May 7, 2007
Spring Ritual: The Dock
to End All Docks
Springtime around here involves a number of rituals. There is the
Baring Of Pasty White Skin I documented a few weeks ago. There is
the Chipping Of Horrible Stuff From The Barbecue. There is the
First Harley Past The Bedroom Window At 3:00 a.m. And there is the
always-exciting recitation of Where Do You Suppose I Left The Lawn
Mower? – a favorite in our family for generations.
But by far the most harrowing rite we perform each year, an event we
schedule as soon as we spot the first exposed belly button in the IGA
parking lot, is the sacred Putting The Dock In The Lake.
Now for some people who put docks in lakes, this process is relatively
straightforward - they go get the dock from where they put it last fall,
and then they put it in the lake.
Can you imagine?
These people have docks that were designed and built by engineers –
people who have some idea how docks should be built. All the parts match
and they fit together as the designers intended, yielding years of easy
installation and dock-walking comfort.
For me, the process is a little more complicated. In the first place,
about half of my dock came with my house when I bought it. It was at
least twenty-five years old, and had apparently been built and
maintained by a troll.
The dock, not the house. The house was built by drunks.
After a year or two, my friend Tom, my son and I got the hang of tossing
that baby out in the lake. (Again, the dock, not the house. Or, for that
matter, the baby. What’s wrong with you?) We knew what piece went where.
We knew which poles had the bolts corroded into little lumps of slag, so
that the only way to adjust the height was to prop beer cans under the
feet. We knew which sections were perfectly good if you just walked on
them very, very gently.
Life was simpler then.
Unfortunately, that original dock did not get us far enough out into the
lake, so we spent the next 12 years scavenging from friends who were
buying those nice new docks. They were happy to have us come over and
haul away all the parts of their old dock that were too crappy to burn.
So
now the dock goes far enough out into the lake to suit us, but it looks
like it was assembled by a committee of trolls. Drunk ones.
We
have at least four different widths of dock with four different styles
of supports, and none of these components even remotely work together.
This means that every 30 feet or so we’ve had to design a “transition,”
a connection between otherwise incompatible sections, carefully
engineered by whacking on various parts with a hammer until they sort of
fit together.
This process is very time consuming. It requires a lot of standing
around in waders and staring at piles of stuff we vaguely recall from
last year when we dragged the whole mess out of the lake, gesturing with
beer cans that are on their way to becoming height-adjusters. This is
followed by a great deal of whacking with hammers.
This year my neighbor, no longer able to participate in the annual gala,
sat in his picture window and watched our most recent effort. In fact, I
think he may have popped some corn and had a few friends over.
As
we were finishing up and toasting our collective genius at the end of
two days of work, my neighbor joined us, wiping good-natured tears of
laughter from his eyes. “You know,” he said, “a couple of years ago you
wrote in your column that you were going to label all your dock parts
and take pictures of how they went together. Why don’t you do that – it
sure would save you a lot of time next year.”
Now you would think we would follow his sage advice, wouldn’t you?
You would be wrong.
© 2007, Michael Ball
© 2007 Michael Ball.
Distributed exclusively by North Star Writers Group. May not be republished without permission.
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