Pouring His Own

I love concrete, but it does not love me.

The other day I had the audacity to schedule 12 yards of concrete to be poured out at various spots at the place of my abode. My storage building; my sidewalk; my footer for a retaining wall. My ducks were in a row and life was good. I did, however have a couple of fleeting thoughts questioning the wisdom of not bracing the one form, but not being one to let common sense hold me back, I forged optimistically ahead.

Ten yards showed up at 8:45 a.m. Fortunately, Lavern, a guy I had suckered into helping, was there by then. And we began to pour.

Now every time I pour, enough time has elapsed between any past concrete experiences (enough with the pun) and the current one, that all memories related to these borderline traumatic experiences have faded into oblivion. And I start anew, blissfully ignorant yet again. I forget how heavy concrete is. Or how much work is entailed. I don't work it; it works me. Or I forget the constant feeling of being on the verge of losing control of the situation at any moment. If anything can go wrong with pouring concrete, it probably will. Concrete seems to be a magnet for catastrophic results.

Well, the storage building slab went fine, and I began to wonder if this would be the day when everything goes well for a change. Then we moved to the sidewalk.

Yes, the sidewalk.

We had a pad to pour on the porch, but the chute wouldn't reach that far, so we had to run a wheelbarrow loads up a 10' ramp. The first load went up uneventfully. On the second load, when I lost forward motion on my wheelbarrow, Lavern hooked the comalong on the axle to pull it up. But it threw me off balance, and well, let's just say the concrete did not quite make it to its intended destiny. Also, because of the low angle of the chute, the concrete was not flowing into the wheelbarrow. Instead, it was going whithersoever it desired, not wheresoever I desired.

At least we managed to pour the rest of the walk without further premature wheelbarrow inversions, and things were looking up. We moved to the footer part and got it all poured in a short amount of time. And we were DONE? Less than 10 yards? How much was left, I wondered? He didn't know, so I instructed the driver to dump it out on a pile, and I would find a place for it. So he poured and he poured. Was I sure I wanted him to continue, he wondered? Yeah, I figured I'd move it around with my skid loader. He looked at me like I was from Jupiter or something, but he dumped the rest of it out anyway.

Whoa! I was now the owner of a small concrete mountain. I could have made snow and sold lift tickets. And to think I figured this would not be anywhere close to enough concrete. I must be short on some math skills, I guess.

While Lavern floated the sidewalk, I floated the storage building slab. Hmmm, it was setting up about right. This was contrary to the nature of concrete. Usually, it sets up too fast or not fast enough, not just right. Something was wrong. It was probably lulling me into a false sense of security before suddenly hardening, and thus effectively throwing me into a state of panic. This wouldn't be all negative because as far as I know, this state does not levy an income tax.

It was time to move the "Mound Saint Helens" over to an area I had graded for parking. Seeing that I was desiring its assistance in moving about 2+ yards of concrete, my loader took this opportunity to not start. However, perserverance paid off, and it finally ran half-heartedly. Surprisingly, it spread nicely enough, considering the whole "afterthought idea".

Yes, things were going strangely well. The sidewalk finished out okay. The storage building slab finished out even better. Maybe my idealistic expectations weren't so far off after all. Then I noticed this one form bowing out about an inch . . .