cement to the other side of the lawn cart.
“But
this
year …”
It was a law of nature, apparently, that forty-pound sacks were always on the wrong side of the lawn cart.
“…
this
year, it’s back to mud, sticks, and stones,” Ellie finished.
And that by the time you discovered that the forty-pound bag was on the wrong side, the cart’s wheels were always stuck.
“But
how
did it get lost? The recipe, I mean.”
Because that was the difference between concrete and cement: what you added, and the proportions you added it in. Sand, stone, and water; how much of each you used was the key to the result.
“Rome fell. Attila the Hun and so on,” Ellie explained. “So I guess with barbarians sacking and vandalizing from the outside, and then all the plotting and poisoning that was going on on the inside, well, a lot of things must’ve gotten misplaced.”
With the tip of a penknife, Jake tried loosening the string that tied the top of the cement bag shut. As usual, the bag tore before the string loosened; yet another of the laws of nature.
Concrete-mixing nature, anyway; a small gray cloud of cement dust puffed out of the bag.
“And nobody found it again until the sixteenth century,” said Ellie, meanwhile filling big plastic buckets with the hose. They’d also set a wheelbarrow full of construction sand nearby.
Or rather, Ellie’s husband, George Valentine, had set it there for them; filled with sand, that wheelbarrow was
heavy
, and he was the helpful type.
“Which is when a British guy finally figured it out again,” Ellie went on with the story.
Jake looked around at the sand, the cement, the forms, and the buckets of water. Also at the concrete-mixing tray, made of heavy-duty black plastic and the size of a child’s wading pool.
In fact, until they pressed it into service for this job, it had been used as a wading pool. But little Lee was with her dad for the afternoon, and they planned to have it cleaned up by the time she got home.
So: water, forms, ingredients, tools … “You know what?” Jake remarked in surprise. “I think we’re ready.”
To mix, she meant. She stood up straight, her back creaking warningly at the movement even without having hauled any sand.
Simple or not, the job was not for the faint of spine. But around her on the grass lay the four plywood forms, shimmed beneath with shingle scraps so their tops were level. Near them lay four galvanized eyebolts with brackets.
Concrete blocks, after all, made lousy anchors unless you could tie something to them. She turned to the cement bag.
But just then from the open kitchen window wafted the aroma of frying linguica, a kind of Portuguese pork sausage with onions, garlic, and paprika mixed in. With it Bella was making kale soup, the fragrance an invisible ribbon of tantalizing promise.
The ribbon seized Jake’s nose. Her stomach made sympathetic growling sounds. And mixing and pouring the concrete would surely take another hour at least, whereas if they stopped now …
“Tools,” Ellie said helpfully; she’d smelled the linguica, too. And somehow, Ellie always required huge amounts of nutrition to maintain her sylphlike form.
“We should go in and make a list, to be sure we’ve got the right ones,” she added.
This, of course, was merely an excuse for going in; the required tools—trowels, shovels, smaller buckets for doling out water from the bigger ones—were already there with the rest of the equipment.
But once they got inside, Bella would urge lunch on them, which was Ellie’s real plan; not only was she hungry herself, but she took her friend-care responsibilities seriously.
Jake smiled. “Okay,” she agreed, putting down her shovel. But just then Wade drove into the driveway.
He didn’t look happy. A needle of alarm pierced her. “What’s the matter?” she asked anxiously.
“Nothing.” He crossed the yard and put an arm around her. “I heard from a few people, that’s all.”
She
“But
this
year …”
It was a law of nature, apparently, that forty-pound sacks were always on the wrong side of the lawn cart.
“…
this
year, it’s back to mud, sticks, and stones,” Ellie finished.
And that by the time you discovered that the forty-pound bag was on the wrong side, the cart’s wheels were always stuck.
“But
how
did it get lost? The recipe, I mean.”
Because that was the difference between concrete and cement: what you added, and the proportions you added it in. Sand, stone, and water; how much of each you used was the key to the result.
“Rome fell. Attila the Hun and so on,” Ellie explained. “So I guess with barbarians sacking and vandalizing from the outside, and then all the plotting and poisoning that was going on on the inside, well, a lot of things must’ve gotten misplaced.”
With the tip of a penknife, Jake tried loosening the string that tied the top of the cement bag shut. As usual, the bag tore before the string loosened; yet another of the laws of nature.
Concrete-mixing nature, anyway; a small gray cloud of cement dust puffed out of the bag.
“And nobody found it again until the sixteenth century,” said Ellie, meanwhile filling big plastic buckets with the hose. They’d also set a wheelbarrow full of construction sand nearby.
Or rather, Ellie’s husband, George Valentine, had set it there for them; filled with sand, that wheelbarrow was
heavy
, and he was the helpful type.
“Which is when a British guy finally figured it out again,” Ellie went on with the story.
Jake looked around at the sand, the cement, the forms, and the buckets of water. Also at the concrete-mixing tray, made of heavy-duty black plastic and the size of a child’s wading pool.
In fact, until they pressed it into service for this job, it had been used as a wading pool. But little Lee was with her dad for the afternoon, and they planned to have it cleaned up by the time she got home.
So: water, forms, ingredients, tools … “You know what?” Jake remarked in surprise. “I think we’re ready.”
To mix, she meant. She stood up straight, her back creaking warningly at the movement even without having hauled any sand.
Simple or not, the job was not for the faint of spine. But around her on the grass lay the four plywood forms, shimmed beneath with shingle scraps so their tops were level. Near them lay four galvanized eyebolts with brackets.
Concrete blocks, after all, made lousy anchors unless you could tie something to them. She turned to the cement bag.
But just then from the open kitchen window wafted the aroma of frying linguica, a kind of Portuguese pork sausage with onions, garlic, and paprika mixed in. With it Bella was making kale soup, the fragrance an invisible ribbon of tantalizing promise.
The ribbon seized Jake’s nose. Her stomach made sympathetic growling sounds. And mixing and pouring the concrete would surely take another hour at least, whereas if they stopped now …
“Tools,” Ellie said helpfully; she’d smelled the linguica, too. And somehow, Ellie always required huge amounts of nutrition to maintain her sylphlike form.
“We should go in and make a list, to be sure we’ve got the right ones,” she added.
This, of course, was merely an excuse for going in; the required tools—trowels, shovels, smaller buckets for doling out water from the bigger ones—were already there with the rest of the equipment.
But once they got inside, Bella would urge lunch on them, which was Ellie’s real plan; not only was she hungry herself, but she took her friend-care responsibilities seriously.
Jake smiled. “Okay,” she agreed, putting down her shovel. But just then Wade drove into the driveway.
He didn’t look happy. A needle of alarm pierced her. “What’s the matter?” she asked anxiously.
“Nothing.” He crossed the yard and put an arm around her. “I heard from a few people, that’s all.”
She
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