Dudley Builds a Greenhouse

\Betty liked flowers. Dudley liked projects. This was one of the more successful arrangements in their marriage.

Betty could look at a bare patch of ground and imagine flowers. Dudley could look at the same patch and imagine lumber, drainage, electrical service and several weeks of unnecessary research.

Eventually, Betty got flowers. Dudley got a project. Everybody won. The greenhouse started this way. Betty wanted somewhere to start plants earlier in the spring and keep them going later in the fall. Iowa was not particularly cooperative with people who liked growing things. It could be seventy degrees in March and snow two days later.

A greenhouse would help. Dudley liked the idea immediately. This should have concerned Betty.

“How big?”

“I don’t know.”

“Attached or freestanding?”

“I don’t know.”

“Glass or polycarbonate?”

“I don’t know.”

“Permanent foundation?”

Betty looked at him.

“I want a greenhouse.”

Dudley nodded. Requirements gathering was complete.

There were greenhouse kits. Dudley looked at them. That would have been easy. So naturally he decided to build one.

He researched orientation, roof pitch, snow loads, wind loads, foundations, ventilation and approximately forty-seven ways to attach one piece of lumber to another. He drew plans, changed them and eventually changed them back.

Betty occasionally looked over his shoulder.

“Will it grow flowers?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

That was the extent of her design review.

Eventually Dudley settled on seven feet by twelve, built on heavy skids with a paver floor, framed walls and a polycarbonate roof. Technically, it could be moved someday, although Dudley suspected that would require several large men and possibly the National Guard.

Then Frosty came over.

Frosty lived nearby and was eighty-three years old. If Santa Claus were five-foot-six, weighed 150 pounds and rode a skid loader instead of a sleigh, he would be Frosty. White beard and all.

A skid loader was basically a small construction machine that could dig, lift and move almost anything. Frosty drove his like Tony Hawk on a skateboard.

Frosty had spent his life doing construction, concrete, dirt work and other forms of actual labor that made Dudley’s thirty-five years of meetings, emails and PowerPoint presentations seem like an elaborate indoor hobby.

Dudley had tools. Frosty had equipment: a skid loader, a dump trailer, an ancient riding mower and a garden tiller that appeared to have been designed during a period when manufacturers considered arms replaceable.

Dudley had watched him use it. The tiller attacked the garden. Frosty hung on. Eventually the garden surrendered. Dudley wanted one. Betty had said no.

Frosty looked at the spot where the greenhouse was going.

“What’re you doing?”

“Greenhouse.”

“For what?”

“Betty.”

Frosty nodded. That apparently explained everything.

Dudley started describing the plan.

“Seven by twelve. I’m putting it on four-by-six skids, then I’m going to—”

“We’ll need the skid loader.”

Dudley stopped.

“Probably.”

“I’ll go get it.”

Ten minutes later, Frosty came back with the skid loader. The project had begun. There was no formal kickoff meeting. Dudley liked Frosty. Frosty did not spend much time discussing things that could be accomplished by doing them.

They cleared the area and leveled the site. Frosty ran the skid loader while Dudley watched.

“Want me to do that?”

“Nope.”

This was difficult. Dudley liked operating machinery. Frosty liked operating machinery more.

They moved dirt, gravel and, at one point, what Dudley was reasonably certain was the same dirt twice. He did not mention this.

When they finished, they stood and looked at the site. Dudley had noticed that men doing projects frequently stopped working and stared at what they had just done. Sometimes they put their hands on their hips. Occasionally someone kicked something. Then everybody stared again. This apparently prevented structural failure.

Frosty pointed.

“Little low there.”

Dudley looked.

“Where?”

“There.”

Dudley still couldn’t see it.

Frosty climbed back into the skid loader, moved some dirt and got out.

“Better.”

The spot looked exactly the same.

Dudley nodded.

“Yep.”

Over the next several days, the skids went down, the floor went in, walls appeared, then rafters and polycarbonate. Frosty came and went. Sometimes Dudley called him. Sometimes Dudley would hear machinery coming down the road and Frosty would simply appear.

“What are you doing?”

“Helping.”

That was usually the entire explanation.

If something needed lifting, Frosty had something that lifted it. If something needed moving, he had something that moved it. If Dudley needed a tool, Frosty probably owned three, including one older than Dudley that worked better than the new one Dudley had just bought.

And Frosty did this for everybody. If someone was sick, he mowed their yard. If something needed hauling, he hauled it. If somebody had a project, Frosty showed up. Dudley had never heard him talk about giving back or service. He just helped.

Help when we can.

Apparently Frosty had been operating under this policy for about eighty-three years.

One afternoon they were putting polycarbonate on the roof. Frosty was standing on the trailer.

Dudley looked up.

“You’re eighty-three.”

“Yep.”

“You know that, right?”

“Yep.”

“Just checking.”

Frosty went back to work.

As the greenhouse took shape, Dudley realized how much he enjoyed the whole thing. He liked solving problems, cutting lumber and watching something that had existed in his head become real. He also liked the skid loader considerably more than was appropriate for a man his age. Mostly, though, he liked having Frosty there.

They worked and talked. Frosty told stories about construction jobs, people around town and things that had happened forty years ago. Sometimes they laughed. Sometimes they worked without saying anything. Sometimes they stopped and stared at the greenhouse. Hands on hips. Still important.

Betty came outside periodically.

“How’s it going?”

Dudley would begin explaining.

Frosty would say, “Good.”

Betty eventually learned to ask Frosty.

As they got closer to finishing, Dudley began imagining what the greenhouse would look like in March, when Iowa was still brown and cold. Betty would have seed trays everywhere, flowers starting and pots occupying every available surface. He could picture her trying to squeeze in one more plant after all available space had clearly been consumed.

He smiled. He was building this for her. But he wasn’t suffering through it for her. He was having a great time.

Eventually they reached the stage of a Dudley project where Betty declared it finished and Dudley maintained a private list of improvements.

The three of them stood outside. Hands on hips. Naturally.

Frosty nodded.

“Turned out good.”

“Yeah.”

Betty walked inside, looked around and touched the shelves. Then she stood in the middle of the greenhouse and smiled.

“I love it.”

That was good.

Really good.

Dudley looked at Frosty.

“Thanks.”

Frosty shrugged.

“Wasn’t nothing.”

It had been quite a lot: equipment, knowledge, work and company. Frosty had given all of it without acting as though he had given Dudley anything. Maybe giving didn’t always mean giving something up. Sometimes you just brought what you had.

Frosty brought equipment and fifty years of knowing how to use it. Dudley brought lumber, plans and considerably more research than the situation required. Betty brought the reason for doing any of it.

She came back outside.

“We need some more shelves.”

Dudley looked at Frosty.

Frosty looked at Dudley.

Dudley smiled.

“Project’s not done.”

Frosty nodded.

“Didn’t figure it was.”