Raze the Roofbeam, Carpenter
When I got my refugee status on the South End, I bought an old 1910 shack with a wellhouse behind it and one other building, a big shed out in the field built from alder poles buried directly in the ground. 38 years later we still have the shack, but the wellhouse got rebuilt and the shed, no surprise, is gone. Over those four decades the shed with its 20 foot wide GOLDEN CARGO fruit crate label painted on the side by Joe, my old roommate, served as art object, a goat shed, a repair garage, a boatbuilding barn, a junkyard, a truck garage and a storage unit. It got remodeled time and time again until finally the cedar shake roof with the 4 inch carpet of mosses and bonsai trees began to leak.
A few years back I decided it was time to tear it down. Sad, I know, but I figured to salvage some barnwood milled from cedars off the place before rot or a windstorm beat me to it. One big alder pole held the center of the roof. I figured if I could pull that down the rest would drop like a house of cards so after I’d salvaged what I could, I pulled up with my trusty little pickup, wrapped a chain around that alder pole and to my bumper hitch. I was maybe 20 feet outside the shed, plenty far enough for safety I figured, so I snugged up taut then popped the clutch.
The centerpole snapped away easy enough as I watched from my rearview mirror. Good, I thought, expecting to see the shed drop straight down. Instead I saw the dark shadow of the building coming right at the truck. Holy criminey, I thought, it’s going to collapse on the truck and me, one final act of revenge for the shed.
It didn’t quite reach my Toyota and me. But it scared me pretty good. I hopped out, revved up the chainsaw and went to work, adrenaline running fast. An hour later and too many nails in the chain to count, I gave up. If I thought a dryrotted old structure would come apart easily, I learned the hard way it wouldn’t. I tried pulling some of the mossy old shakes off and they were holding fast. For a crummy old building, it was reluctant to accept demolition. So I did what any dyed-in-the-wool South Ender would do. No, I didn’t leave it there to rot away the rest of my lifetime, I put the saw away, grabbed some matches and kerosene and set the whole miserable she-bang on fire. It took about an hour. Incredible flames shot out once the roof caught, an inferno twenty feet high. No one noticed. No 911 calls were placed by alarmed motorists or nosey neighbors. And another iconic edifice disappeared into the lost history of Camano Island.
Hits: 99
I live in the suburbs where neighbors are all around, but every year I must somehow clear the brush from the horrible trees that have to be trimmed. Naturally I burn the pile (to the consternation of said neighbors. )They complain, but don’t call the authorities because they don’t have a leg to stand on. One of my neighbors set his whole backyard on fire through a composting mishap. They know I never complain about them so perhaps they are giving me leeway.
Tom Sawyer (not my real name)
Tom, my neighbors seek revenge with a burn barrel. They load it up with plastic bags, diapers, chemical debris and let it smolder when the wind will blow it across the road and onto my place. Fair is fair in fire and war.