PULVERIZING

My shoulder hurts. The pain is a direct result of manual labour, which is really not my thing. In fact, people who are good at it tend to think of me as—well, I might as well say it—as lazy. An apt description, probably, considering that my first thought when embarking on any job that requires persistent brawn is generally, “How soon will it be over?”

My right thumb is blistered. It’s my own fault, really. There’s nobody to blame but me. I got swept up in a moment of empathy and, before I knew it, I had asked that terrible question, “Is there anything I can do to help?” Needless to say, I was definitely willing to take no for an answer.

I was struck dumb when the answer was, “Yes.” What was he thinking? He knows me better than that. I thought he had pretty much given up accepting my offers of help for tasks that require sustained physical exertion or the competent manipulation of tools. Crochet hooks, scissors, screwdrivers, sandpaper, all of them take on a peculiar imprecision a millisecond after being placed in my hands. I chalk it up to heredity. The part of my developing brain that would have managed manual dexterity and spatial awareness was set aside to be redistributed among my siblings. . So thoroughly inept has past experience proven me to be that I asked him to repeat his answer, just to be sure I had it right. “Yes,” he said. “You can definitely help.”

That is the moment when my real empathy began, the moment when I realized that the stress of our little renovation was driving him crazy. The whole thing started a few months ago when he observed that the hardwood could use a new coat. The job of sanding and varnishing was assigned to a professional, but before the man could do the job, all the furniture and baseboards had to be removed, which made it a good time to paint the walls and refinish the baseboards. Therefore, while the hardwood was being refinished, it seemed the perfect time to move the kitchen peninsula over a few feet so the hardwood could be extended to enlarge the dining room, which meant that we could get a few extra cabinets and a new countertop, and could also move the dishwasher over a few inches into that empty wasted space. (Turns out the space actually contained a water pipe, but that was a good thing for the plumber, who was able to earn a few dollars moving the pipe so the space would be empty and the dishwasher would not have to be discarded now that it’s former space had been filled.) After the peninsula was converted to an island, the kitchen tiles also had to be replaced, which was just as well since they were breaking, and ceramic tiles freeze your feet and tire your knees if you stand too long on them. Somewhere in the madness he and Lawrence got the idea that they could save $1,200 by removing the ceramic tiles and installing the cork tiles themselves, which meant they could buy a new saw and still have money left over, not to mention spending some quality father-and-son time. All of it made sense, really it did! But after a while reality had blurred a little, all the way to the point where it seemed wise to accept an offer of help from me.

As I prepared for the worst, he assembled my tools: a hammer, a chisel and a brick. Later he added bicycle gloves, but that was after the blisters. Did I mention that my left hand has a bandage?

Down to the floor I went. My mission, to assist in the removal of the mortar left behind after the ceramic tiles were smashed to smithereens, coaxed away and removed with Ed’s ice chipper! The task was more daunting than you might think. Once you adhere concrete to plywood, it pretty much promises to stick together until death doth them part. My back hurts! On a brighter note, I was able to get up off the floor, a manoeuvre that seems to require more and more coordination with every passing year.

Most of the concrete was removed through a process which can accurately be referred to as pulverization. We kept the dust out of the air by breathing it in. I didn’t actually work all that long. It just seemed a long time, given the exertion required to do all that complaining and calculating how long it would be until we’d be finished. . Contrary to expectations I didn’t wang my thumb with the hammer, didn’t cut myself with the chisel. I didn’t even throw the brick at him when he spoke sharply to me. But I will confess to having uttered a short-but-earnest prayer of thanksgiving for the fact that I, as a blind person who probably wouldn’t be trustworthy with tools even if she could see, will not be expected to assist in the next brutal job, the job of cutting the new cork tiles for a perfect fit.

I did think of going to the garage—where they are testing the new saw that Lawrence just assembled without reading the package directions--to ask if there is anything I could do to help. Then I thought better of it.