The Workshop

June 17, 2024

Kim, Mike, Ed, John, and I carried seven 2×4 boards to the center of the workshop and laid them out in the pattern of the side wall of a shed. Two of the pieces, which would form the base and the top of the wall, were 84 inches long, the other five, the wall-support pieces, were 72 inches.

This was the start, the first step. We did this four times to arrange the four walls on the concrete floor. The platform, which would be the floor of the shed, already was complete.

We hammered galvanized three-inch nails into the top and bottom pieces to fasten them to the wall supports. Mike fired longer nails with a nailgun to attach the four wall sides to the platform. The staccato crack! echoed sharply through the place.

We lifted the prefab roof frame pieces into place at the top of the walls, fitting each end into a precut notch. Mike nailed them securely. The shed started to look like a shed.

This is one of the things Habitat for Humanity does in the workshop at the rear of the ReStore, the Habitat-operated thrift store on our side of town. Kim, the workshop manager, directs this team of veteran carpenters, all volunteers, in building ancillary structures that become part of homes Habitat builds for its clients, people who need homes.

Soon it was ten o’clock, Kim called a break. We grabbed bottled water and cookies and chips, and settled into chairs, catching our breath. My shoulders ached from lifting and hammering. We talked about Habitat projects going up in a couple of downtown neighborhoods. With the state primaries approaching, a couple of the guys got into the candidates. Kim listened but said nothing. I nodded and closed my eyes.

Retired folks aren’t all playing pickleball or going on cruises. Some work at projects that pay nothing, but that achieve some good for people who don’t have much, who need a break in life, need to get out of shabby, overpriced apartments in bad neighborhoods. Marginal neighborhoods need new housing. That is Habitat’s mission. To get there, it needs volunteers to step up and contribute. Like these guys, skilled craftsmen, all in their sixties and seventies.  

I got up from the break table and walked, stretching my legs. The workshop is also a warehouse, as long as a basketball arena. Lumber in multiple sizes and cuts is stacked against the side walls. Two long cutting tables stand in the center, covered with sawdust and remnants. A couple of power saws lay on the floor. Supermarket-type shopping carts hold electric drills and jigsaws, hammers, nail aprons, safety glasses. Bins of nails, screws, and fasteners of every size line a back wall.

The business of Habitat surged forward. While the workshop team creates, the thrift store staff are offering pretty good prices to people who shop there, mostly folks with limited income, but others just looking for deals on still-usable stuff. We all know people who buy brand-new things, decide they don’t want them, and drop them, still new or nearly new, at the ReStore. 

 In the long dimly lit corridor between the workshop and the store, employees and volunteers were inspecting donated furniture and appliances, moving stuff from stockrooms to the store shelves, making repairs. Carts of building materials, sheetrock, paneling, shelving, even framed windows in various sizes stood waiting to move to the showroom. A couple of guys were hauling damaged items to the dumpster.

I recall that the inventory at the ReStore near our Virginia home seemed a cut above that at Goodwill, the Salvation Army, and the church-run thrift stores. You could find used and new microwaves, computers, TVs, and kitchen gadgets—can openers, blenders, coffeemakers, and so on—that actually worked. All that displayed alongside the stacks of dinnerware, utensils, and other home goods people buy, use for a while, then donate at the thrift store.

Beyond are racks of clothing—shirts, coats, dresses, sweaters, stuff crammed together, loosely organized by size. Next to the clothing department is furniture, chairs, sofas, tables of every size and type, desks, chifforobes, lampstands, nightstands, bedframes, some of it slightly chipped, but still presentable. People are there, looking for deals.

The team was getting back to work. We lifted the weather-treated particleboard outer wall sections into place. These were precut to the size of our shed. Mike and I took turns with the nailgun fastening them into place. But then, whoops—we got one side out of line. Ed grabbed a claw hammer and pulled the misplaced nails. We took a breath, remeasured, tried again, and got it right. We learned from our screw-up and got the other three sides nailed correctly.

We lifted the prefab upper front and back panels into place and nailed them. Kim walked around, checking each seam, pressing caulk into the nailholes, and there were a lot of them. Still, the roof was missing.

“We’ll shingle it at the site,” Kim said. “Shingles are really heavy, and the mover doesn’t want to move that much weight. They’ll bring their truck in, haul it to the property of the folks who are getting it. Then putting the roof on will only take a couple of hours. Mike and I will do it.”

It had been a four-hour shift, but seemed longer. At other local Habitat sites volunteers may choose morning, afternoons, or all day. Here, the four hours left us beat.

We were hot and tired, but we picked up brooms and swept up the sawdust, wood scraps, and bent nails. Kim settled into her chair and finished paperwork. The shed was the last workshop project for a couple of weeks, although she would be in her office, coordinating, planning, doing management chores. The rest of the team were looking forward to some downtime.

“Thanks, everyone,” Kim said. She pointed to the fridge. “Grab a water and a snack on your way.” We all headed to the door. She smiled and waved. “See you soon.”