Hoisting

I was woken by the Machinist's footsteps this morning as he re-entered our room. "Would you like a cup of tea, Doll?" he asked. He always offers me tea in the morning, especially when he wants me to wake up and talk with him. With major work on the Grand's Cottage behind us we were free to begin renovations to the shop. The Machinist needed to discuss a plan of action with me. Urgently.

Granny still in hospital, my girls both working, my son at a friend's house for the weekend and grandpa unpacking and sorting what only he could unpack and sort, left the Machinist and I alone to do the heavy work. Real heavy work. Dirty and cobweb-y, too.

Hobson's choice dictated that the old, wood panelled cool room, encased in it's own room within the old service station (which we call "the shop") had to be removed first. Colourbond (garage) sheeting was pulled down by the Machinist (while I completed my morning ablutions at a snail pace), revealing the lumber relic, complete with an inscription that reads "Tommy was here. 1968"

Anybody know Tommy?

We hoisted the coolroom up, courtesy of a trolley jack and two heavy duty planks of wood which we used as 'sliders'. Once the coolroom had taken 'one foot outside' of it's forty year old, cavenous resting place, the Machinist forced me to climb up on the forklift and proceed to 'lift', 'reverse', 'lean it back', 'up', 'down', 'forward' it for the rest of the day, while he carted around a variety of wooden blocks, removed obstacles in my way and shouted out emphatic steering directions to me above the din of the motor.

It's wasn't only dirty, dusty, heavy, cobweb-y work, but operating the forklift after such a long time, was nerve-racking, too.

Hear that Machinist??