theBarnstorming

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August 07, 2006

Sanding

Bob and Robbi rose early on Saturday morning, energized by the day's task. I vaguely heard Robbi stirring as she got dressed, but I slumbered on as they drove to True Value and rented a belt sander and edger. I contined to sleep as they carefully selected stain (natural) and polyeurethane (water-based Minwax) and slept sweetly and well as they carried the enormously heavy sander up the stairs and assembled it. Eventually I woke, the rising guilt of my non-participation finally reaching the tipping point. I dressed, had a cup of coffee, and made my way to the barn, only to find Bob already in the throes of industry.

Getting Started

Remember, please, what our floors looked like before. Go back to the previous entry if you must. While I knew that sanding the floors would likely make them somewhat smoother, I was not prepared for the rich tones that were exposed when Bob unleashed the 24 grit belt against the old boards.

"I think it smells like pine," Robbi told me. Rememer this fact. Later you might be impressed.

As we continued, Robbi remarked that our work reminded her of the somewhat famous painting, featured below, that shows how people used to do this sort of thing before the dawn of the belt sander. I was awfully glad that we were not forced to plane the floors by hand.

We had gotten a host of advice about finishing floors from people with strong opinions. On one hand, we were warned not to use a belt sander because, when operated improperly, belt sanders can quickly dig a hole in one's floor. We were encouraged instead to use an orbital sander, a benign, inoffensive sort of sander than can only chafe and irritate, but not maim a floor, no matter how ill-used. Thinking back, the person who warned Robbi and me off of belt sanders was probably wise to do so. But with Bob and his decades of sagacity at our disposal, we were emboldened to try. Our decision to use the belt sander was aided by the fact that the guys at Home Depot estimated that it would take approximately 3 months to finish our floors using an orbital sander. They basically suggested that if we used an orbital sander we were hopeless wussies that should just give up and don a "kick me" sign.

We divided the responsiblities. While Bob ran the belt sander, Robbi used the heavy-duty edger to sand the wood along the walls, and I used a small hand-held disk sander to burnish off stains in the hollow centers of the boards that had not come off during Bob's first pass.

Here Robbi uses the edger in the bedroom.

Our floors were so old, rough, and dirty and so hopelessly covered in paint, sheetrock mud, and thirty years of dust that the belt sander kept clogging, at which point the vacuum stopped working. At first we thought that the machine was broken and even went so far as to take it back to True Value with protest on our lips. Of course, when the polite, yet incredulous True Value tool rental guy plugged it in at True Value, it worked like a charm. Nevertheless, and with our tails between our legs, we swapped our "broken" sander for the other and returned to the barn. A few minutes later the vacuum stopped working again, but this time Bob investigated.

Figuring out that the thing was clogged, he set about trying to rectify the situation. But no amount of prodding and poking seemed to be doing the trick.

I leaned in to take a look...and was reminded of my CPR classes in high school.

The thing wasn't breathing and clearly needed mouth-to-mouth recusitation.

Amazingly, my technique, though much questioned (even mocked) by those present, was a success.

Are you amazed? Do you want to watch a movie about the small miracle of the belt sander?

The downside of the small miracle was a mouth full of dust, something other prophets, shamans, and generally awesome guys before me have also had to contend with.

To cleanse the dusty palates, we got some Subway but ran into no Luna Moths. I took this photo, explaining to all present the importance to the careful blogger of thorough documentation. An entry would only be successful if the day's essential moments were chronicled with care. I was promptly mocked and the notion that lunch constitued an "essential moment" soundly challenged. Try as I might, through plea and example, I cannot convince others to value food and opportunities to eat it quite as highly as do I.

Lunch

After lunch, Robbi was given a chance to brave the belt sander. She sanded and sanded well and did not drill a hole in the floor.

So pleased was she that she struck a mighty pose . . . forgetting the sander . . . which kept on whirring . . . and drilled a deep hole in the floor.

Ok. That didn't happen, and overall, I'm glad that it didn't happen, but it would have been great in some ways if Robbi had dug a hole in the floor because then, perhaps, when people in another room heard a crash or a clang coming from a room that Robbi and I were both known to be in, they might think "Robbi?" instead of thinking "Matthew?" as they do now and likely always will.

After Robbi had her turn with the belt sander, I took it for a spin. It is worth noting, in full disclosure, that by the time I got my turn, we had progressed two degrees in terms of the fineness of the sand paper. We started at 24 (very gritty), moved on to 60 (still pretty darn gritty), and were now using 80 (not really what you'd call gritty). You can still dig a hole in the floor with 80, but you'd have to be a genuine moron, not just careless, but determined to do harm. Which didn't put me entirely out of the running as a calculated risk, mind you.

A brief interlude from my banter; a lovely image taken by Robbi.

And back to reality; this is a photo of the silty black muck we painstakingly removed from between the floorboards through endless scrabing with the finest allen wrench in the set. The grit was tightly packed between every board. We could have left it in place. It wan't hurting anybody. Why did we dig it out, with great effort and even some pain? Because we could. Because we were on a mission. Because the floors were getting clean and those cracks full of muck offended us.

I'm skipping a lot here, by necessity and out of respect for your time and patience. The sanding went on and on. And on. I mentioned we started (Bob and Robbi, anyway) at 7:00am. By 11:30 pm we were still at it with hours of work still to go. We couldn't stop because once the top layer is removed from wood it becomes vulnerable to damage until sealed. In August humidity, the wood, sealed for years, is very "thirsty" and takes in moisture. This is very bad for the wood for reasons I don't fully understand. The long and the short is, it is important to seal the wood (with stain) as soon as possible after the sanding concludes.

With that in mind, I proclaimed exhaustion and went to bed. Though I am a generally energetic guy most of the time, when I run out of steam, I run out of steam wholly, like the dead run out of life. I become a limp, worthless, diffident, cranky person no one wants to be with (let alone sand, scrape, and stain with). My guilt held in check by the aforementioned lack of mojo, I went to bed, slept like the dead, and woke at 5:00am when Robbi rolled weakly into bed, barely alive. She and Bob had worked for 22 hours straight.

The next morning I woke at 7:30, hoping to redeem myself by going to True Value by myself to return the sanders and unused belts. But Robbi and Bob rose with me, both looking more sprightly than I felt, and the three of us made the trek together.

They had completed all of the sanding and most of the sealing, having run out of sealant with a few square feet to go. We bought a quart, went back to the barn, and I brushed it on while Robbi leaned weakly against the wall.

I turned to survey the work of the night before.

We were pleased.

Work (work work, not barn work) has been crazy and I had not done a lick on Saturday, and so I headed back home to spend Sunday afternoon on various projects. I drove across the bridge, stopped at Han ah Reum for two half-gallon jars of cubed radish kimchee (which I'm banned from eating when Robbi is around), and came back home.

The cats were not pleased about my having been gone. Even my description of the lovely floors they would soon tread upon did not bring smiles to their faces.

As for Robbi's keen sniffer, here's the story: Uncle Ken stopped by Saturday afternoon to check our progress. Seeing the exposed wood, he praised our efforts and proclaimed the wood pine. Either Eastern Pine, that achieves the deep yellowed tones evidenced by our floors after years of aging, or Georgia Pine that starts out that color and retains it.

Not much left to do. Next weekend it's back to the insulation game. I need to insulate the wall between our half of the barn and the Florabana warehouse. Ken is going to place the glassblock window, hang the doors, and start making trim for the windows and doors.

More to come.

Posted by bogenamp at August 7, 2006 06:39 PM

Comments

Posted by: the hose at August 14, 2006 05:54 PM