Cabin_ Two Brothers, a Dream, and Five Acres in Maine - Lou Ureneck [42]
The next weekend we returned with reinforcements. In addition to renting the backhoe again, Paul’s three sons joined us: Paulie, Kevin, a mason who had been laid off from his job, and Andrew, the oldest son and recently back from Iraq, where he had served as a corpsman in a marine combat unit. They were strong young men and good workers. Well, maybe Paulie did more joshing and joking than working, but he was good company. I was elated to have them with me.
The holes were full of water, clear at the top and muddy at the bottom, with icy rims. To make matters worse, it had rained and then snowed just enough during the week to cover the ground and make it slick. The ground was frozen to a depth of a couple inches. Paul started the pump and dropped the big hose into the water. Andrew climbed on the backhoe. He was far more adept at swinging the bucket than I and began cleaning the old holes and digging new ones. Kevin helped Andrew from the ground, using a shovel inside the holes to clear mud and straighten the walls. Wearing boots, he climbed down into the water, scooped the mud and lifted it out. It was cold and dirty work, but he went at it with enthusiasm. He paused only to goad Paulie, who was building a fire to stay warm and playing with his dog, Koda. “Hey, Paulie,” Kevin hollered over the roar of the pump. “Don’t strain yourself over there while the rest of us are working.” I pushed wheelbarrow loads of stone and poured them into the holes. Kevin climbed out of the hole each time and filled the wheelbarrow from the pile at the top of the driveway. In no time, Koda got tangled in the foundation lines Paul had set, and in his struggle pulled up two of the grade stakes. “For Chrissake, Paulie, get a hold on that dog!” Kevin shouted. I was prepared to shoot the dog. Fortunately for Koda, I was unarmed. Paulie chased Koda down and leashed him to a tree, where he spent the next hour barking disconsolately at nothing in particular. We worked furiously into the afternoon, barely making progress against the constant flow of water. The pump was sucking, gorging on muddy water and spewing it through a pipe about twenty yards from the cabin site. We paused around one o’clock, and over the campfire heated a big tin of rigatoni Paul had cooked the night before and had brought along. We considered the situation. The rigatoni disappeared quickly but the situation did not improve with discussion. We had worked like mules and set only four of the sixteen piers. It was now two p.m., and the sun was just over the treetops and soon to be behind the mountain. It was December 6. Tomorrow would be colder than today, and the day after that colder still. The days were getting shorter. Soon the ground would freeze too deep for the small backhoe to break it. We knocked off at sunset, discouraged and silent.
I decided to call my reliable but expensive driveway excavator. He counseled sanity: wait until spring. I was unwilling. The start of the cabin had lifted my spirits; the work was taking me outside into the cold air, and I enjoyed my trips to Stoneham, even when I went alone and even when things didn’t go perfectly. This was why I wanted a cabin, to be outdoors and working with my brother and nephews, and all of that argued against suspending the work. Even if we stopped, I would still be up there walking in the woods and puttering around at the cabin site. I might as well be working on the cabin.
None of this made any sense to him, I think, and he asked what exactly it