METAL ELECTRICAL OUTLET BOX

 

While building a new laundry in the 1936 Hill House in Little Rock, I happened upon this metal outlet box. The bathroom I'd demolished, turning it partly into the newly expanded kitchen but mostly into a new laundry center, presented me with this, and since I try to keep up with the codes (as well as understanding how conductive metal outlet boxes are), I decided to trade it in for a newer ABS plastic box.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a frugal Yankee that reuses EVERYTHING. But if any kind of electrical hazard can be avoided, I’ll hide my frugal environmentalist face and use plastic. It won’t shock you and it won’t start a fire.

The old metal box, which I dated to the late sixties, had been refitted with a new 3 prong (grounded) receptacle and 12 gauge grounded shielded cable (aka Romex). But a past electrician had not replaced the metal box, as it was in the wall and would have made someone in the past cut it out and replaster around it, a labor-intensive process. But I had torn out the whole wall, so changing it to plastic was easy for me.

But this is not about plastic vs. metal.

It is about something far more likely to start a fire in your lovely, treasured Old Home.

 

Mice love to get themselves into tight little places, and once they’ve found one, they make it cozy by lining that space with anything soft. In this case it was a bit of blown-in cellulose insulation I had installed in the upper attic crawl in the mid 20oughts. Cellulose insulation is mixture of pulverized paper and shredded wood products that, if untreated, would  create a serious fire hazard. It insulates very well. But, since it is treated with fire retardants, it won’t even smolder if a match or coal falls into it. At least that's what they say; I've not the temerity to try it.

I’m not so sure what would happen if the cellulose got wet and shorted out the circuit. A spark? Or a white-hot arc that has no regard for the wet insulation and finds more handy fuel close by? Such as my 300 year-old framing timbers?

I will not take that chance.

Looking into all the other outlet boxes in the house, I found no further rodent hotels.

But if you’ve had a recent experience with meeses in your house, you might want to check your outlets. You don’t have to pull them from their boxes, as in the picture. Using a flat screwdriver to remove the tiny screw in the middle of the plate (be careful, and don’t stick it into the outlet hole…AAAAUUuuughhh!), you can remove the plastic cover, and peering in with a flashlight, see if any collected effluvia might crowd the posts (the screws that hold the wires).

DO NOT TOUCH THE WIRES OR ANYTHING IN THE BOX!

It’s most likely free of rodent effluvia, but if you see fluffy wads of material, LEAVE IT ALONE and call an electrician. If I were you, I wouldn’t even put the plastic cover back on. I’d quietly pack a bag and sneak out the back door, then hop a bus for Mexico.

 

Sorry, I got carried away. You can stop in McAllen.

But do call an electrician if you find anything in one of your outlet boxes; there might be more.

 

MY FIRST EXPERIENCE IN “RESTORATION”

 

I’ve been running construction crews since I was eighteen, and it’s not because I’m a natural-born overlord. Leader, yes. It goes with being an Aries, I guess. I marshaled all the kids in nursery school to break into the garage, liberating the tricycles and scooters at age four, so they put me in with the ‘babies’ as punishment. I marshalled them, too, and taught them to bring me juice.

When Hurricane Hugo hit Georgetown, South Carolina, I was given a passel of ranch hands and told to do a major upgrade to the 1810 Mansfield Plantation. Not a real ‘restoration,’ mind you, but a lot of painting, carpentry, masonry and plaster work. The job was done beautifully before deadline, mostly by guys who knew more about cows than anything else.

I’ve run plumbers, roofers, electricians, bricklayers, carpenters, and every craftperson in the restoration business, often all at once. I’m a natural-born organizer, so I’ve figured out the tricks to organize people. Some cajoling, a lot of detailed instruction, a little threatening, kudos when jobs come together, and a lot of asking how they do things.

Even if I already know how.

“Show me how you do that!” is sometimes all it takes to get the best from my subs. Telling jokes works too.

 

I was hired as an apprentice carpenter right out of high school, which is a very cool story I’ll write some other time. We build custom houses in the growing city of Austin, Texas in the late seventies, and I enjoyed it immensely. I was taught the value of craftsmanship by my mentor Mike Foerster, who set me straight by using the same techniques I use today. If I screwed up, he’d not let me forget it until I did it right, then, he’d congratulate me. My ego soared and I never stopped getting better at my tasks.

 

This mantra still resonates in my work.

 

I tired of building new houses after less than a year, and while sitting around drinking beer with my older brother’s friends (I had just turned eighteen and could now buy beer!), I was told of a possible job in Austin’s ever-growing downtown.

“They’re tearing down Antone’s,” Keith said as we sat on his porch. Antone’s was (and still is, though in a new location) a famous blues club in an ancient block of dilapidated buildings on Sixth Street long before Sixth Street in Austin meant anything but winos, bums, and very inexpensive prostitutes. “It’s PeeWee Franks that’s doing it. They’re taking down the whole block. I hear they’re hiring.”

That was enough for me.

I’d never been to Antone’s but I sure liked the idea of getting in on the demolition of an entire block.

 

Two days later I rode my mo-ped (wasn’t I stylish?) to the site and marveled at the progress.

‘Only been at it two days and they’re knocking down the backs of the old buildings,’ I thought, noting a cadre of old Black men cleaning mortar off bricks. ‘Hope I don’t have to do that,’ I mused.

I’d slung my nail belt over my shoulder, complete with speed square, 25-foot tape measure, pencils, razor knife, and 22-ounce Craftsman hammer. I had no idea what tools I’d need, but these were the Badges of my trade.

I walked up to the bulldozer and yelled out to the squat, rotund man in the driver’s seat. This was PeeWee Franks, whom, I found out later, was one of the most famous demolition men in Texas. He wore a porkpie hat, sported a stubby green cigar, and needed to shave his gray stubble. I couldn’t see it, but I knew he had a crew-cut.

“I hear you’re hiring!” I called out over the roar of the yellow monster under his butt. He pointed to the other side of the site.

“See that tall drink of water over there? That’s Phillip! Talk to him!”

I saluted and skirted the caterpillar and stumbled across the debris towards a guy in a plaid shirt and brand-new jeans. I saw pickup trucks pulling in and other workers loading salvaged building materials into them.

“So they sell to the public,” I said out loud.

I looked up at the tall guy again and saw him smiling broadly at me as I approached. As soon as I was in earshot, he pointed at me and called out

“YOU’RE HIRED!!”

I was still fifty feet away.

Once within talking distance, I had to ask.

“You don’t even know my name,” I said with a grin. I admit it was the fastest piece of hiring I’d ever seen. ‘There must be a catch.’

And there was.

“You’re the only one that brought any tools!” he laughed.

I knew my trades badge would come in handy, but not THAT way.

“I’m Jim,” I said, shaking his hand. “I’m a carpenter.”

He returned my handshake with gusto and said

“Phillip. I’m the boss of the workers. Go upstairs and tell Wayne that he’s fired, and you’re taking over as my lieutenant.” He pointed down the alley towards the street, and I went that way.

“What the hell have I gotten myself into?” I said aloud. I’d never fired anybody in my life, much less someone I hadn’t even MET. I took a right on the sidewalk and realized there were a LOT of doors to LOT of individual buildings on the same block. Each building looked like a different architect designed it, and they ranged form brick to metal facades on brick to hand-cut limestone and ancient, desiccated wood. Each adjoined the other, with brick and stone party walls dividing them.

I didn’t know it at the time, but most of this building was built in 1880, which made it the oldest commercial building in Austin.

I chose a stairway in the center of the building after hearing banging and yelling from above, and upon reaching the hallway at the top, I found Wayne and his crew in an adjoining room.

It took me almost a minute to figure out what was going on, what with the swinging of pickaxes, plaster and wood chunks flying, glass breaking, and flooring cracking. I’m not going to mention the profanity, unintelligible call-outs from worker to worker, smells of rotting building materials and mildew, gaping holes in the ceiling and roof, and serious challenges to safety.

Okay, I did mention it.

Most of these guys wore threadbare clothes, reeked of serious body odor, were missing teeth and fingers, and a few had only one shoe. Some looked Hispanic, some were Black, and the white guys were so dirty I just guessed at their ethnicity.

But each had a long-handled tool with a thick, three-foot handle that resembled a wide-bladed pickaxe on one side and a small actual axe on the other side. And all of them were swinging them wildly, bashing plaster walls, door and window trim, glass windows and transoms, flooring and studs.

One guy stood out from the rest; a wild-eyed demon with long, stingy hair and a more violent attitude than the rest. But by the way the others asked if they should bash this or that, I figured this was Wayne.

They all stopped their destruction for a second when I first walked in, then resumed swinging the tools that they referred to as ‘grubbing hoes.’

I walked up to the demon and got in his face. Not to intimidate him; I was eighteen and he was easily in his twenties, and though he was dirty and bigger than me, I had my orders. Also I couldn’t be heard over the bashing without getting in close.

“Are you Wayne?” I asked.

“Yeah! What about it?!!” He bowed up.

Everyone stopped dead in mid-swing.

“Phillip sent me up to take over.” I waited for the explosion, but it didn’t come.

Instead, Wayne threw down his grubbing hoe.

“It’s about fracking time!” he yelled, running his dirty fingers through his dirtier hair. He also didn’t use the word ‘fracking,’ if you get my drift. “I can’t teach these bozos ANYTHING!”

The group muttered and laughed, then they looked at me.

‘Guess I’d better say something,’ I thought.

“Okay, you guys! Go to lunch!”

It was always my favorite part of the day, lunch. Besides, it was noon.

As one, they dropped their tools and shuffled out the room, down the hall, and down the stairs. Only Wayne remained.

“I don’t never take lunch,” he said.

“Well, I gotta work some things out with Phillip, and I don’t want any more destruction up here.” I was channeling my mentor Mike Foerster; HE wouldn’t want to see all this pretty trim destroyed. My job had been putting IN trim, and I somehow knew this wasn’t what Phillip wanted, despite his giving me no instructions whatsoever. “Just what was it you were trying to teach these guys?” I asked. Wayne snorted.

“To take out the doors and windows and stuff. But they just started swingin’ and hittin’…

“So were you,” I grinned. He grinned back

‘One up,’ I thought.

“Yeah, I was kinda gettin’ into it once they started. Look, I’m gonna go have a smoke.”

“Do you think any of those guys’ll come back?” I asked.

“THEM?” he laughed. “Not likely. They’re all street.”

“And you?”

“I ain’t street no more.”

“You wanna work? Not bashing, but really taking things out right.”

“What, with these?” He pointed at the grubbing hoes. The guy had a point.

“Just come back in half an hour if you want to work. An hour would be better. I’m staying. I’ll talk to Phillip about tools. And decent help.”

“Good fracking luck,” Wayne waved his way down the hall.

 

Phillip was not surprised when I told him what I thought.

“I saw the pickup trucks picking up bricks and studs and the like when I came in,” I said. “But that stained trim upstairs is really nice, and those bums were bashing it to pieces with these grubbing hoes. You want to get top dollar for that?”

I was a salesman since age seven, selling anything I could market to my neighbors in the suburbs. Being a cute redheaded tyke with a gift of gab helped. Now I had to sell Phillip on my keeping what might be a good job that hadn’t even started. But I needed tools. And I doubted I could train these winos and druggie bums, for that was the crew I’d sent to lunch.

“I’d give these guys tools, but Wayne’s just off the street, and the rest are completely street. Where am I gonna get workers that’ll work cheap and do it right?”

I convinced him to keep Wayne and let me work with him, and I also got a few crowbars from him, all with the promise I’d show him how to remove trim and doors and windows without destroying them.

And hopefully I’d figure out how to do it myself; I’d never done anything like this before.

 

Wayne was the only one that returned; I imagine the work was too much like work to those other guys. We spent the afternoon figuring out how to wrest trim from casements, sashes from window frames, and how to show others how to do the same.

I convinced Phillip to get us some flatbars and screwdrivers, and that I’d be in charge of them. I also needed 5 gallon buckets. Mostly for hardware we’d take off doors and windows.

“Man, you’re gonna lose those tools the first day.”

“Not if you get me some pink spray paint and allow me to dock anyone who doesn’t return ‘em,” I said.

And it worked perfectly. Wayne and I got the system down, he interviewed the (mostly) street people Phillip hired, I kept the four good ones, and everyone was issued a hammer, two flatbars, and a crowbar. We became known as The Trim Crew, then The Framing Crew. It had to do with what we were removing at the time. I kept the screwdrivers and wrenches and doled them out as needed to remove doors from hinges and pipes from sinks and sinks from walls. We worked like a team, starting with hardware, trim, then doors and windows, casements, studs and framing lumber. Second floor first, first floor second. The framing started with removing the roofing, joists, then studs, etcetera. No one got hurt in any major way, and the pickup trucks lined up to bid on the most beautiful trim and doors, all which were removed intact. We worked for four months to salvage every saleable item in that block, and in the end, I realized that old buildings were where I wanted to do my work. It took seven more years, but I finally wet my toes in REAL restoration starting in 1985. Where you actually FIX the buildings and don’t destroy them.

And the pink spray paint?

I used it to mark all the tools we had. Demolition is a VERY dirty business, and if you put down a crowbar, you are unlikely to find it after knocking all that plaster off the lath beneath it.

No one ever got docked for a missing or lost tool. Not ever. Phillip couldn’t believe it, At the end of the job, he offered me a permanent position as his second-in-command.

 

But I had to go. I had to see the country. I was eighteen and my feet itched badly, so I thanked him and went on my Road.

I’ve always regretted that decision, though I would not be the Restoration Tech I am today.

I’m sure I would Own that company. After Phillip retired, that is.

 

 

 

If you liked this story, or even if you didn’t, post a comment. There is a very fun and unexpected epilogue. I’ve already written enough tonight.

 

 

 WARPED WINDOW RAIL, 607 SOUTH OAK, LITTLE ROCK ARKANSAS

Having worked as a restoration tech for a couple of the finest Historic Restoration companies in Connecticut. I am always amazed at  my being laid off. And it's not a seasonal thing, either. In case you office people don't know, a LOT of fully employed craftsmen and construction workers are laid off seasonally, especially roofers, framers, and painters. It is, of course, due to the New England weather.

But my layoffs came out of nowhere, when work slowed or Those in Charge decided to trim the fat, had other ideas to chase, or because I was just too damn good at what I do.

Yeah, sure, That's the ticket. Just too good.

I'm so humble I can't stand myself. Really, I can't.

I'm sure they had their reasons, and I sometimes got rehired when big jobs came up and they needed me.

But I always worked as an independent repair and restoration contractor when I lived elsewhere, so when I was offered a winter job in Little Rock, I loaded up the truck and moved to Oak Street.

This little 1930s nondescript rabbit warren of  house had been a cheap rental of one of my best employers for almost 25 years, but as the University of Arkansas for Medical Sciences (the biggest hospital in the state) expanded, the neighborhood became more valuable, the houses got fixed up, and what had been jokingly referred to as "Soak Street" (South Oak, or S. Oak, get it? Yeah, me neither) became worth restoring. And boy, did it need work.

I'm sure you'll see some of the repairs I did in future posts; they aren't the 'pretty,' 'historic,' or 'unusual' restorations I sometimes do, but a meat and potatoes kind of  restoration.

Master Bedroom before restoration, complete with junk, square fiber-tile ceiling, and plywood subfloor; my bed is in the central room, as they set me up in the house which I restore. Hey, the dogs like the change of venue.

Same room after restoration

Not exactly the Taj Mahal, but it was a hell of a lot nicer throughout the house once done.

One of the main problems was the windows, and the weather caused a good deal of those problems.

Typical winter rain

One thing about Arkansas in winter; expect rain, and a lot of it. The little river in the backyard was a weekly occurrence, since the Mazarn Shale bedrock lay only six inches below the soil. I built boardwalks so the dogs, who travel with me on jobs, could go into the yard without being swept away. Also so I can reach my grill, an absolute necessity.

This house had no gutters, and that caused most of its problems. We spent almost $10,000 dollars just jacking and repairing the foundation framing, which had been nearly underwater for eighty years. Trust me, people; gutters will save your house. Don't believe me? Go out in a heavy summer rain and watch where the water goes. It ain't into the ground. It goes under your house, onto your windows and doors and trim, and all the places it shouldn't. 

GET GUTTERS. And keep them clean.

And so the rain made the few original wood windows unhappy.

One of the better sashes, soon to be restored.

This is what rain does to the end grain of a window joint when not properly caulked and painted. Especially when there are no gutters.

More fun with rain and windows; both these areas of damage were repaired.

See the repairs? Of course you don't; they're on the other side of the sash. But they look just like this side....

This is one of the good ones.

                                                          Not one of the better ones

One in particular needed surgery. It was a bottom sash, and its top rail (the meeting rail with the other window sash above) was magnificently warped. I considered going though a bunch of salvaged sashes to see if I could find one that might be carefully cut to match, but I knew this was fool's errand. Few windows of different sources can be cannibalized to repair other windows. But one day, while figuring where I'd replace the crappy aluminum sashes from the 70s with better replacement windows (only in a nondescript rental; I always try to save and restore wood sashes), I noticed one of the above-the-sink windows was one I'd have to replace, as it was wood, but badly damaged,.

"But the top rail isn't, and it looks like one of the double-hung sashes!"

And so it was. Someone had removed a window somewhere and had turned two old double hungs (one sash over the other, with the lower sash the one that opens) into a erstwhile casement sash that hung on hinges and opened inwards.

And it had to go.

I had my cannibal victim.

Just a bit straighter

I removed the wood dowels at the corners of the rail (the dark holes in the corners of the window above) as well as at the end of the muntin (the wood in the middle dividing the panes of glass) and cut the caulk that had been used instead of putty (DON"T EVER USE CAULK TO PUTTY WINDOWS!!), and with some wiggling and dancing around saying incantations, the rail slipped out intact.

I sanded the tenons and mortises (the joiny parts, sheesh), treated them with penetrating wood hardener (tightens the grain and hardens the fibers, Minwax makes a good product for this, as does Abatron), primed them and did a dry fit before gluing them up on a straightening table (makes sure the window is square). I added wood dowels and glued them where they had been removed.

Rail replaced just before sanding and priming

I then sanded the entire sash, oil primed it, and put new glass in with my favorite glazing compound, Sarco Type "M". You can only get it online, but it works great and sets up in four days. Of course I backputtied the glass before setting it and used metal points to keep the glass in.

I'll give a lesson in glazing windows in a future post.

In five days, I painted the sash with two coats of exterior acrylic semi-gloss and rehung the windows.

I pretended not to notice the steel siding we needed to remove, but hey, I had at least removed the ivy (the strange marks on the siding). The windows were more important.

And now I had windows that did not let in the wasps, ants, and possums.

It IS Arkansas, after all, y'all.

And I apologise for my overuse of parentheses.

(Really I do)

 FALLS MILL, TENNESSEE

                                                     My first picture of Falls Mill, 1991

Back in my salad days of the early Nineties, I had been a Historic Repair Guy of some talent in Little Rock, Arkansas, but I apparently did too good a job. Because of this, one of my clients asked me to move to Washington D.C.to do a lot of work on her townhouse 16 blocks from the White House. This lasted for a year and got me a series of serious restoration jobs in South Carolina, where I honed and developed my skills in Historic Restoration. It was in the Palmetto State that I was given the moniker "The Old House Doctor," and I've been publishing under that name ever since.

On my way to D.C., I stopped at an old mill near Winchester, Tennessee, and paid my four dollars to tour it. I met the owners, the Lovetts, seriously admired the building, and also met the Miller. I say Miller because this guy, Butch Janey, knew more about water-powered mills than anyone I have ever met. And if you can run an 1873 mill, dress the stones, repair the race and belts, and fix the 42-foot overshot waterwheel, well, you got my respect, dude.

Plus the ground corn and wheat are out of this world. They sell it before it's made.

I noticed the mill had what we in restoration refer to as 'returns,' i.e. horizontal wood ledges at the end of barge rafters, those roof supports that stand out from the actual building. Under the  eaves, you know; those things. And the returns on this mill were in terrible shape, as many are. They are Horizontal and so catch water. Look nice, with a Classical flair, but are nothing but trouble to keep up.

I mentioned this to the Lovetts, but they only shrugged. Another smart-assed tourist telling them what to do with their building. And to tell the truth, I was still quite wet behind the ears in the trade at age twenty-seven.

So I spent my year in D.C., and on the way back stopped at the mill again. Said the same thing, got the same result.

But while in D.C. I'd met Peggy, who would soon hire me to do a top-to-bottom restoration on The Cason House in Hodges, South Carolina, and I would travel there with my dog, busted van, and tools to do the job. I kept going back past Falls Mill, which was on the way, visiting the Lovetts, Butch, and the Mill each time.

After me mentioning the rotting returns just one too many times, this time on the way back from my three-year duty in South Carolina, they said, "We can't get anyone to fix the returns because they're so high up. Maybe YOU want to give us a bid?"

I had to admit they would be a challenge to reach.

But after my success in South Carolina, where I had not only restored the 1835 Cason House, but replastered and repainted the interior of the 1812 Stevenson Station, restored the interior of a nameless 1885 farmhouse near Abbeville, roofed the pyramidal 1870 Hodges Pump House in downtown Hodges (population 152, including me), and done a major upgrade to the 1810 Mansfield Plantation in Georgetown after Hurricane Hugo...

I figured I was ready to tackle Falls Mill. I really wanted a National Register property as a feather in my cap, and though Mansfield was that, I had not been the sole craftsman.

Oh, the gossamer dreams of the young!

So, after my return to Little Rock in 1991, I sent them a ridiculously low bid, saying they had to put me up in their restored Bed and Breakfast cabin.

"What in the world is a 'Bed and Breakfast?' I wondered.

Needles to say, I found Falls Mill to be my biggest challenge to that date.

Front of Falls mill twenty years after repairs

Back in those days, I took very few pictures of my projects, having a few good analog cameras but seldom using them on jobs. I'm sure I actually have some paper photos of this job in my collection, and if I find them, I'll add them to this post.

The returns were blackened with water damage, insect invasion, and most were hanging at odd angles.

But you get the picture (sorry) as to why no locals wanted to work on the returns. The lowest in the picture above is about eighteen feet above grade and the highest is ten feet above that. I brought a twenty-eight foot ladder from Arkansas but ended up renting a thirty-two for some of the job.

The tops of the returns likely had metal covers at one time, but these has long disappeared. I removed the desiccated wood, reframed about half of the structure in each return, and trimmed out the exterior. One thing that gave them extra life; I primed all the end grain (ends of the boards) as well as all sides of the wood before installing them. End grain is like a sponge and is almost always the place rot starts. The tops of the returns were sheathed with older pine I salvaged from somewhere local (better wood that had been cured and dried over time, MUCH better than plywood), and wrapped the tops with galvanized sheet steel after painting them. Granted, they could now use a paint job, but I think they stood up pretty well for twenty years.

Call the Lovetts if you want to try your hand at painting them; they'll likely hire you. I'm sure THEY aren't going up there

   I had to replace some of the crown moulding on the front eave, and being more of the daredevil than I                                  am now, I did it from the metal roof above. It was still difficult.

But, of course, it was not the front that scared away the local carpenters.

                     Forty-two foot overshot waterwheel. One of the only times it was not turning.

If this steel water wheel is forty-two feet high, you can bet the apex of the gable roof above is nearly ninety. And it sure felt it, because I had to replace ALL the crown moulding on this side. Yes, I did it from the roof, and I was in harness. It was scary as hell.

The real challenge was reaching the return on the right side. That poplar tree is MUCH bigger than it looks, and its base is twenty feet below the race. To reach the return, I had to build a wood platform from the tree to the machine shed (where all the belts and pulleys are), then haul my ladder up to THAT platform to build another from just below the shed roof to the tree. Hauling the 28 foot ladder again, until I could reach the return.

The job took a little under two weeks, and I purposefully did it in February. This building, which houses not only the mill, but a store and an industrial machine museum, was always filled with wasps buzzing around doing their evil little waspy tasks. I am no fan of wasps, especially on a tall ladder on a platform thirty feet above a moving 42-foot water wheel with so much power it could cut me to shreds in a few seconds. Thus doing the job in February; that way I could avoid the little vespids.

But, But, BUT!

It was the warmest February in decades, and the wasps, though a bit sluggish, still woke up and stung everyone on the site as I disturbed their nests hidden in the exterior woodwork. This included the Lovetts, Butch the Miller, and a lot of tourists including about twenty Boy Scouts touring the museum as a group. 

I was the only person not stung in that twelve day job.

Go figure.

 KENT'S LEAK

In the late twenty-oughts, I worked as Project Manager for CM Construction, one of the premier historic restoration outfits in Arkansas.

Okay we were THE best, but mostly because I was there. 

Sometimes I'm so humble I can't stand myself. Really, I can't.

One of our best repeat customers was Kent. He had an early 1960s Modern home, and we'd done some fine work on this house, which is built into a sandstone ledge in Little Rock, a town famous for its..rock. Seriously, the Jackfork Sandstone that makes up the Ouachita Mountains, which begin in Little Rock, is some of the hardest and most massive stone deposits in the Midwest. And Kent's house was built into it.

He'd been having seepage problems in his lower floor, and I was called in because I am familiar with leaks of all sorts. Whether it comes from a sink or bathtub, gutter or stucco wall, I can usually sniff it out. Sometimes literally.

I figured this seepage was coming from the Jackfork ledge, and as I am quite the student of geology, I was asked to figure it out. So I donned my muddy clothes (not that they are muddy, they are just what I use to wallow around under houses) and crawled into the space below his upper floor. 

It was, not surprisingly, wet. No, that's not true, it was SOAKED. With a little crawling, I figured out the extent of the saturated area and found its highest point, which was adjacent to the foundation wall closest to...wait for it... where the house was dug into the ledge. Taking out my trusty Genuine U.S. Army gung-ho John Wayne folding shovel, I dug a hole and was not surprised to see it fill with water in the time it takes to say 'inundation.' It made quite a muddy little pool in no time at all.

                                                                    Beautiful, isn't it?

In a few minutes, the little hole was filled. And since I was being paid by the hour, I watched.

That's not true, though I was being paid by the hour. I needed to watch it for two reasons.

One, I had to see how fast it would fill, and if it would overtop the edge of the hole. That would show me how much water was coming in and at what pressure.

Two, I wanted to see if it had such a source that I could actually SEE the water move. And if it was muddy or clear.

If muddy, it wasn't a spring. 

I was amazed to see it fill rather quickly, and could actually see movement in the water.

In fact, the water was swirling and small eddies appeared.

By the time I waited fifteen minutes, I knew we had not just a leak, but a spring. So I did what any good contractor would do. I went to deal with another job.

But I came back the next day and watched it again. But this time, the little pool was clear, as the dirt in the water had settled. Loan behold, there was the little spring just a-swirlin' away.

So I figured it really was a spring after all. Damn. Not good news.

I went behind the house and dug around on the other side of foundation, but I pretty much knew the leak wouldn't be so close to the surface. So I did what any good Project manager would do; I called in my Minions.

I got Randy, my best Minion, to bring a team out, and they dug and dug until they found the source. And surprisingly, I had good news for  Kent.

You see, if it had been a natural spring coming out of the Jackfork Sandstone, we would have had to build a catchment and diversion to take the water away, and that would have cost thousands. Besides, springs have a  way of reappearing when you plug or divert them; it's nature's way of telling you that water will always seek a lower level.

But Kent lucked out. My team found an 'abandoned' storm drain behind the house only about two and a half feet down and a foot above the bedrock. Its concrete was intact, but roots had expanded a joint just behind where the 'spring' was located. We called the City Public Works but they denied its existence, and  therefore, their responsibility. And despite my asking who ELSE might be responsible for this particular drain ("Hey, the builder might have put it in!"), Randy dug out the offending section, replaced it with more technologically advanced PVC, sealed it and refilled the hole. 

And for the first time since 1989, Kent has no more seepage in his lower floor.

I didn't study hydrology in college for nothing.

It cost a lot of money.

Then I went in to Home Repair. 

Hydrologists don't make squat.

But studying pays off.

 PINEAPPLE

Back in the late twenty-teens, I worked in Steve Marshall's Historic Window Shop in Mansfield Four Corners, just north of the University of Connecticut. Our specialty then, as is mine, is the repair and rejuvenation of historic windows, and as far as I know, he's still doing it, and is one of the finest in the state at this particular craft. I'm no slouch myself, but he plies the northern waters and I am a coastal guy. We would occasionally get some interesting non-window projects to work on, such as this wood newel-topper that graced the top of some column somewhere. He gave it to me to restore, since he had other things to do. Personally I think he took one look at it, saw how much work it would be, and told me to get busy. I don't blame him; it was a pain in the ass. It had to be clamped and glued, then filled and sanded, then primed and painted, each coat needing more sanding. Sanding was the biggest pain, as it has so many angles and a layer of unremovable paint that needed to be evened out. Let me explain.

We often steamed our windows to remove glazing putty before we'd repair, fill, sand, prime, reinstall glass, putty, and add paint coats. It's the industry standard, and we're good at it. I've built many steamers and worked in more than one glass shop, including my own.

But if you put this pineapple, as we called it, into the steamer, you'll end up with a bunch of warped, curved, and grain-widened pieces that become unglued in the steamer and can't be put back together again, all the King's horses be damned. And we didn't want to build another.

So it was sand, sand, sand, all with little pieces of sandpaper and fingergloves made of many, many latex gloves cut to pieces.

I think it looks pretty good, and so did Steve, who is quite the perfectionist. 

 CARROLL COUNTY COURTHOUSE

COURTROOM PRESSED METAL CEILING

                                           Carroll County Courthouse, Berryville Arkansas

                                            Now the Carroll County Historical Museum

I lived in Eureka Springs, Arkansas from 2000 until 2005, and in my third year in this mountainous area bordering Missouri, I was asked to restore the pressed metal ceiling of the old courthouse in Berryville. Built in 1880 as a two-story solid brick structure, the third floor was added in the early oughts of the 1900s. The building was allowed to fall into disrepair, some say so they could build a new courthouse elsewhere. I imagine it was a bear to maintain and that older people couldn't get up the stairs. The Carroll County Historical Society rescued it and wrote a lot of grants and begged a lot of craftsmen repair what they could, to build exhibits and move historic displays into the building, and today, for less than five dollars, you can spend an afternoon perusing the contents of many an old shop, collection, or attic, presented and preserved well enough that you feel like you're back in 1880.

The roof was one of the main problems, as were the bats. Thousands of bats had taken up residence in the huge attic, and once the roof was repaired, (or just before, more like), the bats were evicted. But a lot of damage was already done, and that's where I came in.

Rain had filtered through the enormous quantities of bat guano (droppings), and this mixture was volatile enough to not only rust a good deal of the decorative metal ceiling, but in some places the highly filigreed details were so fragile that touching them would cause the metal to crumble.

I accessed the attic, noted that the extensive framework holding the metal was mostly intact, and reinforced it where it wasn't. I removed all the guano (my vacuum and respirator got a serious workout) and coated the backs of the metal panels with liquid Rust Reformer, a product containing silica glycol. This is used by the auto body repair industry to stop rust and convert it into a hard, resilient surface that will not rust again. I then used polyurethane caulk to create a strong backing where the panels had been compromised. Then the hard part began.

East Side

This is the east side of the courtroom after the ceiling was restored. In the background is the 1920s telephone exchange, in front of that is the barber shop, and just to the left, out of the picture, is the apothecary. Many cases filled with artifacts make small walls of history around the room.

This, of course presented a problem on top of another, bigger problem. How was I to get to the ceiling at all, since it was nearly fifteen feet high? And how in the world was I to move around the room?

I rented a two-stage scaffold on wheels, built an oversized platform just high enough to make working comfortable, and created some work tables cantilevered out beyond so I could move around the platform. Using wire brushes, sandpaper, and wire wheels that I attached to a large flex-shaft powered by a 1/3 horsepower motor, I removed the flaking lead paint and scuffed the paint still attached. Of course, I used what technology there was in 2003 to protect the museum, the building, and myself. I built a fresh-air intake and a huge exhaust fan with multiple  layers of filters (it was summer, of course, and I sweated a LOT) and set up a special vacuum with HEPA filters, its hose able to be positioned wherever my paint removal took place.

Luckily, 90% of the ceiling was as solid as the day it was attached to the frame below; only parts were compromised by the guano/water. These areas had to be treated with kid gloves, painstakingly wire-brushed and then coated with the same silica glycol to harden them and stop the rust on their business side. I then used acrylic/silicone caulks layered thin in multiple applications to fill the damaged sections and recreate the details of the damaged panels. Once this was done, the damaged panels were solid enough to knock on with my knuckles. They also looked like no damage was ever done to them.

South Side

Here we can see more cases, a huge handmade oak loom (one of the hardest items to move), violin shop, and the judge's bench. The entire courtroom was still furnished, complete with jury box and lawyers' tables. I had very little human help to move things, but I must admit that if I had none, I'd never have finished it. I am a bit of a physicist, and know a lot about levers and fulcrums. I used a few of those 'furniture glides' that were new on the market in 2003, but depended more on piles of rags under the feet of most of the cases and heavier objects. I could not move the apothecary, bench, or telephone exchange (nor the violin shop, barber shop, or many other built-ins), so I moved the scaffold in pieces into those areas and carefully worked around the exhibits.

I really don't know how I did it all. It took me almost six months and gave me a serious painful neck condition that lasted for years. Not pictured in this post are the three OTHER rooms, which, though smaller, were just as difficult. Luckily the staircase had no pressed metal, but I still had to build extensive scaffolds to repair the plaster ceiling there, and it was hand-made and MUCH more complex. I'm still searching for those pictures and will post them when I find them.

The painting was the easiest part. I used Benjamin Moore D.T.M, an alkyd direct-to-metal paint, applied in two coats by brush. The brush allowed me to get the paint into the deeper sections of the panels and to regulate the depth of each coat, something spraying would not do. I used a metal primer where rust had occurred or acrylic caulk was used.

Painting was the easiest part, though it had to be coordinated carefully to allow for the least scaffold movement in the period in which I could apply the two coats with adequate drying time.

And yes, the third floor was closed to the public during the entire job!

West Side

Here the jury box is visible on the left side of the picture, beyond the railing.

The pressed metal ceiling was made by the W.F. Norman Company, which still makes pressed metal panels in their factory in Nevada (pronounced neh-VAY- da), Missouri. Many of the pressed metal ceilings still existing in America came from that factory, and at one time they had hundreds of panel designs. The company still makes panels (and is still owned by the Norman family), but not quite as many varieties. And they did not make this pattern when I did this job. This might have been a good thing; I discovered that removing panels is about as difficult a task as can be done, since it would usually compromise the adjacent panels as well as destroy the one you're trying to remove. They make the panels on enormous presses; the same presses from the turn of the century. The steel is dipped in molten tin to keep them from rusting.

The most damage to the ceiling was found in the lower areas of relief, due to the fact that  water will always find the lowest level as it flows. The square edges of the panels often had a lot of damage, but it was the fasces (fas-KEES) between the square panels that had the most damage and were the most challenging to repair. A fasces is a bundle of sticks wrapped with leather straps; the Romans carried these symbols of their Empire into battle as well as before parades, usually with an axe positioned in the middle of the bundle, head protruding high. You can see one on old dimes, those with the Mercury Head.

If you are interested, the entire ceiling is over seven thousand square feet.