Wenches with wrenches, for Mother's day

Okay, I know that I'm not exactly mainstream when it comes to gift giving.  I wasn't really terribly surprised, then, to hear that my daughter's best friend was horrified and offended by the Christmas present I gave my daughter.  What kind of mother would give her kid radiation sickness pills for Christmas? she wanted to know.  (Um, . . . maybe the kind of mom who doesn't want her daughter to die from radiation poisoning?  I mean, that would be my answer.)  So, yeah, maybe not all parents give their children emergency preparedness kits as a way of saying "Happy Holidays".  I get that.

Although I do think it was an awesome gift, and kind of funny, too. 

I tread carefully when it comes to gift giving, because I really don't want to spend money on stupid excessive waste that just adds to landfills, or promote mindless consumption of non-renewable resources.  On the other hand, I don't really want to go around offending people either.   So it was with a bit of trepidation, a few weeks ago, that I asked I-daughter what she wanted for her upcoming birthday.

She didn't even hesitate one second.  "I'm SO glad you asked!"  I heard this and wondered if this meant I'd be headed for the mall for the first time in . . . I dunno, a decade.  But instead she said, "One of the boards in my back porch stairs is starting to rot, and I was hoping you could replace it."

A birthday gift for my daughter: a new stair tread.

K-daughter, sitting nearby, overheard this and immediately joined in, "Oh, now I'm jealous!  That's the kind of thing I want to ask for, but I don't have back porch stairs that someone could fix."

So, apparently I raised my daughters right.  Or at least, right for me.  Yay!

It turns out that I-daughter's front porch stairs also need to be replaced, and we turned this into a Mother's Day gathering.  Eventually, we'll need to get new lumber and replace the whole set of stairs, but this past Sunday the three of us gathered to take measurements and shore up the existing stairs to make things more steady.  The old fence around my yard that I dismantled a few years ago keeps being reincarnated in new forms; the latest form is porch stairs, apparently.

Me watching K-daughter use the
circular saw.
I think I really look like
*my* mom in this photo!

It was good to be together.  K-daughter loves to work on projects with me, and so I led her through using the circular saw, and the cordless drill, and -- because the battery on the cordless drill died -- how to use a chuck to switch out drill bits on a very old but very serviceable corded drill.  (It is possible that my daughters might have gotten future Christmas gift ideas from this experience, but I'll let that be a surprise to me and/or others in the future.)

It was also good to futz around with an imperfect repair before we bought supplies for the replacement steps.  We spent no money, but got valuable insights that will help make the eventual, more permanent stairs, better (the ground slopes so the supports need to be at different heights, etc).

I-daughter says that her neighbors have priced out getting a new porch roof (she'll go in on this with them, because it's a duplex and therefore they share the roof). She says they also priced out getting new porch stairs, and the estimate was $2000.  So I could do the whole yada-yada thing and say I gave her one of the most expensive gifts blah blah . . .

But really, the gift was a big mutual one.  It's the gift of time we spend together as a family, even with my "kids" grown and out of the house.  It's the gift that we actually like spending time together, which is kind of a miracle, I figure.   It's the gift of getting psyched about using power tools, or about finding needs that we can somehow fulfill.  It's the gift that my daughters give me by loving me for who I am, mall-phobic and all.

I-daughter and K-daughter on the stairs, with my fancy
"construction vehicle" in front.

I just can't pear it anymore!

Good-bye, pear tree!

Last summer, I wrote about how tricky it is to harvest pears; they're finicky about ripening.  Our pear tree itself has grown massive, shading our garden, dangling its pears several stories above our heads, and producing fruit that alternates between hard green rocks and brown slime balls.

Since we had other tree issues as well -- our maple tree (the one that holds our adored tree house) has branches that have been scraping the roof of the house -- we got a few estimates for tree trimming (maple) and tree removal (pear).  I mean, when I got this tree, I *loved* the idea of a pear tree in the abstract, but the reality has been less than romantic nine-ladies-dancing, in spite of the fact that my true love gave it to me.

Tree work is expensive.  I wasn't too surprised when the four-figure estimates started rolling in. We found a tree company that we liked and offered them the job . . . and then waited until they could work us into their queue.  Estimated wait time: four to five weeks.

And then we lucked out.  If you look at the very right edge of the picture above, across the alley you'll see the bark of a tree that belongs to our neighbors.  Or rather, I should say belonged, because the tree died in place, and the neighbors decided they needed to take it down.  Yesterday, I woke up to the sound of heavy machinery (cranes, chipper/shredders, and chain saws), and by the end of the day their tree was safely horizontal instead of dangerously vertical.

But while the tree crew was out there, a whole bunch of other neighbors (including me) started mobbing the crew, asking them for quotes on our own trees.  ("As long as you're here, how much would it be . . . ?").    And the crew very gladly took down a bunch of other trees, as well as trimming quite a few more.

The crane that worked on trimming
our maple tree.
Its feet stick out like a water bug.

Tree crews are just really fun to watch.  There are people high up in the air, in cranes, wielding chainsaws and ropes with pulleys, yelling lumber-jack-y things at one another.  The limbs come down bit by bit, sometimes dropping directly down, sometimes being lowered by ropes attached to pulleys that swing around other limbs.

Down on the ground are the kinds of trucks that my sisters and I loved to play with (in Tonka versions) in our own dirt piles, when we were kids. My favorite was a little beast that looked like a cross between a bull-dozer and a pair of giant salad tongs:  its job was to troll across the yard, scoop up branches, and haul them back to the chipper-shredder.

And just like painting a room, the real work in tree trimming and cutting isn't in the painting or trimming; it's in the set-up and clean up.   Getting all these amazing machines in place must be an amazing feat of scheduling in the first place.

Which is why I wasn't too surprised at the high price estimate when we started scoping out tree work, and why I jumped at the chance to grab this crew while they were already set up -- we'll end up paying only about half of what we'd have paid if the other crew had come around.  It's not everyday you can find a way to spend $500 less than you'd planned, just by running out in your back yard and waving your arms at workers in hard hats.

So the pear tree came down, and by the time I grabbed my camera, it was already being winched along the ground to the chipper/shredder.  In this picture below, the top of the pear tree looks like a bush just beyond the garage.

But you can see it's a bush on the move (thanks to the winch).

And what's left of the pear tree now?  A stump . . .

. . . with two rock-hard pears left behind.

The whole loss-aversion thing that we humans carry around with us makes me feel a bit sad to see the tree go. I mean, it was a living thing, one that I planted myself, and now I'm responsible for killing it.  Taking down this leafy green giant is not like what my neighbors did, taking down dead or dying trees.

But what's left behind is an open, sunny place that my garden will be able to expand into.  And the sunshine, which my vegetables yearn for, makes me happy.  

So, notes to self:

• Before I plant more trees, figure out how big they'll get first.
• Before I plant more fruit trees, learn more about collecting the fruit.
• Before I hire tree trimmers, check with all my neighbors to see if we want to work out a neighborhood deal.

I just can't pear it anymore!

Good-bye, pear tree!

Last summer, I wrote about how tricky it is to harvest pears; they're finicky about ripening.  Our pear tree itself has grown massive, shading our garden, dangling its pears several stories above our heads, and producing fruit that alternates between hard green rocks and brown slime balls.

Since we had other tree issues as well -- our maple tree (the one that holds our adored tree house) has branches that have been scraping the roof of the house -- we got a few estimates for tree trimming (maple) and removal (pear).  I mean, when I got this tree, I *loved* the idea of a pear tree in the abstract, but the reality has been less than romantic and nine-ladies-dancing, in spite of the fact that my true love gave it to me.

Tree work is expensive.  I wasn't too surprised when the four-figure estimates started rolling in. We found a tree company that we liked and offered them the job . . . and then waited until the could work us into their queue.  Estimated wait time: four to five weeks.

And then we lucked out.  If you look at the very right edge of the picture above, across the alley you'll see the bark of a tree that belongs to our neighbors.  Or rather, I should say belonged, because the tree died in place, and they decided they needed to take it down.  Yesterday, I woke up to the sound of heavy machinery (cranes, chipper/shredders, and chain saws), and by the end of the day their tree was safely horizontal instead of dangerously vertical.

But while the tree crew was out there, a whole bunch of other neighbors (including me) started mobbing the crew, asking them for quote on our own trees.  ("As long as you're here, how much would it be . . . ?").    And the crew very gladly took down a bunch of other trees, as well as trimming quite a few more.

The crane that worked on trimming
our maple tree.
Its feet stick out like a water bug.

Tree crews are just really fun to watch.  There are people high up in the air, in cranes, wielding chainsaws and ropes with pulleys, yelling lumber-jack-y things at one another.  The limbs come down bit by bit, sometimes dropping directly down, sometimes being lowered by ropes attached to pulleys that swing around other limbs.

Down on the ground are the kinds of trucks that my sisters loved to play with (in Tonka versions) in our own dirt piles, when we were kids. My favorite was a little beast that looked like a cross between a bull-dozer and a pair of giant salad tongs:  its job was to troll across the yard, scoop up branches, and haul them back to the chipper-shredder.

And just like painting a room, the real work in tree trimming and cutting isn't in the painting or trimming; it's in the set-up and clean up.   Getting all these amazing machines in place must be an amazing feat of scheduling in the first place.

Which is why I wasn't too surprised at the high price estimate when we started scoping out tree work, and why I jumped at the chance to grab this crew while they were already set up -- we'll end up paying only about half of what we'd have paid if the other crew had come around.  It's not everyday you can find a way to spend $500 less than you'd planned, just by running out in your back yard and waving your arms at workers in hard hats.

So the pear tree came down, and by the time I grabbed my camera, it was already being winched along the ground to the chipper/shredder.  In this picture below, the top of the pear tree looks like a bush just beyond the garage.

But you can see it's a bush on the move (thanks to the winch).

And what's left of the pear tree?  A stump . . .

. . . with two rock-hard pears left behind.

The whole loss-aversion thing that we humans carry around with us make me feel a bit sad to see the tree go. I mean, it was a living thing, one that I planted myself, and now I'm responsible for killing it.  Taking down this leafy green giant is not like what my neighbors did, taking down dead or dying trees.

But what's left behind is an open, sunny place that my garden will be able to expand into.  And the sunshine, which my vegetables yearn for, makes me happy.  

So, notes to self:

• Before I plant more trees, figure out how big they'll get first.
• Before I plant more fruit trees, learn more about collecting the fruit.
• Before I hire tree trimmers, check with all my neighbors to see if we want to work out a neighborhood deal.

Mother's Day electrical work

What could be more fun on Mother's Day than a little mother-son electrical work?

I wanted a timer switch on the fan in the bathroom (most of my family hates the sound of the fan running, so we don't use the fan while we shower.  But if we could leave it on for 10 minutes after the shower is over, we'd save ourselves a lot of mold grief.  Hence, a timer switch seems like a prudent idea).

And of course, J-son loves to be the technical expert of the house.  So for Mother's day, he learned how to switch off circuit breakers.

Once we'd turned the power off, we removed the switch plate.  It's good to do this in daylight (since, of course, the electricity is off, so no lights, so sorry for the blurriness). It also helps to bring along a flashlight or lantern because those little electric boxes are tiny and dark).

Next, we removed the switch that controls the fan.

Here's the out-going electrical switch, pulled out of the box.

In some switches (like our out-going one), the wire is curled around the copper screw.  In some switches (like our ingoing one), the wire sticks straight into a slot. So J-son got to straighten the ends of the wires with a pair of needle-nose pliers.

He attached the wires to the new switch, and screwed the new switch in.

(Optional step:  Then realize that the new switch is so much bigger than the old one that the wires behind it take up so much space that you have to rearrange them.  Take out the new switch, rearrange the wires, and sigh with relief as everything slides correctly into place.  Screw in the new switch again).

From there, it was a simple matter to get the switch-plate back on and add the timer plate on top.  Voila!



For me, it was fun to watch J-son grow more adept -- learning to steady the screws with his thumb as he started them in, getting a sense of the tools he was using.  I also had fun anticipating what lay ahead.  "I'll get a lantern," I'd say, and he'd say "No, I'm good.  I can see!"  (But then a little bit later, he'd ask, "Could you hold that light up here?")  Or I'd say, "I'm going to get a smaller screwdriver," and he'd say, "No, this one works fine.  I don't need a smaller screwdriver!" (But then a little bit later, I was the nurse next to the surgeon, helping him alternate between the two screwdrivers and the pliers, handing him what he needed as he asked for it).


It was a 30-minute task, maybe 40 minutes when we included getting out and putting away the tools.  Just about perfect amount of time for a 17-year old boy to spend with his mom.  As he left, he showed me the picture of the girl he's been spending time with.  

Hmm . . . maybe she'd like to learn how to replace a leaky U-trap under a sink?  I should have him invite her over!

What she bought: the kitchen sink

So, our host daughter, Y, popped her head into my sewing room Saturday night and asked, "Is it okay if I put some duct-tape on the kitchen sink?"

This is not the kind of question I get every day, and I spent a couple of seconds with the gears in my head whirring around trying to perform computations and correlations:  duct tape?  sink?  Is there some natural connection?  I finally answered, "um, sure, but is there a reason you want to put duct tape on the sink?"

She said, "well, there's a leak, and so I figured duct tape would stop it."

Oh.  A leak.  Of course, duct tape is not the solution to a leak, so I got up from my sewing room, went down to the kitchen, and took a look for myself.  Sure enough the kitchen faucet had sprung a hole, about midway along the arm, so that when you turn on the water most of the water performed the correct duty of coming out the nozzle, but some of the water sprayed straight up toward the ceiling like a drinking fountain.  Cute, and possibly with practical uses for a creative person, but not really what I want in my kitchen.

My husband had the car that day, so I called and asked if, on the way home, he might stop at the store pick up an extra kitchen faucet set.  He did.

Sunday, I brought J-son down into the kitchen with me for a little plumbing lesson.  Stage one, clear out everything under the sink; stage two, turn off the water.

Except the shut-off valves on these old, old pipes are old and a little rusty themselves, and the hot-water valve just didn't want to turn.  J-son enthusiastically offered to use a hammer.  I equally enthusiastically rejected that kind offer -- oh, geez; that's JUST what I need!  (Anybody remember the time J-son "fixed" his bike with my mallet?  Neither the bike nor the mallet survived).

We tried a more gentle form of coercion, but when part of the hot water shut-off valve knob broke off in my hand, I decided that discretion was the better part of valor.  A new faucet installation might be within my ability, but a busted water pipe is beyond my meager plumbing skills.

Since, on Monday, I headed out for yet another math trip, I delegated the calling of professional plumbers to my husband.  It really is nice having him around to take care of things in the house!

The plumbers apparently brought along a faucet with them; it's a super super nice faucet.  I'm really too cheap to splurge on something like this myself, but I'm secretly (okay, not-so-secretly) delighted at the upgrade we've gotten.

It comes at a price -- that price being $750.  With that, we also got new shut-off valves under the sink, plus a one-year protection plan.  I was not around to negotiate on this; my husband assures me it was a good deal, and I try not to second-guess people who I've asked to take over a project when I can't do it.  So I'll declare this a success.

But  I sure do hope I don't have many more plumbing adventures this January!

(I've silently lusted after hose-handle faucets.  And now I have one!)

Bad Toilet Karma

In this Wednesday's edition of "what she bought", we give you a trip to the hardware store -- plus, while we're out, a brief visit to a print shop.  And as a bonus, we bring you a toilet repair tutorial!

The SPDM at the print shop.  

I think the Grumpies put a curse on me in the comments of one of their recent posts when they told someone "I think Miser Mom has a tutorial on fixing toilets".  I didn't actually have one, although a year ago I had written that my husband and sons found it surprisingly easy to replace the flapper valves.  Then, this past summer, the hinges on my toilet seats gave way.  The Toilet Curse struck yet again last Thursday as I prepared for the annual winter math meetings: the toilet started running constantly.  These toilets!   Although they are low flow (which is the positive, eco-reason we bought them), I am less and less impressed with their movable hardware.

The thing on the left has an arm that goes up and down with the float.
In a toilet that works, when the arm is up, the water stops flowing.
The open pipe in the middle should stick out a bit above the water (but here, it doesn't).

This time, the problem wasn't a bad-fitting flapper valve; instead, the long stem piece with the arm that goes up-and-down (you can see it I really know my plumbing terminology) didn't shut the water off even when the floater had lifted the arm up.  Hence, trip to the hardware store and nearby print store, where I spent a grand total of $63.44:  $34.34 on printing family letters, $20-ish on a new smoke detector to replace one that wigged out a few weeks ago, and $7.48 on the stem-arm-thingie.

Shopping haul.

Note that this means fixing a toilet yourself can be really cheap: only $7.50.  And I was delighted to find that if I just looked around a little, I could get a new "Toilet Fill Valve" (oh, so THAT's what it's called!) in a cardboard box instead of in plastic fortress casing.

From here, it's just a simple matter of following the directions, which actually are straightforward and well illustrated.  I love plumbing instructions!

There are even more detailed directions inside the box.

Okay, except that nothing is ever PERFECTLY simple when it comes to plumbing repair.  In the case of a . . . what's it called?  Oh yeah, in the case of a toilet fill valve, the hard part for me was getting off the old one.  The difficulty is partly geometry:  there's a "locknut" down under the toilet that holds the valve on, and it's hard to see it, and it's hard to reach it.

The nut that holds that stem in place isn't easy to see or to reach.

 There's also friction (the threads had gotten gunky over time, making it hard to turn the locknut), and there was even more geometry (the other end of this all is the valve itself, which is inside the tank, and you have to hold that still while turning the nut -- and of course, the inside stuff is a bit wet and slippery).

Once I grabbed the stem with the vise grips, it cracked.
No going back now: onward to install the new valve!

Taking off that danged white locknut took about 45 minutes, about 40 of which I futzed about by myself. Then my husband came by to help.  With my husband using the vise grips to hold the valve still, and with me using pliers and a bit of elbow grease to turn the nut, we got the nut the rest of the way off in only 5 more minutes.  So the moral of that story is: big pliers, a vise grip, and two people.

From there, it really only took less than 10 minutes to finish the job -- and that included cleaning up the mess.  And I could tell you how I did it, but the directions are in the box and they're really easy to read, and better than anything I could write.