death with brush

This times twenty is what we've got to look forward to this Sunday, as we grab brushes and stain and go to work on the expanse of spanking fresh cryptomeria ceilings, beams, posts, window sills, rails . . . . We're counting on friends to give us a hand, and promising them freshly grilled Pacific saury (and Italian sausages) if they are able to endure the bicep-straining chore of overhead brushing. M keeps talking as if it's a walk in the park, but I'm being the pessimist on this one, and have already told my boss at work there's a good chance I'll be taking Monday off as well to finish up.

There are many small corners, and railings, and edges and beams and bookshelves--like the built-in ones in the main bedroom below--and we have to finish everything so that they can start doing the keisodo plastering the next day. The contractor is arranging ladders and brushes and, of course, the natural stain, and both Yamada-san, our main man at the komuten, and Takahashi-san, the architect, have promised to help out. (Can you believe the union problems you'd have in the U.S.? I can't. Or can you imagine guys from a contractor dropping by to help without pay? I can't either.) I almost feel bad, but they've become so much a part of the family by now, it's impossible to feel bad enough to say: Stay away. And we really want them to be there.
I haven't said anything to anyone yet, but these beams in the main bedroom (above) are all mine to stain. The big one crosses right over where the bed will be, and I'm already imagining laying there in the morning looking up at the shimmering light first reflecting off the ocean outside, then bouncing off this massive slab of beautiful wood. I just may decide to never get out of bed again (unless, of course, I really screw up the stain job and am left with some irritating hairline of raw wood taunting me from above). Like Hoke, the cop in that brilliant Charles Willeford novel, I might decide that life is fine right there as it is.