Spalling

Having just returned from a fundraiser spelling bee, it's sad that I had trouble spelling spalling. The computer's spell check doesn't know spalling, but you can be sure that the concrete guys do. Spalling is their worst nightmare. (Or at least in their top ten.) It's when the surface of concrete (or any material; spalling is not specific to concrete) flakes off. I noticed one such area a few days after the floor was poured and have since found maybe a dozen more simply by tapping on the surface. If the there's a hollow sound, the finished surface is not adhered to the mass of concrete. When I called in my discovery, Dale Dagget (Dirk Diggler?), the representative who'd come out to see the problems, said they're already looking into what he called retro-plating, the remedy of last resort. It would involve taking the surface of the floor down a bit to a new unblemished surface. This is tricky business because the aggregate (chunks of stone) that give concrete its strength sit just below the smooth surface. If you grind down into the aggregate, the surface would no longer be a solid color but flecked with bits of polished stone. Some concrete floor specialists add aggregate of a certain color and then grind it down and expose it on purpose to get a special look. We, however, do not want this look. I suppose it all depends on how far down the aggregate sits in the floor.

I'm just about done putting in the first layer of rigid insulation in the walls of the first floor. It's not difficult, just a little tedious and time consuming. My first job today, however, was to cut a new window opening in the west wall looking out onto the porch. This proposed window has been a matter of much discussion over the last few weeks, and it all started when both Chris Doyle and Eric Blake pointed at the wall in question and said, "You need a window there." Since then we've asked everyone who's shown up for a tour to weigh in on the subject, and the results were mixed but in favor. So today I framed an opening for a good sized awning window, and I must say I like it already.

The King of Knuckleheads

For a few hours this morning I was in the presence of royalty. None other than the King of Knuckleheads was driving the truck carrying my insulation. Though humility is hard to find in a king, this one cared not that truck driving might be beneath him. He was having a good time, circumstances be damned. After backing his way down Sis Porter Rd, he was in the middle of making a valiant attempt to pull the back end of his rig onto our drive when the left half of his front end went a little too far off the pavement and promptly sunk in the mud. The whole thing was pitched to such a degree that most of the wheels on his right side were up in the air. The King knew at once that he was hopelessly grounded. He laughed it off; kings do not let such trifling matters ruffle their feathers. He called for help, and then started taking pictures to send off to his subjects and document his extreme degree of stuckness. "Ron has just got to see this!" he said as he snapped a shot of his wheels floating in air. While we waited for the tow truck, I was lucky enough to hear royal tales of ridiculously excessive beer drinking (his belly was size of a keg) and four wheeling with his friends. He never stopped talking. For about two hours his chariot completely blocked Sis Porter Rd.
On the plus side we did get to meet the folks from the other end of Sis Porter, who, looking for a way out, found a tractor trailer blocking their path. Fortunately, they didn't seem to mind or have any place urgent to go. Perhaps they were simply humbled by the presence of The Knuckleheaded King. But we got our insulation. It could have been much worse if the early morning rain had continued. Instead we got a swampy afternoon in the 80's.

Stuck truck

Floor Problems

After spending ten hours pouring and finishing a beautiful concrete floor, it's a shame that in the final twenty minutes they dropped the ball. When the floor is hard enough to walk on but still setting, it's easy to leave a mark if there's dirt or even dust on the bottom of your shoes. The mark, if not troweled in, will set in the concrete, and that's what happened when the machine used to cut control joints was rolled across the floor. Not only are there wheel marks but a handful of boot prints as well. My efforts to wash these marks away the following day were not effective. They're part of the concrete. That's one problem. Yesterday, as I was sweeping up after framing some walls, I noticed a area of fine cracks about two feet long and six inches wide. Tapping on the area produced a hollow sound. I remembered that there was a little low spot there that they'd filled in with a very thin coat of cream. As it cured, this thin layer didn't adhere to the concrete below, and it's well on its way to peeling off. A phone call yesterday got somebody to come and look today. What course of action will be taken is still up in the air. But, since I haven't paid a dime for the work thus far, the ball they dropped is most certainly in my court.

Bird lovers out there will be pleased to hear that a minor relocation of the baby phoebes went without a hitch. I decided for everyone's good that they'd be better off outside the main part of the house. I chose the screened-in porch, made a little shelf for the nest, and very carefully slid the nestful of birds onto a cedar shingle. Down one ladder and up another, I carefully deposited the shingle in the new location just around the corner. All is well; the parents found them easily and now have a sight with less traffic.

A tractor trailer of insulation is due to arrive tomorrow morning.

Phoebes: Part 2

It occurred to me yesterday as I was cleaning up bird crap from the new concrete floor that I hadn't mentioned anything about the phoebes return. Phoebes frequently have more than one batch of babies over a summer, and ours are true to form. About a week after all birds, babies and parents, vacated the house, the parents came back, reassembled a new nest and, before I knew it, filled it with three more eggs. Those eggs hatched some time over the last few days, and now the parents are in and out with food. Their means of exit are dwindling, however; I've got all but two windows installed. There's the big slider opening, two door openings, and the not yet closed in eaves. The last batch of baby phoebes flew away in a couple weeks.

Log-R-Head

The floor pouring was a great success. What we have is a smooth matte finish resembling honed slate in texture and color. It will be interesting to see what an application of wax will do to the look of it. It's supposed to bring out more of the color and give it a little more shine much like a coat of satin polyurethane will enhance a wood floor. Tomorrow I'll spray it down with water, remove any debris and cover it with a couple layers of the same heavy duty pinkish paper used under hardwood floors. Installation of the first floor windows immediately follows.
One might be thinking at this point: What's with the title? Was there some irreconcilable conflict during the pour? No, nothing of the sort. It's about a log and my head and how, almost impossibly, they got together. Since I really had nothing to do today but oversee the pouring of the floor, I decided that, despite the weather, I'd finish up with the firewood. At the start of the day I had a little more than a cord to stack and split. Because of the rain, I'd throw a pile of wood under the shed roof so I could split and stack out of the weather. What happened is hard to believe, but it went something like this. (I'm not 100% certain.) There was a jumbled pile of logs at my feet, and I stood one upright to be split. I raised the maul, brought it down, made contact with the log, and somehow the end of a log just under the one split flipped up in an action very similar to what would happen if a cat was sitting on one end of a see-saw and an elephant stomped on the other. The log went almost straight up perhaps six or seven feet, and, then, on it's way down landed right in the middle of my head. I saw stars, felt for a lump and came away with a bloody hand. The blood ran down my forehead as I walked briskly to the barn, hand applying pressure. In the end, it's wasn't so bad. No stitches. I could not perform this feat again if I tried for the rest of my life.

Floor Pouring