D e s e r t E x p o s u r e
April
2009
This #@%*&! Old House
In home repair, a "can-do" attitude can take you a long way — right into deep trouble.
I have recently taken up residence in a new house, which is to say the only thing that's new about it is my presence. It was actually built 25 years ago, which puts the building somewhere between eligibility as a historic landmark and urban renewal. The thing about adopting new digs is that you are signing up to inherit the handiwork of people who went before you. You'll never actually meet these people, but you will swear at them and compare their legacy to a pack of imbecile chimpanzees. There are people who enjoy renovating an old house, but it is important to remember that there are also people who like to flagellate themselves for purity, too.
My daddy is a true American handyman, the sort of fellow whom the overly effeminate Bob Vila wishes he could be. Dad taught me how to handle a hammer and how to rewire a house. He and I built walls, hung drywall and laid tile together. We even re-shingled a roof together in June once, which introduced me to the wonderful world of heat stroke. Working next to him, I saw that there was always a solution to any repair job, and how to do things right the first time.
So when I recently took up residence in a cozy little domicile, I had already identified a lot of the problems I knew would have to be addressed. The old evaporative cooler was as rusted out as a 10-year old GM product in Illinois. The roof leaked on the back porch. The old water softener looked like a hand grenade had been exploded inside of it, and the walls had more holes in them than federal bailout legislation.
But I was undaunted, as I have an impressive array of tools and a determined "can-do" attitude that usually gets me in over my head.
The first thing I had to deal with was an ancient water softener that looked a bit like a derelict droid from Star Wars. It had ceased functioned sometime shortly after the earth cooled, and the water was bypassed. Immediately after moving in, the water began bypassing the bypass and went directly onto the garage floor. In a pinch, I simply bypassed the earlier bypass, thereby bypassing the garage floor. I then dropped the entire water softener into a large hole at the landfill.
The result of all this, however, was that I needed a water softener. A quick look at the plumbing that was originally installed by Macedonian hydrological engineers with a unique vision of how copper should be used to conduct water in the most circuitous route possible led me to consult with a professional plumber. After securing my non-refundable deposit, a local purveyor of home appliances who shall remain anonymous but with the initials SEARS sent out a craftsman who took two minutes to point out he couldn't plumb into the existing nest of copper pipes. The local home appliance retailer never returned my calls after this unsatisfying experience, which means I too will resort to flagellation before I ever call them again.
So I don't have soft water. Big deal. I need to work on the lawn sprinkler system, which was relatively easy to diagnose. The lawn was dead, so it was pretty clear that the sprinklers weren't working. Not showing much pride in workmanship, the previous owners had nailed a timer to the wall inside the house and run wires out through a hole punched in the stucco. The wires went to a box where valves that didn't work were attached to pipes devoid of moisture, which was perfect, as the aforementioned timer didn't work either.
Adopting a scorched-earth approach (which seemed ironic given the condition of the sun-baked lawn), I replaced everything. I installed a new timer box outside, ran new wires, installed new valves, and located the main shutoff valve. When I pressurized the system, there were a few small geysers where missing sprinkler heads used to be. As I fixed those spots, a loud popping sound alerted me to the fact that a very large pipe had opted out of the process, and a geyser of water shooting six feet in the air was watering the lawn very, very well in a small area. After shutting off the water to the entire house, I sat down and started drinking, and reflected on the wisdom of xeriscaping.
My adventures shall not end there. We have targeted a wood floor for destruction that looks like it was purchased and installed by blind people. Every single window in the house refuses to stay in any position that isn't down. There are fluorescent lights in the kitchen and laundry room, obviously chosen by a homesick resident of the Soviet Union who liked the depressing, green, washed-out pallor they cast. Up on the roof, shingles are missing like the gap-toothed smile of an eight-year-old boy. Worst of all, a pre-war swamp cooler is hunkered down up there, more rust than steel, held together tenuously by what looks to be at least eight pounds of duct tape. It rattles and squeaks and begs to be replaced by an expensive refrigerated-air unit. This is going to get expensive.
Conventional wisdom says that it's always a good idea to invest in home repair and improvement, but that was before housing values slid down the septic tank. I actually like the challenge of reviving this neglected piece of property, but it constantly amazes me how the complete lack of talent never stops homeowners from attempting their own innovative repairs.
Of course, some poor bastard will take over this domicile years from now and shake his head at the slap-dash nature of the sprinkler system, and decide to just call a licensed plumber who will dig up all the beer cans I throw into the trenches. Hillbillies, indeed!
Henry Lightcap homesteads in Las Cruces.