Barnstorming II: And Still I Relent
History teaches us that in times of plague established relationships between workers and landowners undergo dramatic changes. Serfs become smallholders, employees become free-lancers, and straightforward tasks become the trials of Hercules. Welcome to the new world order.
I realize that highlighting failures of any kind on social media violates the ethos of the form. Most of the time it’s about bigging yourself up (here’s me riding Vespas around Lake Como with Clooney and Federer, here’s Laura teaching the Queen how to play Wordle). But I think it’s important to keep it real, and accept the Karmic blowback I so richly deserve.
Thumbing through my diary, it all comes back in vivid detail:
July 2021
Having recently taken possession of the barn from the resident vultures, we complete the exterior painting and install gutters. Closing my eyes and extending an outstretched palm to our excellent landscape architect, I say, “I won’t be needing you for this part of the project, no engineering drawings will be necessary, and in spite of the fact that all of your referrals have been great craftspeople and stayed within budget, I will go this one alone.”
Calls begin in earnest. Most contractors ignore me. One returns my call to laugh at me. I get two other return calls. One is a taciturn, “This is Red. Call me.” The other is Proustian in length. I ask both to come by for a visit.
Red is nice—rustic and to the point. He’s a one-man operation and doesn’t oversell his abilities. As long as I can explain what I want, he can probably do it.
Marcel arrives in the biggest pick-up truck I’ve ever seen. It seems that he was just warming up on the phone—he talks and talks. He talks about wine, horses, dumbass city people who move to the country (ahem), why the Philadelphia Eagles suck, the advantages of West Virginia gravel over Maryland gravel, his mission statement, his love for his work crew, his crackerjack stone mason, and this is just a start. My project is a doddle, he’ll knock it out in two weeks. Both estimates arrive and are within $50 of each other and both seem surprisingly low. Mr. Mile-A-Minute calls to wear me down some more. I relent. No contract is needed. He doesn’t work that way.
August 2021
Over the course of the week many pieces of equipment arrive, some with seemingly no relation to the job at hand. The count runs to nine, but still no sign of Our Man. On several mornings I find that the diggers and loaders have changed positions. Some leave, new ones take their place. I can’t decide if I’m witnessing some industrial chess match, or if I’m involved in an international theft ring.
I become optimistic as the site shows signs of life. Lines of spray paint appear on the ground. I casually mention that I’d prefer 3/8” Riverstone as the top coat. This is a big problem. I relent. I agree that whatever local gravel is available is fine. Three days later he explains that the project has been delayed: the 3/8” Riverstone (?!) will take three weeks and there is an upcharge. I don’t have the energy to pursue the logic.
Digging begins in earnest. His work crew consists of one lady in an army jacket. At the end of day three he pulls me aside to tell me that “I keep unearthing a lot of dead frogs.” “Is that bad?” I ask. “Well,” he says “it can’t be good.”
September 2021
After assuring me that “Things will really speed up after the holiday,” he grabs me and explains that he has to fly out to Colorado to look at a dump truck. “Deals like this don’t come around often.” I’m not sure where it will fit on the lawn.
His absence allows me to inspect the site. The excavation seems a bit shallow, but I’m sure he knows what he is doing. Big mounds of 22A arrive (that’s road gravel for us laymen). Our Man is somewhere in Iowa, broken down.
A uniformed technician arrives to service one of the fleet surrounding the project. He drags me outside and begins to explain that the hydraulics are shot on this particular piece of equipment and wants to know what he should do. I tell him that it has nothing to do with me, and he is demonstrably angry at me for wasting his time.
The barn doors won’t open because they are blocked by the gravel sub-base. When I explain to Our Man that I was a bit worried when I saw the initial excavation, he blurts out “I wish you would have told me about this earlier!” I’m very confused about the lines of responsibility on the project.
October 2021
The lady in an army jacket’s cat has died. Two days of mourning-related work stoppage ensues. When they return, her foot is in a cast (?). Our Man is po-faced and quiet as he presents a “revised” estimate. My choice is to stop now (unacceptable) or continue with a much-increased budget. I relent with the caveat, “as long as it is exactly as we initially discussed.” “Right,” he says, “I forgot you were a bit of a perfectionist.”
Although Our Man has three diggers, a skid steer loader, and a backhoe on site, he is not in possession of a screwdriver or a wrench. Tools are borrowed and subsequently left out in the rain.
In spite of the cost overruns and complete lack of adherence to any sort of schedule, Our Man spends more than two hours in conversation with Our Always Reliable Grass-cutting Man. I’ve already established that they have never previously met. I work through the logic and realize that I am the common denominator. What have I done to merit such scrutiny and derision? I spend a sleepless night replaying every conversation I’ve ever had with either of them and determine that I may be experiencing some kind of stress-related neurosis.
Work begins on the paver border. Our Man’s crackerjack stone mason is none other than himself. We’ve moved to the no-eye-contact phase in our relationship. He races up to tell me, unsolicited, that he will work through the weekend and finish on Monday. He neither works through the weekend nor does he show up on Monday.
November 2021
The paver border proceeds at glacial pace; he’s learning on the job. This is so painful. I’ve long since abandoned any animosity and moved to sheer pity. I’m considering euthanasia for one us, but I can’t decide who deserves it more.
I finally feel comfortable enough with the progress to order the greenhouse. Up to this point it has been in stock, but now it is backordered for two months, ensuring that I will endure a frigid and frustrating installation.
The long awaited 3/8” Riverstone has finally arrived, and I’m ready to believe that we may finish before Thanksgiving. As a point of pride I give Our Man his final payment before completion (to be fair, he’s been many things but never dishonest). With a completely straight face he asks if I could “take some pictures and write up a positive review on Yelp” I’m not sure how he interprets my stunned silence.
The siege is lifted, and the diggers abandon the field of battle.
Looking back, I’m not sure how to describe this surreal experience: three months beyond schedule, 75% over budget, with implications that will turn the spring into a mad dash instead of an enjoyable stroll (I guess on Facebook I’d just say, “Look at my ultimate gravel hack! YOLO!”) And worst of all, the mistakes I made were in spite of lessons I had learned long ago. The only bit of wisdom gleaned was a new-found sense of stoicism about things I cannot control (politics, anti-vaxxers, the effects of aging) and the pride of maintaining a sort of Lord-of-the-Manor composure (“If you can keep your head, blah, blah, blah”) as my own first-world problems crashed around me.
What a great read - well done!
I agonised along with you through all of this while guiltily laughing at the same time. Did hindsight say Red seems like he would have been the better option? It looks so serene and lovely now. Great post, Chris!