The Sisterhood of the Chop Saw

My son looked at me and my accountrements with skepticism through narrowed eyes. This would be the son with the tattoo between his shoulder blades, the hand-rolled cigarette, the assortment of earrings, and the riot of curls that--at the right length--give him a jaunty, Viva la Revolución Che Guevara vibe.

He's a hard one to impress when it comes to sartorial unorthodoxy. But impress--or stun--I did.

"Mom, you look like you're ready to break into a chemical plant." From out out of the mouths of babes.

I'd be lying if I said I took the assessment calmly. Rather, I'd caught a glimpse of myself just a few seconds before, and was already hovering on the edge of hysterial fall-apart laughter. It was ninety degrees out, and I was decked out in a tank top, with a wet bandana across the lower two-thirds of my face ala Jesse James; safety goggles over my tri-focals; giant padded vinyl ear protectors that would have kept my hearing safe on an airport runway; and a pair of green suede work gloves. I personally thought I looked a bit like a galactic bounty hunter straight out of "Star Wars."

My son started to laugh, and that's all I needed to become completely unglued. Once the safety goggles started to steam up, I was done for. I pulled off the scarf, ear mufflers, gloves and goggles, and laughed and laughed, holding on to the porch, until tears came to my eyes. I kept laughing until I got just about all of it out, then suited up again. One piece at a time. Scarf. Goggles. Ear protectors. Work gloves.

Because frankly, my dears, operating a chop saw just isn't a laughing matter!

My composure marginally reclaimed, I finally approached the reason for all the caution: a rented "chop saw" sitting on the tailgate of the Ford F-150. It had a circular blade about a foot in diameter . The blade pivoted up and down, ready to slice through concrete, metal, wood, errant limbs, whatever was called for, with lethal efficiency. It looked menacing just sitting still, lurking beneath its bright red metal safety guard. It was about to give a whole new dimension to my acquaintance with power tools. Wow, how things change.

Six months ago, I'd never heard the words "chop" and "saw" used in the same sentence. I was feeling mighty pleased with myself, in fact, that I'd acquired a cordless drill and a battery-operated chain saw since the divorce and wasn't afraid to use them. Really, I thought I was pretty well set with a couple of hammers, a set of hex wrenches, some screwdrivers and a tape measure.

Then my aunt passed away, and I spent hours driving back and forth to Chicago with my friend Mary Kay to organize an estate sale for my aunt's things. As the miles sped by, the topic of putting in a brick patio next to the house came up, and I picked her brain for suggestions.

Mary Kay is a very handy gal, able to pull off both spike heels with a slinky black evening dress and home improvement projects with aplomb and panache. She is far more experienced than I when it comes to wielding a hammer, and routinely takes a more active role in shaping her environment. I tend to get backed into making repairs because things break, such as pasture fences, or when trees come down where they shouldn't. The most initiative and daring I show usually involves a paint roller. Mary Kay, on the other hand, has been known to dismantle and reconstruct her foyer while her husband was away on business for a few days, just for the fun of it. When it comes to using power tools, she not only talks the talk, she walks the walk. I'm learning at the feet of the master.

"You're going to need a chop saw," she said as I drove, and I duly made a mental note. I had no idea what a chop saw was, but I was assured that one was needed for cutting bricks. And for a person with her heart set on a herringbone brick pattern, I understood that some bricks indeed would require cleaving.

Months later, both the estate sale and the winter snow cover behind us, the plan was finally ready to roll. I had pallets of bricks and sand stacked in the driveway, lumber ready to be picked up for framing, two brand new shovels, weather that was warm and dry, and most important, a supply of "volunteer" labor in the form of three of my kids, one of their friends, and the man in my life. Don't think that THAT didn't take some coordinating! I'd played the "let's celebrate Mother's Day late!" card. It works.

I'd spent the day before cooking nearly non-stop to feed this busy crew, and naively assumed that once I'd picked up the saw from the nearby rental place, my project duties would mainly consist of finishing up the potato salad, keeping the beer cold, and bringing food out from time to time.

The best laid plans...

By the time we actually got started, it was one in the afternoon. Since the man in my life was the only one among us who'd had any experience at all in laying patio brick or in building and setting a wooden frame, the job of cutting the bricks suddenly shifted to me. Wielding a pencil and a calculator while sitting in the shade, I'd figured out that setting this particular pattern would require cutting a minimum of eighteen pavers into two parts. Never let it be said that you don't need math after high school!

We measured the first brick and lined up the metal guide together, and then he pushed the "on" switch and set the blade whirling. As blade met concrete paver, the noise level ramped from loud to absolutely searing. An incredible cloud of brick dust erupted and hung in the air, drifting toward the garage and filling the pickup truck with fine white powder. He stood back, incredulous at the magnitude of the mess a single brick had left behind. There were nineteen to go.

Well, he said with a shrug, the beauty of having an old truck is that you can mess it up and there's no harm done. Cleanup would come later, when he'd park it on a hill and run a hose over the inside. We left the chop saw on the back of the truck, and I gamely stepped in for the rest of the job. After I finally quit laughing.

Thank god for ear protectors. And safety goggles. And being able to find a cotton bandana to soak and cover my face with! Even with my ears covered, I could feel the screaming noise through the vibration of the machine. There was a primitive, visceral feeling of accomplishment to be had in watching the cloud of dust kick up as the blade cut a slot through one side of the brick. Then a short pause while I turned the brick over, lined it up again, and finished the cut. It was a thing of wonderous, smooth beauty, especially when compared to the Neanderthal alternative method of hitting it with a hammer and chisel. It was empowering and frightening all in one. And my triceps ached for two days afterward just from the effort of pushing the blade downward into concrete again and again.

Driving to work the next day, after I'd dropped the saw back at the rental shop, I called Mary Kay to bring her up to speed on my admission to the Sisterhood of the Chop Saw. When I got to describing the outfit and my son's observations, both of us were sputtering and laughing so hard we could barely talk. "Feels pretty good, doesn't it?" she asked.

Yup, it sure did.

A little later in the drive I thought about a much younger guy I used to work with and found myself grinning from ear to ear. A few years earlier I'd come to work one day and popped my head into his office, regaling him with my exploits of having to buy my first hand saw to cut up some branches that had fallen across a hiking path. At least I think it was the story about the hand saw. It might have been the cordless drill adventure.

"That settles is, Mary," he said. "You are officially manlier than I am!"

Well. If he'd so been impressed with my using a hand saw, what would he think about cutting bricks off the back of a pickup truck?

I didn't have to wait long to find out. I had an email message from this very man waiting for me in my "in" box, asking about the status of a case I'd argued months ago. We traded thoughts about the case, and then I filled him in on the "chop saw" afternoon.

He was impressed, but stressed that now that he was married and a homeowner to boot, he felt like he was finally started to catch up to me. He'd just recently finished remodeling a bathroom, in fact, and was now well acquainted with the art of cutting tiles. We were both justifiably proud at the ground we've covered, me since the divorce, him since he was a young single guy living in an apartment.

I suppose, if he's really nice, we'll officially admit him into the Sisterhood of the Chop Saw. And if he sends imported chocolate, we may even waive the part about the spike heels.

Relativity

I was getting on my fourth flight in three days. Or maybe it was my third flight in two days. Details tend to blur when you’ve got an itinerary that has you touching down in one airplane ten minutes after your next flight has officially started boarding. Some days are like that. You just run as fast as you can, and hope that you don’t knock anyone over as you go.

But the “eureka” moment that still stands out like a beacon in my short-term memory came when I was standing still.

I was one of the last two people in line to board a very large jet. I was dragging a backpack full of necessities and things that weren’t necessary at all given the tropical temps awaiting me in Georgia at the end of the journey. The list of passengers was a long one, and as expected, when funneling many dozens of people single file through the cabin door and waiting for them to adjust their carryon luggage and magazines and seat belts and other accoutrements…the confines of the covered walkway to the plane are anything but comfy. Narrow, devoid of character, devoid of color, devoid of fresh air…not the best of places for passing time. Conducive to impatience, and irritability, and at best, collective sighs of resignation.

And yet, what struck me as pretty funny as I stood there was that I was smiling. And quite happy. And what triggered this novelty was the fact that I was standing still…and my back didn’t hurt. From the distance of fifteen years ago, it was darn near a miracle.

I refer once in a while in my essays to the horseback riding accident I had in 1995. The short version was that I took a hard fall off a tall horse involving a fence that I didn’t think I should be jumping. It was a turning point, and a second chance, and the three months I spent wrapped in a body cast from collarbones to hips was a crucible. Life divided into “before” and “after,” and every day I know just how lucky I am to still be walking around under my own steam.

But that’s the big picture.

There’s a small picture, too, or a series of them, that had nothing to do with life’s bigger questions and everything to do with just getting making it through the day.

The day I got cut out of the body cast, I remember having a wonderful hour-glass figure for a few hours. I also remember just how good standing in the shower felt, after three months without. I made the most of my temporarily sultry figure it that evening, in fact, dressing in a bright red “devil” costume and black leggings and little red horns in my hair for the annual Boy Scout Halloween party at the parish grade school. Years later, one of the dads in attendance could still recall just how “hot” I looked that night! The thought can still make me laugh. It was a triumphant return to reality…until I stepped out for a breath of cool air and slipped on some wet leaves on the sidewalk and came crashing down on my backside. The jolt that went up my newly-liberated spine when I hit the concrete took my breath away with searing pain. I was a lot more careful about where I stepped after that.

In the days and weeks and months that followed, I learned the hard way just how badly the muscles of my torso had atrophied while I was locked in the cast so that the fractured vertebra could heal, and what a long road back I had ahead of me. I exercised. Swam. Lifted weights. Got massages. Walked. It took years to regain some part of “normal.”

The hardest thing at first, and something I had never anticipated, was just standing upright. For some reason I’ll never understand without a degree in sports medicine or physical therapy, the act of simply standing still was virtually impossible. The ache in the middle of my back after just a moment or two made me feel like I would just collapse into a heap on the floor. I could walk for extended stretches with absolutely no problem. But when it came time to stand in equipoise, such as waiting in line at the grocery store, I was in agony.

Christmas shopping that year—not even two months after the cast came off—was torture. I would walk into the mall and purchase, at most, two items. The pain in my back was intense, and carrying packages made things even worse. Shifting my weight from side to side impatiently while I waited for my purchases to get rung up, I counted the minutes and seconds until I could return to the car and lay down in the driver’s seat with the back pushed into full “recline” mode. Then I’d get up, lock the car, and do it all over again.

The following year the “big picture” changed and I started law school. And the year after that, with more time to spend on campus, I started lifting weights at the gym nearby. One day a classmate and I started talking as we worked out, and the entire story of my accident came pouring out. It was the first time I had really talked about it since it had happened two years earlier. I believe I had just walled off the frightening experience in the interest of putting one foot in front of the other toward recovery.

Now, it all came crashing back. I remember clutching the steering wheel as I drove home from school that day, and shaking at the realization of just how close I had come to dying or being paralyzed. What a razor-thin near miss I’d been graced with. I knew it too, since my accident had occurred only three months after the actor Christopher Reeve hit the dirt in his own riding mishap and wound up on a ventilator.

I don’t know when I turned a corner in the past fifteen years about being able to stand still without difficulty. I can’t say I’ve had too many opportunities to stand still at all these days! Emergencies, funerals, weddings, gardening, working, writing, book promoting…the last few years have had the quality of living in a cyclone. I haven’t given much thought to how the middle of my back feel in the grocery store these days, given that other aches and pains have accompanied the fact I’m no longer on the near side of…forty.

But standing in the entry port of a large airplane, waiting for nearly every other person to settle in before me, I finally stood still. Shrugged my shoulders, wriggled my arms, reveled in the recognition of how much had changed, and broke into a big smile of gratitude. And thought that while we may go through our days thinking that we can’t really be completely happy until we get something big, or fancy, or rare, or coveted, sometimes all we really need to do is to take a step back—or even just stand still—and savor a moment of relativity.

Place de la Musique

Oh, what a spellbinding night! The Chicago Writers Association held a benefit concert on May 1 at the gorgeous Sanfilippo Estate in Barrington Hills for the Chicago Literary Hall of Fame, which is still in development. The estate, also known as the “Place de la Musique,” is a private residence in Barrington Hills, Illinois, housing a truly spectacular collection of antique music machines, stained glass, chandeliers, and the world’s largest restored theater pipe organ, which was in turn played superlatively that evening by Jelani Eddington. Every time you turned around, there was something else that just rocked you back on your heels with awe. Here’s a small window into the experience. And thank you Rachel Madorsky for taking my picture on the staircase!