slab to work from, I would have used it as a platform for building the walls, but since I didn't, I relied on the professionally graded ground surrounding the 4-inch block foundation.
With a pair of tin snips, I cut the three metal bands that bound the siding and lumber together. The final band broke with a loud twang, leaving the once tightly bound lumber package resting unconstrained on the ground.
I pulled out various lengths of 2x4s for the bottom and top plates and the studs, and constructed the right-side wall. I squared the wall on the ground by cross-measuring the corners. When the lengths measured the same, I braced it with a 12-foot 2x4 to keep the wall section square. Finally, I drilled holes through the wall's sill plate to align with the anchor bolts cemented between the 4-inch blocks.
Typically, raising a 24-foot-long wall is a two-person job, but I felt confident and planned to try it alone. I cut three 2-foot-long stakes, each with a sharp 'V' on one end, and drove them into the ground with a sledgehammer—one in the middle and one at each end of the 24-foot wall, about 7 feet out from where the sill plate of the wall would fasten to the existing anchor bolts. I scooted the wall as close to the 4-inch block as possible, aligning the holes in the sill with the anchor bolts, then raised it to its feet by lifting from the middle of the double top plate until the wall was vertical. Next, I lifted one end of the wall onto the first anchor bolt, then kicked the rest of the bottom plate around until all the anchor bolts had penetrated the sill plate. Next, I grabbed a 12-foot 2x4 to brace the wall from near the top of one of the center studs to the middle 2x4 stake in the ground.
With the wall supported by a middle brace, it was easy to plumb and brace both ends, then return to the middle to plumb and rebrace it.
I built and stood the back wall, and the remaining left-side wall (framed with a rough opening for a passage door) using the same technique as the right-side wall, and completed the day's wall construction by framing the two 2-foot-long front walls and installing the 16-foot garage door header.
"It's starting to take shape," said a woman's voice behind me.
Startled, I turned around to see who it was.
"Hello, Mrs. Shuckley. Yes. It is coming together," I said.
"Where's Aaron?" she asked.
"He is clearing trees for one of his customers today and tomorrow."
"You mean you did all this work by yourself?"
"When you work by yourself on enough jobs, you start to develop little tricks of the trade," I said. "Tomorrow, I will finish bolting the wall sills and install the structural sheathing, then, Aaron and I will start framing the roof."
"Do you think you'll finish before Christmas?" Mrs. Shuckley asked.
"I plan to complete all of the garage structure, along with the board and batten siding and fiberglass roof shingles, but probably won't get to the slab until January. It will likely still be below freezing, but I can heat the inside of the garage and use the structure to protect the concrete from the cold."
"That's a good idea," Mrs. Shuckley said. "Very clever."
"Yeah, I got the idea on Thanksgiving evening," I said, thinking of my conversation with Jack and Sue the night sleet was hitting our windshield.
"When you finish the garage, Matt, Mr. Shuckley, and I have another project for you."
"Sure," I said. "What do you have in mind?"
"It will be an art studio. We can talk more about it after you finish the garage."
"Are you the artist?" I asked.
"Yes," she said with a smile as she walked toward her house. "I'll see you tomorrow, Matt."
By the end of the week, Aaron and I had installed all the structural sheathing, framed the roof, and decked and shingled it, in time for another blast of snowy weather that blew in Friday night. We took the weekend off and planned to regroup on Monday to tackle the board-and-batten siding.
On Monday morning, the temperatures were in the low 20s, but the skies were clear and dry, and the forecast called for more of the same for a few days. Aaron and I made good progress on the siding until Thursday, when another cold front blew in, this time bringing temperatures into the teens. We took Thursday and Friday off, hoping for enough good weather to wrap up the following week.
By Thursday that week, we had finished the entire garage, including soffit and fascia. All that was left was the concrete floor, which we would pour sometime in January, after I returned from Corpus Christi.
Friday evening, Jeff called and told me that he could get us tickets to George Bush's Black-Tie-And-Boots Inaugural ball in January for $50.
"That sounds fantastic," I said. "How can you get those?"
"Through the Texas State Society. It was in their latest newsletter. I'll get the tickets and talk to you after Christmas."
"Sounds good, Jeff," I said. "Have a merry Christmas!"
"You too, Matt!"
The day before my flight to Corpus, I packed all my clothes, briefcase, and one of my new books, A Pattern Language, and staged them by the front door so I wouldn't forget a thing. That evening, I had an early Christmas dinner with Jack, Sue, Robin, and Robin's daughter at Jack and Sue's cozy home. Sue and Robin made their traditional favorites, while Jack and I enjoyed the Christmas cheer.
The next morning, at five o'clock, Jack drove me to Dulles Airport for my early morning departure. I made it to my gate early, checked in, and boarded the aircraft. There were hardly any passengers on board, so the flight attendant said I could sit anywhere I wanted. I headed to the smoking section at the rear of the oversized jet and found a seat by the window.
I lit a cigarette and gazed out at the tarmac while the pilot taxied to the runway, and reflected on the events of the year. It had been one of the most productive years of my life. I had learned a great deal about architecture, drafting, and design, and started my own business as a general contractor. For me, there was no better feeling in the world.
The DC-10 was ready for takeoff. The pilot asked the attendants to take their seats. The No Smoking and Fasten Seatbelts lights lit up, and we were off.