Sparrow Down
We buy an old house from an old builder, and soon we are builders ourselves. We pull off layers of flowery paper to find more layers beneath, every wall a palimpsest. We become intimate with plumb lines and levels, with setting things straight. Down we go, down to the bones: the load-bearing joists, the sub-floors and lathe. We are its surgeons; we know the periodic table of its elements, this house made of carbon and copper and antimony.
At night, I hear music, a sound -- unexpected -- like the whisper of water that slips over bricks.
In this driest of months, we bravely tear off the roof. I lie on my back and peer up at the sky through what once was an attic. We haul in a mattress and sleeping bags. This feels like camping except that the ground is heart pine, newly varnished, instead of Piedmont soil.
There's no surcease from heat, no "cool of the evening," like the songs say about summer in the South. Those songwriters sat under fans, I tell you, in the Brill Building in downtown Manhattan. (They didn't know that crops don't die from the heat of the day; they die from the heat of the night.)
In the morning you rub ground-fog from your eyes. I boil water for grits on a hotplate. A sudden commotion from the front room: a dozen birds seem to be calling, "Sparrow down! Sparrow down!"
We rescue the bird, send it out the front door.
Six a.m: we start over, you with an adz and me with the sander while August tries its best to beat us down.
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Author's Note
It is 100 degrees here. IT IS UNBELIEVABLE. And for some reason, every year at this time I get the urge to write about houses or gardens.
De-lightful.! The story is a good one, the writing A+++. I really enjoyed this. *
Wow, I loved it. Such great descriptions, the scene playing it out :). In some ways reminded me of my hose in India. ****
House building was one of the most intense experiences of my life, and I didn't even do the work. Add to that my love for unfamiliar heat and you know some of why I loved this piece.
Wonderful.
Lxx
Well and elegantly put. I live in a 95 year old bungalow in Florida. It's a daily challenge to keep nature at bay and the house functioning, but what a wonderful home. The sweat equity is worth it. *
I like the story, Gita- especially the closing image.
Lovely.
Love this. So much to love , from the palimpsest walls to the songwriters in Manhattan, under their fans.
"crops don't die from the heat of the day; they die from the heat of the night"
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This has a Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings feel. I love the care in it--for the work, the bird rescue. And the upbeat spirit. *
Excellent job, G.
Yeh: "crops don't die from the heat of the day, they die from the heat of the night" is one delicious luscious line. Good good work.
And it am hot just now, too.
Agree with strannikov, that line is sublime. I like the whole piece, as well. Good work, Gita.
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Loved this. So many wonderful lines and word, not the least of which "palimpsest," "surcease," and "adz." I feel your heat, Gita!*
Just back from the Piedmont myself, I appreciate.
Beautiful writing here, Gita.
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you really summed up life, right here ... "We buy an old house from an old builder, and soon we are builders ourselves."
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Gorgeous writing. *
This feels as good as white chocolate mousse tastes. Such grand imagery. *
A fave among faves!*
Renovation done with class and heart and oh, the sparrows!
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*, Gita. This is such a well-written, well-told story, enhanced by your knowledge of carpentry tools and their various uses. You had me all along with your rennovation.
Also, giving reference to The Brill Building songwriters I’m sure would cause Lieber and Stoller, Don Kirshner, Carol King, Neil Sedaka and others to bow to your recognition of their workplace, often said to be the birthplace of the Rock and Roll of the 60s.
A great, piece of work here.
heart pine made me almost swoon with love for the words. This is a great piece. I love it. 25*
Thanks to all for reading and commenting. This is the kindest writing community.