Mission creep

It has been said that no military plan ever survives first contact with the enemy. This is also true when a homeowner makes plans for a construction project.

For example, one day a pharaoh decided that he would like to build a modest little pyramid. Once construction began he said to himself, “You know, it probably wouldn’t cost much more to add a hidden chamber or two and a couple of secret tunnels. And since I’ve got the crew here anyway, there’s no reason why we can’t make the thing a tad bigger. This new pyramid will be great!”

As you can see, this thought process — commonly known as “mission creep” — stretches back to the dawn of civilization. This malady can strike homeowners whenever they embark upon any sort of construction project. Something as minor as caulking the shower for the second time can quickly balloon into building a whole new wing onto the house.

A little over a year ago, a derecho ripped through our region, wreaking havoc like an atmospheric toddler throwing a 1,000-mile-wide temper tantrum. 

Our machine shed was partially decapitated by the storm. Half of its roof was peeled off and tossed, like a humungous wood and metal frisbee, into the nearby shelterbelt.

My dad and I had built that pole shed with our own hands. Well, sort of — we set the posts and nailed the purlins, then hired a local carpenter crew to install the rafters and the steel. Because we had done a good portion of the wearisome work ourselves, we were rendered immune to the temptation of adding extras. We were simply glad when it was finally finished.

The damaged machine shed obviously needed the tender ministrations of professionals, so I engaged the services of LND Construction, an operation that consists of my brother Les and his son Dustin.

My "mission creep" set in immediately. It was pointed out that the remaining half of the roof was more than 30 years old, so it made sense to replace the entire roof. Plus, having old steel abutting new steel would look weird, even though it would be at an elevation where nobody would be able to see it without a tall ladder or a pair of really long stilts.

An inspection of the pole building revealed that several posts had rotted off below the ground. Having posts that lack structural integrity is a major problem when the word “pole” is part of a building’s description.

This seemed like an insurmountable problem, but I was assured that it wasn’t. All you have to do is dig out the posts and replace the rotted stuff with a poured concrete column. I had imagined the grueling grunt work of digging out the posts with a pick and a shovel. I, soon learned that this process takes only a few minutes if you have a diesel-powered mini excavator like the one that Les and Dustin own.

Everyone knows that it’s important for a building to be plumb, level, and square. When my dad and I originally installed the posts and the purlins, we used a string and a simple bubble level to guide us. Les and Dustin, on the other hand, have a laser doohickey that can determine if things are level to within a tiny fraction of an inch. The doodad will beep if a flea lands on part of the structure and causes it to become microscopically off-kilter.

Using this device, Les and Dustin discovered that my dad and I had been off by two inches when we installed the purlins on the west wall of the building. This was a slightly major boo-boo, although none of the machinery that was sheltered by the shed ever complained.

Since I had a construction crew on site, I thought, “It probably wouldn’t cost much more to pour a concrete floor.” The shed’s current floor is gravel that had been compacted to varying degrees depending upon how much wheel or foot traffic any particular area received.

I know from experience that lying on a gravel floor to conduct repairs on a piece of equipment isn’t very pleasurable. After working beneath a low-slung machine, I would find several pounds of gravel in my clothing. The undergarments were especially prone to accumulating fine grit.

The workbench that I had built three decades ago was forcibly uninstalled to facilitate pole repairs. It was sad to see it go, but then I was struck by an epiphany — this represents an opportunity to have a bigger and better workbench. Something with state-of-the-art tool storage and all the latest bells and whistles.

Maybe, my new workbench will even have a laser and a couple of secret tunnels.