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Noise Pollution Debits

According to generic web searches, a riding mower with blade engaged emits between 87.7 and 95.4 decibels.

According to the CDC’s Occupational Noise Exposure whitepaper, the foundation for OSHA standards, the maximum allowable time that should be spent in such an environment at this sound range is 4 hours to a mere 37 minutes and 48 seconds.

Consider the louder end of this range.  A neighbor mowing 50 feet away at 95 decibels would drop by roughly 24 decibels to a perceived volume of 71 decibels–approximately the sound of a normal talking voice.

So, if you’re one of these lawn-riders, for the duration of your landscaping endeavors, your neighbors hear the equivalent of some guy in your face going: “Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.”

And if you’re also of the persuasion that you should mow at a slow meandering pace to maximize the possibility a passerby will notice that you have the means to spend a couple thousand dollars on a luxury power equipment item, you’re extending your exposure time.

And, if you’re also one of those aging men who think it’s cute to hold your young son/grandson while piloting your luxury power equipment item at a slow meandering pace, you’re also exposing him to unsafe noise levels.

Point being, you’re annoying your neighbors and likely damaging your multiple peoples’ hearing.

And you’re a douche.

–Simon

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Delco 2

3 years ago we went fishing at Delco with the old man.  It was…underwhelming.

Crap…pie?

But this time, things were more productive.  Fishing is unpredictable, I suppose.

Alana’s also older and much better at the mechanics.  Alas, she didn’t catch anything, but the group haul was encouraging.

First fish goes to me, a good ol’ bluegill!
Second fish was Dad’s, a bass of some sort. Smallmouth maybe? There was a discussion.
Third fish was mine, a largemouth bass.
Fourth fish was mine, an even smaller bluegill.
Dad finishes the day with #5, a perfectly respectable bluegill.

A very nice fishing day indeed.

–Simon

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Strawberries I Guess?

Last weekend I forced myself to only work maintenance, no projects.  I had fallen behind.  Of course, mowing and edging and weeding don’t make for very interesting posts, so here’s some strawberries!:

Last year I kept them in a bag in the fridge as I picked them, until they started to get too ripe, and then I put the bag in the freezer.  But that resulted in an ice block of fruit.  So this year, following some Alton Brown advice, I’m flash-freezing them on a cookie sheet and then bagging them.  Much easier to deal with.

So far so good.  Bigger harvest this year too.

–Simon

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I Can’t See You

“Don’t ever put my fucking tools in the fucking truck!”

I think some neighbors are just meme-worthy.  This particular gem broke the day’s serenity with the sudden work renewal of the Plywood Palace.

Plywood Palace

The utterance, courtesy of The Redneck, indicated to all within a quarter mile radius that he really didn’t want his tools in his truck, nor did he ever wish anyone to put them there going forward.  Glad we cleared that up.

More importantly, it reminded me why I spent a weekend sweating in the glaring sun.

If only it were also soundproof

Almost sufficient to block out the view, which hopefully the new clematis will one day accomplish.

A very subtle barrier

Our present relationship with the neighbors notwithstanding, the openness of this particular section always bothered me.  Line of sight to our deck from other houses is at least partially obscured, except for this one, and I never much fancied the idea of them being able to casually look out any window and monitor our recreational activities through the summer.  The shed business was just the final push.

In all, the design was pretty simple.  The original 4×4 fence posts, upon 3 of which this is bolted, are buried 3 feet into quickcrete.  I’m hoping that’ll prove sufficient to support the additions, or I’ll be digging some more post holes soon.

Unfortunately, the city limits fences to 7′, and since this trellis is on the fence, it’s a de facto fence extension.  So I couldn’t quiiiite block out their upstairs windows.  But I didn’t see any restrictions on what I can put on top of the trellis, so there’s a creative solution forthcoming.

And no tools were put into trucks in the making of this trellis.

–Simon

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Their Roots Grow Deep

Legend tells of the American west, where virgin prairie grass roots grew 12 feet down.

Legend also tells of cultivated Kentucky bluegrass on a certain suburban plot in southwest Ohio, whose roots seem to almost match that depth.

And as I set about removing it with shovel and mattock, I can understand how sod created an effective construction material for homestead abodes.  And I also wonder just how much effort excavating enough sod to build a structure required.  Such is the tenacity of desperation.

I, however, opted for power equipment.  But my tiller was also built for pre-cultivated gardens, and so lacked the power to unearth grass.  Fortunately, the neighbors lent us theirs.  It’s ironic, that their equipment selection was intended for raised beds, which definitely did not need the ridiculous horsepower that their abomination possessed, however useful in our case.

It was powerful enough all right, but not heavy enough.  It took all my strength to hold it in place while it excavated.  Or perhaps I simply lacked the aforementioned tenacity of a desperate settler.

Pictured above, my tiller–NOT the neighbor’s.

But it had to be in this spot: high heat and direct and lengthy sun.

And I am tenacious about delicious cooking.

–Simon