The heat's back on

Back to bright, hot and steamy, after Ernesto -- and back to work on the deck.

Early Thursday, Shawn was figuring out how to stagger the seams, ordering up special cuts from Uncle Albert.

Later he drilled the countersunk screw holes, while Charles held the boards in place, and then Ben followed up with the stainless steel screws (nattily tinted brown, so they blend better).

His crew -- their hard work matches their great spirit -- is slamming to get as much done before they leave for Macon early Saturday.

It was great to see so much getting done. But the highlight of my day came when Shawn brought Ref over for a quick inspection. I was grinning, Ref was grinning -- and Shawn was ribbing.

"Man, he was calling shots even before he hit the front steps," little brother said.

Very late in the day, when the deck was finally in shade (though the house behind us was shiny bright) Shawn saw my camera, asked "Want a purty picture?" and flashed his amazing smile.

Calming

Palms at the Pilot House, next to our rental,
with their switch on blow-dry.

It's the piano

A few weeks ago, Ref was reminding a carpenter about the rules at the "rough" stage with words I'll remember for the rest of my life:

"This ain't no piano we're building."

I laughed till I hurt when I heard it -- what a sweet thing to laugh when you're hot and sweaty and tired -- because it was so true for the level of detail required at the time.

And every so often since, as things have zeroed in on finish, I've seen the piano come into shape, and even better heard its tune.

I'll always think of Shawn's five rules of construction, too -- I'm sure a test item in the college classes he taught in construction management:

When you leave a project, ask yourself:

-- Is it plumb?
-- Is it level?
-- Is it square?
-- Is it straight?
-- Is it uniform?

If you can answer 'yes' to all of those, you've done your best.

When I took this picture Wednesday, Ernesto still had us on the rinse cycle, with intermittent showers, but Shawn and Charles were out there building pockets for the bedroom door to the deck, and checking the five points.

If you click the pic or just look closely, you can see the notches that Uncle Albert cut into the jacks for the top plate. Piano. E bravissimo.

Island in the storm

If you looked around our apartment about midnight, you'd think someone had flung a few dozen bags of salad onto the decks and into the pool -- a mess, but nothing horrible.

Ernesto came off Cuba's coast with dreadful potential -- waters at 86 degrees Fahrenheit in the Florida Straits could have been a great tonic -- but the storm stayed slow, lazy and weak.

Despite some notable exceptions -- Georges, Irene, Wilma -- Key West seems blessed, and this was yet another proof. But if occasional squalls can do this, what could sustained high winds do?

Still, Ernesto was evidently not to be more than a good deal of intermittent winds and substantial rain -- and a temperature break into the low 70s, the first time in months without air conditioning.

Mostly, the cool wind and rain made me feel like reading a book and napping. Which I did.

- ■ -

Overnight update: There were some gusts into the 40s. They woke me up, and I heard a sound I couldn't place.

I checked outside the kitchen door -- and it was Sparky. She scampered inside, and was happy to curl up on the bed, wet but purring.

Officer on deck

The storm was brewing first-thing Tuesday, and I don't just mean Ernesto.

I think Shawn was feeling the time pressure of the job he's doing here for his brother, Ref, as well as the demands of everything going on back home. He's got a huge contract bid due on Monday, and so many things he wants to finish here before then. . . .

One key objective is the deck -- though the pool guy didn't show up to move his test gauge and the gas guy didn't show up to run his line. The plumbing contractor did show up, and agreed to dig the trench he needs to clear the deck by hand, and instantly dispatched a guy to reroute a pipe that was blockading yet another sub, the HVAC guy.

Of course, Shawn's band -- I think of them as the Macon All-Stars -- were jammin' to meet the need.

Uncle Arnold (in the green shirt) was working to order, as ever: measuring, cutting, measuring. (He's going to be doing a lot of that in the next few days as the deck boards get cut.)

Kurt and our carpenter Michael (just below) were setting the sliding doors between the den and bedroom, and between the den and big room. And the rest were hopping to set supports, nail in braces and get the deck pitched just right, so rainwater would slide to the edge of the lot; and to secure all the windows that had been placed, but not fully screwed in.

Mid-morning, Shawn let go before Ernesto did. I'm not sure what set it off, but I heard it from the front porch and decided not to venture closer. He was delivering a vivid message to the group out back, and it had the rolling cadence and volume of a beautifully paced sermon, offered up from the thunderous depths of the soul and seemingly predicting the end of something.

Whatever the principle of general carpentry involved, when it was over, I thought, "Here endeth the lesson for the day."

The lesson ended, but the work continued until early afternoon: The skies were starting to unload rhythmically, and the wind had pitched up to the extent that they guys felt it prudent to board up. I swung up as the crew was leaving, and squeezed into the house through the laundry space just to check. The roof leaks from last week seemed to be plugged -- yes! -- and there were no new ones. Progress.

If you see Kay . . .

Sorry, but I couldn't help quoting Barry Cuda's song from Sloppy Joe's.

But you weren't gonna see Kay or anyone else along Duval on Monday afternoon. Blue skies and noo-body. During cocktail hour Monday, there were five people, total, at Willie T's, two at Mangoes, none at all at Margaritaville, while Ernesto dallied a few hundred miles southeast.

Most hotels closed, flat. Shawn and the crew got a wink and a nod at their digs, but that was a rarity.

Unfortunately, it turns out that those who fled, did so directly into the storm's new projected path. Rather like Andrew, in 1992, when Keys folk who evacuated to the official shelter near Homestead, on the mainland, looked up in some dismay to watch the hurricane rip the shelter roof off, though it left the Keys relatively untouched.

But as the weather folks are fond of saying, there's no outguessing hurricanes -- except to plan for one category bigger than anything that's forecast.

Miamians, by the way, have finally begun preparing in their own delightful way: blocks-long gas lines, fistfights over supplies and the like. Yet another reason I tend to treat it as a tunnel: something to be driven through, if absolutely necessary, but not stopped in.

Building the frame

Shawn and his crew from Macon hit the ground running Monday.

And what a crew. Shawn's talented son, also named Shawn; his uncle Arnold, a marksman with a saw; Ben (on the right in the picture); Charles (on the left); Kurt (who was working on the siding upstairs with Michael). All are as good-hearted and high-spirited as they are skilled.

Add Mr. B to the mix; plus Javi the roofer, back to tie up some loose ends pre-storm; plus electrician Matt; his son, Dennis, back from his honeymoon, smiling even more than ever; and their helper, Steve -- and that is one houseful.

When they had the entire deck framed by the end of the day, I was tempted to call Shawn a miracle worker -- remembering that the key to that phrase is worker. He's terrific.

Gone with the (fear of the) wind

Middle Duval Street looks mighty empty Sunday -- hours after the emergency management folks ordered a mandatory evacuation for visitors and non-residents.

Both of the guest houses next to my rental emptied like that.

People usually don't take it this seriously this early, but I think nonstop promotions for coverage of the Katrina anniversary have focused public attention mightily.

(I don't think visitors have a clue about what Wilma did here last October, though the effects still linger. [We are so lucky to have a roof!] Call me crazy, but I suspect our Tourism Development Council downplayed that disaster on purpose.)

Anyway, the get-outta-town order is just part of the Keys' "staged evacuation" plan, to avoid overwhelming our two-lane lifeline to the mainland. It kicks in whenever any tropical storm (up to 73 m.p.h.) is within 36 hours (or 48, if it's a Category 3-5 -- 111 to 155-plus).

They're closing the 18-mile Stretch tonight just in case -- high winds can push water over the roadway -- but giving freebies across the toll bridge on Card Sound Road, the only alternative.

At least this year they plan to keep the airport open until at least Monday night. Last year, every TSA screener scampered at the first alert, since they were "visitors," shutting down every potential evacuation flight. Heckuva job, Homeland Security.

So far, Key West is smack dab in the middle of Ernesto's probability cone, and enough satellite trucks rumbled into town this afternoon to supply a Lower Alabama subdivision. The Miami stations have gone all-storm-all-the-time.

But I have a good week's worth of food and water (OK, so it wouldn't be that good a week), extra ice, a charged cell phone, candles, pool water to flush with, fresh laundry (figured I'd do it while I had the chance) and a "safe room" in the main house if it's a Cat 1 (74-95) or 2 (96-110). If it's a 3 or more, I have a full tank, a heavy foot and cash in hand.

I'll know more on Monday -- much more on Tuesday (right now they say the hit's likely to come in the evening). But come what may, there's that other great sign from the Green Parrot:
And, oh yeah. Note for Monday: Tens of thousands of bucks in hurricane windows don't do bupkes unless they're screwed in tight.

Fireworks on a stalk

Near the fountain next to our rental's front porch.
I thought I'd get the picture before it blew away.

Getting our ducts in a row

George, the air-system installer, had called out measurements, and Peter (left) his nephew and helper for the day, was fabricating them out of big sheets of insulating material ready for cutting, folding, stapling and taping.

Once again, I got a quick course in Construction 101.

You can see the big sections of square tubing standing up at the right of the top picture.

When George had to install a bend (which you avoid where possible, for optimal airflow), he used some basic solid geometry and a big, sharp knife to create an offset.

As I was watching him join and seal the sections -- leveling, strapping, "painting" with heatproof sealant -- George turned and asked with a smile, "Hey, you tryin' to steal my trade?"

No way, I laughed, but it's always fun to watch a good teacher.

Less fun was the itch that seemed to start on every part of exposed skin at once. It's the fiberglass -- not a problem when the ducts are up, but during fabrication is a different matter. The HVAC guys said they're used to it by now.

They got about two-thirds of the stuff installed Sunday, and barring urgent need they'll be back next weekend to finish up -- they'd rather not get other trades itchy or underfoot.

Professional to the Max

Just as Ernesto was getting his name -- being upgraded from a depression to a storm (and being forecast to become a hurricane when he hits hot Gulf waters) -- came the really big news:

Max Mayfield, 57, director of the National Hurricane Center, would be retiring at the end of the year. The last two storm seasons just took it out of him, he said.

As a hair-challenged, bespectacled, earnest, reality-based, somewhat wonky American male of a certain age, I could identify.

More to the point: He's a hero. He seems living proof that quality still rises, and sometimes prevails. Unflappably, with hard work and great expertise, he very likely has done more than any other person to educate the public about the dangers of great storms, while setting up one of the government's truly fine research offices.

So what the heck, I fired off a valedictory email, expecting nothing from this busy guy.

And yet there it was back in my inbox within minutes:

John:
Thanks for your kind words. I'm not going anywhere until Jan 3. And now, back to Ernesto.
Regards,
Max

It's a rare government worker who makes you enjoy paying taxes.

Destined for supporting roles

With the addition of the joists for the deck, the living room, dining room and kitchen areas look a like a lumberyard for a while.

It's going to be fascinating watching this stuff go in.


Shawn is due in town tonight -- but I think the only people working on the place Sunday will be Kenny and George of the HVAC crew. They say that with any luck, they'll be able to knock out most of the ductwork then.

Gentle rain all night

Lolling on Solares Hill

Ernesto who? Hibiscus nod in midday heat
at the aptly named Garden House.

Ready on deck

Shawn wants to have everything in line for his return trip, so today the deck wood arrived -- lots of it.

Ref had sent me by the lumberyard last week just to get my eyes popping at the price -- I had a suspicion, but not specific numbers.

And I can report that though the kind of wood -- ipe -- is pronounced ee-pay, as in "pay," the cost might also justify a rhyme with "yipe."

It's actually tabebuia wood, according to the Agriculture Department's Forest Product Labs, and is called ipe by the Brazilians. It's also sometimes called Brazilian cherry or Brazilian walnut.

But do a little research and you find the names don't stop there. It's amapa in Mexico; Cortez in Costa Rica, Honduras and Nicaragua; Guayacan in Panama; Guayacan polvillo in Colombia; Flor Amarillo in Venezuela; Greenhart in Surinam; Madera negra in Ecuador; Tahuari in Peru; and Lapacho negro in Paraguay and Argentina.

Obviously it grows widely in the hemisphere, which is why we got it: renewable resource, and all that. Besides, it never needs sealing (it's actually too dense to absorb sealer), it's weatherproof and pest-proof without chemical treatment, it doesn't splinter, it has a fire rating equal to concrete and steel and it's incredibly heavy and hard (you can't nail it; you have to drill holes and screw it down).

Well, if you can't nail the plank, nail the buyer.

Hide in plain sight

I had to laugh when I got to the house Friday morning.

The pool guys had finished the piping -- as far as it goes. From here, it's going to stub out to the pump, heater and chlorine generator -- whenever the slab 6 feet or so from the door is poured, and then the equipment is installed.

But to get their preliminary inspection, they installed a faucet and pressure gauge -- for sure where the inspector can't miss them, and he doesn't even have to bend over.

The pipes, the pipes are calling

And Chris' crew is answering.

Today, they stuck in the skimmer for the pool, and they were getting ready to run the supply lines along the edge of the house, later to be covered by the deck. (The outdoor shower will be about two-thirds of the way back on this deck, by the way.)

You can see the concrete deck piers Brantley poured the other day.

Chris had originally planned to run the pipes under the house -- straighter route, in some cases -- but I think it makes more sense to disassemble a deck, if you really have to, than to disassemble a house.

Meanwhile, on Simonton

Appropriate? I'm certified!

"You know," I said to the sweet clerk who was taking my money, "in my long life this is the only time I have been certified to be appropriate."

She laughed, and in widening circles around her the other clerks in the office turned their heads and laughed, too.

Maybe it had something to do with my hot-pink T-shirt, or maybe it was just the loony notion of being certified for "apppropriateness," which they do every day but probably don't think about a lot.

Water management

Chris, our pool guy, and his helper were at the house today to figure where the coping needed to go. They had a laser on their side, painting a dot on the wall that Chris was measuring from.

That was after the rain. During the rain (2 inches? more?), I met with the gas guy, who was trying to figure where the line would go for the cook top, all the while talking with Matt and Steve, the electricians.

Matt was back from the wedding of his son, Dennis, and took all our little changes in the last two weeks in stride.

But also during the rain: I copied an extra set of house plans at Office Max, despite a half-hour power outage there and island-wide. I got stuff at Walgreen's (as long as I was at that end of the island) even though waterspouts near the 7-Mile Bridge had knocked everybody's computers out (they could only take cash, and the E-crew was driving down from Miami), and sprinted home at maybe 5 m.p.h. with no traffic signals but a half a foot of water in every street -- except ours.

By the time I got back to the house, there were two roof leaks -- but after pulling a few boards off Mr. B figured out where they came from.

Trust him to get to it.

Absolutely ducky

"Mr. Stafford [meaning Shawn] calls every morning," Brantley was saying Tuesday. That's why the piers for the deck are now poured, and why he was prying up the concrete walk to get ready for brick pavers.

"Good thing they mixed this up with saltwater," he said between swings and pries. "Makes it soft. And they didn't use no wire."

He was working while Nate, who'd been shoveling, went home to change shirts, so we could go pick up more cement mix at the lumberyard. As we got back with ten 80-pound bags, there was Mr. Stafford, [meaning Ref]. Dollie was at the wheel of his big truck, and they'd just got back from the doc's office, and Ref wanted to swing by the house for a quick view.

It was a drizzly morning, but seeing his grand smile made it feel like a full, gentle sun. He looks great, and he's completely stoked about the progress.

Shawn is returning with a crew this weekend, Mr. B said -- and I think with that, with the HVAC guys coming this week, with Matt and Denny back from the wedding, with Chris the pool guy (who I'd run into in an earlier visit to the lumberyard) coming back to do his pipe placement, with the propane folks coming to scope out the lot before the deck goes in, with my painting plan now submitted to the historic commission review folks. ...

I'd call that significant progress. So when our friend Sullins called Tuesday afternoon asking if I had plans for dinner, we ended up at 915 on Duval, which I couldn't get Robert to during his stay, and I had duck confit on a salad, and it was as lovely as the rest of the day. The Sicilian nero d'Avola didn't hurt either.

Making the cut

I rib Robert about cruising around town in the car a lot -- I'd rather walk, myself -- but you've got to give the guy credit:

He covers a lot of ground, and he keeps his eyes open, at least for real estate if not for oncoming traffic.

In this case, he spotted a pattern that's darn close to the motif we've had in mind for the railing along our loft.

It's on Reynolds, on the way to the Casa Marina, and though it's not perfect, it's about the best we've seen so far. Pineapples, he's fond of pointing out, are traditional symbols of hospitality, and if Robert is anything, it's welcoming.

On the other hand, I've considered posting a sign on the door of our tiny guestroom-to-be: "You are now entering the Take-A-Hint Suite."

Opening doors

Mr. B asked if I'd come over to the house this morning -- and of course I made it quick.

There he was, pulling wheat and chaff apart: culling what lumber was scrap and what could be used to finish up the exterior. Like Ref and like Shawn -- and like me -- Brantley uses everything but the squeal when he processes the pig.

So we went over the needs and the goods, and then we went over Shawn's instructions for the pouring of the deck piers this week (just a little pitch to take water away from the house).

And then I wandered inside the house, felt the breeze and marveled again: Yes, these are the living-room doors, finally installed, and finally open. They don't spread with a finger's touch -- the glass is a half-inch thick for hurricane resistance, for heaven's sake, weighing a lot at that size, and the handles aren't even installed yet -- but they roll smooth and evenly thanks to Shawn's skill and sweat.

That little chunk of wood on the left is almost the thickness of the future hardwood floor, just to show that everything will be even when the real deal is done.

I hope Shawn got an inkling of my amazement and gratitude before he flew home in time for Sunday church. I know Brantley was reading my mind when he saw that I couldn't stop grinning.

Hittin' it hard

Ref's brother Shawn tore into the job like a man on a mission.

This is not a family that lacks a work ethic.

On Friday, he hand-chiseled the openings for the living room and bedroom doors to the deck, and then went hammer and tongs after the assembly that will hold closets, office nook and TV in the den.

"I don't use the gun much," he said between massive swings to drive No. 16 nails home in tough pressure-treated pine.

As he called out lengths for 2-by-4's and 2-by-6's, I marked and Brantley cut. Four of these. Eight of those. Fourteen of that.

Shawn started assembling pieces of the big box.

Some emerged with odd boards sticking out, and others had odd spaces -- all of them finally fitting together like a giant wooden puzzle. As one piece mated smoothly with another, Mr. B and I just looked at each other and grinned:

Not just a mission, but one fine method as well -- and how great to see that kind of talent shaping the house again.

Above and beyond -- and done

Javier, our roofer, finished his magic on our tin this week, and I'll miss his great spirit and artful work.

His boss, the venerable Dan Acevedo, wasn't the first to observe, "That is one cut-up roof," when he inspected the job this week.

Cut up, indeed:

▪ Five dormers on the new gable roof.
▪ Two gables for den and bedroom, one with a hip joint to the old roof.
▪ The high-pitched old roof itself -- a 9-12 in roofer terms, numbers guaranteed to numb your ankles and distract your traction.
▪ The hips on the porch.
▪ Three (or was it four?) crickets, which are basically ramps to carry water off quickly where roofs join.

As a final filip, Javi cut a little dragon tail into the end of each ridge cap. They remind me of the corners of a smile.

Angels rush in

When Ref was in the hospital, I went to one of the town's healing-arts shops and invested in some incense -- the perfume of prayer in so many ways.

And then there were the answers: His big sister, Dollie, and his youngest brother, Shawn. Here they are on Friday, after yeoman work by Shawn and Mr. B had restored the subfloor in the living room by working into the night on Thursday.

Dollie is a world-class hugger (as well as a law graduate from Indiana U.), and Shawn runs his own construction business in Macon, mostly building fine churches. But they came without a moment's thought when their brother needed them -- as had their other brother, Aurelius, when Ref came home after his surgery.

So here is Dollie, who's been cooking oatmeal just lumpy enough for Ref's tastes. And here is Shawn, treating our little house as if it were a church, with a master's touch for wood and measure.

Their competence, confidence, strength, skill and faith have humbled me to tears in the last few days. Ref is blessed to have them as siblings, and I am blessed to know them.

A Latin guest at the guest house next door got a whiff of the incense wafting through the dusk tonight. "¡Ai, incienso!" I heard her say on the other side of the fence. "¡Que lindo!"

Lovely indeed, the prayer's perfume. And lovelier the answers.

Every which way

Well, that was a week.

Robert blew into town last weekend, sans gels, and soon had to admit that Key West is a little more humid than Tennessee, especially packed into air conditioning that totals about 9 by 12.

But a little sweat didn't dim his vision -- he picked up instantly on a mistake in framing a bathroom door -- or slow down his whiz around town to measure bed frames, check on closet fixtures, or deliver wind-insurance checks.

All of which must have whetted our our appetites: memorable dinners at Trattoria, Alice's, the Half Shell, Carmine's. . . .

Alas, it was over too soon, and he flew on to a first birthday party for his youngest grand-niece -- ultimately going to get Holly Hill ready for a big Labor Day house party -- and leaving me to sweat.

Night lights, revisited

This is the garden building of the Pilot House, just west of our rental. When the moon's in the south, it's over the old building, but this picture was taken near dawn.

- ■ -

Robert flies in this afternoon, and heaven only knows how often I'll have the chance to post for a few days. If you'd like in the meantime, you could check the nice pictures in the archives.

Bien viaje, Tomás

My neighbor Thomas packed up yesterday and left for Philadelphia to join his squeeze, who's a doctor there.

This is at Caroline's Wednesday night, and he's got a Lester's Bloody Mary. I had a key lime margarita -- very tart, and the salt was enough to make a day worth sweating through. It was funny, as so often happens, that the server had been here the least time of all of us.

Thursday, he had the usual disorientation of somebody moving, so together we loaded the back of his rental SUV -- this box here, these breakable pieces there -- and he closed the tailgate along with the door of seven years in the Keys, soon to open the door of life with Juan. All best wishes on that new life!

I wanted to buy his bike, but he gave it to me. Today I rode it two blocks down Simonton, turned around and came back. Friday afternoon is not the time to bicycle again in traffic, even in off season, after 25 years out of the pedals.

Unveiled

My apologies, Mr. B

Will Rogers, in his great wisdom, is supposed to have said, "It isn't what you don't know that gets you in trouble. It's the things you know that aren't so."

Thus, the guy I've known as "Bradley." That's the way I heard it in February, and he was too polite to correct me all this time. But I was talking with Ref yesterday, and maybe my ears were listening better.

So today I confirmed my mistake with Mr. B, and apologized, and came home and corrected all my old blog posts. (I hope! Please let me know if you see "Bradley" anywhere.)

So now let me introduce you to him properly. He'd never boast, but I've learned over several months of conversation and side-by-side work that for years he was a shrimp boat captain (though he never learned to swim, and he has a really funny story about that), a man of adventure on occasion (my lips are sealed) and was president of his church men's choir (he does a great falsetto harmony).

Hardworking, loyal, a man of honor and faith.

It's spelled B-R-A-N-T-L-E-Y.

Storms? They come and go

A tropical wave moved through this morning, dropping an inch of rain, and then going north -- you can see it here heading out to the Florida Straits, and the wet walkway on the water at North Roosevelt.

I was on my way to Stock Island to return the raccoon cage. By the time I got back to the house, the sun had come out and the temperature had gone from 81 to 87 in about a half-hour.

"I love afternoon storms," said Matt, the electrician. "They get everything so cool for evening. But these morning ones. ... " If you've felt the sauna that the rest of the day becomes, you can finish the sentence yourself.

Tuesday we had high winds of another sort: Tropical Storm Ref blew onto the site midday for the first time since his surgery. After he checked out the progress, there were strong gusts of the "what carpenter school did you go to?" variety -- Category 2 at least -- and Juan decided he ought to move along. Ref assured me that I shouldn't worry: His brothers are coming in to pick up some slack.

This afternoon we even had a couple hours around his kitchen table to establish a new season forecast. He thinks we're still on course, all things considered.

Gotcha

8 p.m. -- Line trap with newspaper, per instructions. Bait and lock bait access end. Try to set trap end.

8:25 -- Succeed in setting trap. Place trap near trash can.

8:31 -- Chagrined to discover Sparky likes deviled eggs. Free Sparky.

8:51 -- Discover raccoon likes deviled eggs, but not captivity. Throw towel over trap to calm animal, per instructions. Attempt unsuccessful.

8:55 -- Place emergency call to volunteer "Raccoon Cop,"Monroe County Deputy Sheriff Chris Scott, licensed animal rehabilitator on Sugarloaf Key. Describe situation.

9:44 -- Greet Scott, arriving on scene in white pickup. Much raccoon lore imparted. She coos at detainee, offers prospect of chicken necks, coaxes him into animal carrier. Thanks exchanged.

9:58 -- Deputy Scott advises to bait trap again, in case 9-month-old male has accomplice, exits with intruder.

9:59 -- Another crisis averted, and so to bed.

Trapper John

Before you say "Aww"about this generic raccoon, let me assure you he's not so cute at 2 a.m., moving the contents of your trash can to the roof deck and leisurely shredding and grazing thereon. Also not cute: the diseases Sparky could contract. Nor: the fact that Florida has a rabies problem, particularly among raccoons.

Neighbor Thomas and I were puzzled when we found the rubbish a few days ago. Then I came face to face with the noisy little bugger in the middle of the next night, and got a new waste can to keep him (or her, as if I gave a possum's tail) away from the garbage.

Then last night, the wakeup at 2 meant war, and I got a particular jolt of joy when I got him square in the face with the garden hose at 3 (I'd been lying in wait; I get like that when I'm sleep-deprived).

This morning I consulted with Armando, my barber and the official Key West Chicken Catcher emeritus. "Man, I wish I could help you." Buzz. "But I sold all my traps to Katha, the chicken lady, when I retired." Snip. "I'd give you one if I still had one." Buzzzzz. "My buddies and me used to go out to Boca Chica years ago and get 'em all up and down the road. Sold 'em for 3 bucks apiece over in Bahama Village." Snip. "Some old folks really like eatin' em." Buzz.

Of course I couldn't stomach that, so I went out to Animal Control on Stock Island (I'm getting far too chummy with Stock Island), and put down a deposit on a humane trap. The volunteer showed me how to bait it, set it -- and warned: "When you catch the raccoon -- and you will -- you have to call us. We'll come and pick it up, because it's illegal for you to transport it."

Ah, yes, Chapter 68A-24.005, Florida Administrative Code: No unlicensed person shall transport within, into, or from the state any wild-trapped, live raccoon. How could I have forgotten?

The Animal Control lady told me to bait the trap with an egg, so I went to Fausto's and got a deviled one. Seems appropriate.

Lucid dream

Going at it high and low

Javier was moving right along with the roof Monday (the picture doesn't do the heat justice), and since electricians Matt and Steve were working, too, I made a mad stab at getting the bathroom fan vents installed before all the tin was down.

Bingo -- everybody said go for it, so I made a quick dash out to Stock Island for the fans themselves (far more pleasant than a dash out for the hospital), and then everybody started mounting fans, cutting holes and then filling them properly.

Back on terra firma, Brantley, Juan and Nate were making forms for the deck piers and trimming rebar. Ref is still sidelined, but the team plays on.