Lost Again

Who can keep track of sea-grass? It's weightless and floats above controversy. I'd made a list of 42 words that all meant a small hill, then I made a list of 67 words that all referred to a small rill. Phone call with a construction question, a loading issue. I tell Bear to call be back, that I need to do some numbers, dig out a couple of books. I'm no engineer, so I always overbuild, especially in post-and-beam work. By my calculations his plan won't work, too much deflection, too much dead-weight, and I tell him that. Also, the 10x10, the main structural beam, is sassafras, and nowhere, in any of my books, can I find the strength of sassafras, so I have to figure it at the low end of the scale. Risk management. He could span 12 feet 4 inches, but not 15 feet (with the depth of wall thickness the span is actually only 14 feet 1 inch) because of the weight of the floor system for the second level. A post in the middle of the beam would neatly solve the problem. They don't want a post (which is silly, posts are wonderful) and I've run into this problem several times, over the years. It's not a problem if you're building to UBC specs (Universal Building Codes, which always struck me as amusing, like Universal Fluid, which is, more or less, transmission oil) because a beam, in this instance, would have to be certified by an engineer. Engineers, like everyone else, tend to cover their asses. I couldn't give Bear the answer he wanted, I wouldn't do it. I fully expect he will ignore my recommendation, but it's nice to talk with him. He knows as much about loading as I do, and I'm flattered he called me. He knew he was working right at the limit of what the materials could do. I wouldn't risk it, but he probably will. Get back to my reading, but I keep visualizing Bear's structure and grow more concerned, finally call him back and reiterate why his solution is a bad idea. The owl was back, haunting in the dark. Twilight had come and gone. Dusk is an odd word, eawl-leet, owl-light. Which seems true enough as darkness comes on. I was at the island, eating the left-over mushroom soup, which had solidified into a pate, which is testament to the amount of butter I consume, reading recipes for mock caviar based mostly on roasted eggplant. Windows open, lights out except for the 7 watt nightlight that illuminates my keyboard, and the owl settled in, tuned the chorus. Working opera in Boston, when the orchestra was rehearsing we couldn't work on stage, I'd take a blanket and retreat to a far corner of the theater, always thought that preliminary warming up and tuning period, a few minutes, was the highlight of the day. But the owl is back, the big news, and steps right in. I'd listened to some Miles Davis, between these owl sessions, Bitches Brew, Kind Of Blue, and every note seems significant. Now I know the owl is just another killer.