'Don't go there!"

That's what our neighbor Dennis was shouting at me, hanging out of a second-story window. "He'll draft you! There was a crew working on the siding, and it was off by 4 degrees, and he tore it down. . . ."

So, as Pat Buchanan would say, I ran toward the sound of gunfire.

Turns out there had been several big steps forward and a few little ones back while I was away. Windows did get set in, yes. But a crew Ref trusted with putting up the siding had done a sloppy job, so Ref fired 'em, ripped it off and started over himself.

He'd marked control lines for them, provided blocks to standardize spacing, all to no avail. The planks -- most of them, anyway -- were cut OK, so they were saved to be put up right.

It didn't surprise me. I'd heard him telling the story about the long-ago mason who insisted his wall was set right, despite Ref's protests -- at which point Ref kicked the bricks down and said, "It isn't set right NOW. This time do it my way."

And on this sultry Sunday, with Brantley in Savannah for his daughter's wedding, Ref had rousted his friend Tommy from bed and dragooned him for work he wanted done before I got back.

Too late for that, and too late for me to dodge the draft. By the end of the day, the den wall was perfectly faced with HardiPlank, a fiber-and-concrete composite that gives off an amazing amount of noise and dust when sawed.

I usually stroll up Duval on my way home, but today I thought I'd scare too many people with the sweat, dust, grime and sunburn, so I took Simonton and kept my eyes down. How refreshing it would be, I thought, to be working over a nice, hot stove.