Shed Happens

As a gardener I don’t have to choose my battles, they just appear before my eyes.  The latest offense was the mouse which chewed an entry hole into my shed.  While mice have always gotten inside, they’ve previously politely slid beneath the door, so this creature’s wanton destruction was the rub.  On Saturday I replaced the threshold, armored the door with metal, and re-painted the area.  Lastly, I placed a trap in front of the door.  Said mouse couldn’t resist checking out the upgrades.  The little fellow, now squashed, was so fat he must have been trying to grow into a junior rat. 

I built my shed with own hands, to a design from daydreams.  With an overstuffed garage, a garden shed seemed necessary, but I wanted one worthy of a glossy garden magazine, not a pre-fab job from the DIY shop.  I had always admired small accessory buildings, and was beguiled by those seen at rustic Eastfield Village in Nassau and especially grand Boscobel in Garrison.  If I couldn’t have the main house there, perhaps the outhouse would do, a Greek-revival mini-masterpiece. 

The spark to start came in the form of two ancient classical columns, found at a local flea market.  Perhaps once on a stately Hudson River home, they would create a formal porch for my shed with Greek-revival style.  I found full-dimension timber for the frame at a local sawmill.  Much sturdier than the matchsticks sold at chain lumberyards, it was so green that sap oozed forth when it was nailed or screwed.  Locally-produced novelty siding which slide together, tongue-and-groove style, further strengthened the frame.  Old doors and windows found as roadside freebies provided an air of age.  With slowly increasing amazement, I made a building rise from a pile of pieces.  I spent most of the summer of 2002 working on my masterpiece, which evolved into more of a tiny house than a place to dump the tomato cages and deer netting.

Life can change suddenly, even for a shed.  Straight-line winds toppled our mighty white pine one July day in 2008, and it landed in the worst possible place.  Pine limbs violently punctured the roof.  While the shed stayed intact, it was pushed a foot off its foundations to the east, and stood leaning to the left like a drunken cardboard box.  Just cleaning up the tree debris took days, and for a while it seemed the little building was beyond repair.  Perhaps I should pull it down and haul it to the Colonie dump.

I didn’t have the heart for demolition, and by tugging carefully with my truck and a come-along winch, the frame gradually straightened – mostly.  Using a car jack, I leveled the floor – mostly.  After adding twelve cross braces, the shed was sturdier, but a little less straight, than ever.  I splurged and hired a roofer who installed a new red metal roof, scrounged another old door, then painted it all.  With people and sheds, I’ve decided being slightly crooked adds character.