It was just wood and nails. 2" x 6" boards hammered together with some metal pipes for railings. The deck in my grandma's backyard wasn't an architectural masterpiece, just two large rectangular boxes with two benches dug into the ground.
Grandpa didn't use pressure-treated wood and didn't seal the surfaces. But, when he was alive, he took care of it and made it safe. I remember running on that deck looking for Easter eggs tucked carefully in the corners where the wood met the pine-needle-covered ground.
About a year ago, I looked underneath the deck planning a restoration. I am no carpenter, so when I saw mitered cross braces and latticed supports driven into concrete foundations, I knew a repair would be out of my abilities and budget.
I stepped back and surrendered to the elements. The deck fell apart. The steps leading up to the first tier started collapsing. Rusted nails wiggled loose from the joints and dry rot caused some planks to turn into trap doors. The once-level surface twisted out of flush as the hill swelled during the rainy seasons.
And so, the deck came down.
With the last splintered piece of timber hauled away, the northeast edge of the back yard is wide open. Before now, I'd never stood on this section of land. And from the new vantage point, the back yard in which I'd grown up seemed different. The perspective seemed incorrect.
I feel that I've lost a family heirloom, something I should have been able to give my own children. I could feel the violation, the vibration that told me I could have prevented the removal had I been just a bit better with tools, been a bit more handy, been a bit more like Grandpa.
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My dad assembled a wooden playground set in the backyard of the house I grew up in. We moved when I was 16, and after that I returned to the neighborhood and caught a glimpse of the empty green lawn in the back. The new owners scrapped it. Very, very strange feeling indeed.
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