My impulse buys are typically nondescript run of the mill purchases. Unneeded t-shirts, the fifth pair of tan dress shoes, a novel new pretzel dip, extra items that go on my back, on my feet, on my waistline. Rarely if ever does one of these amount to much. In hindsight, most times, I could have been better off just saying no, but not by much.
It can be a to a new ballgame when size, weight, and complexity rise. The unintended consequences went exponential with an impulse buy I made two years ago. Of course it was at Costco where lovely wife had remarked a couple of times that she liked the look of the prefab pavilion shelters prominently displayed right after the wall of televisions. Once bitten by the prefab pavilion bug, I could no longer pass by without smelling the cedar, smitten by the alluring aluminum roof, the gleaming fasteners catching my eyes. I was staying strong until the day I saw them on sale at a fiendishly low price – delivery included.
My first oh shit moment was week to ten days later a tractor trailer driven there by Earl idled at the end of my driveway. For the first time I may have considered the gravity of my buy, the seven hundred pounds of gravity. With the help of Earl, two pallet jacks and a piano dolly, I moved all seven hundred pounds towards my garage. This lead to my second oh shit moment when I realized space was another issue all together, because the package was as big as a small boat. Space however, was not the final frontier.
One does not just throw together a Costco pavilion all willy-nilly. It takes time and more planning, things that are inexpensive but often in short supply. Our backyard patio was a trip inspiring uneven lunar landscape of brick pavers buckled by tree roots, and the offending tree sat smack dab where the pavilion needed to go. A solid foundation and open space were needed before I could build. I had not thought this through.
The seven hundred pounds of giant boxes would languish in the garage through the fall and winter.
Spring blossomed and my thoughts turned to a cement patio. We carefully sought bids from qualified concrete companies. I dilly-dallied with the contractor calls and reviewing the bids. When I phoned to announce the lucky contract winner, he said: “great man, see you in twelve weeks”, which meant no foundation ‘til fall.
The seven hundred pounds of giant boxes would languish in the garage for another fall and winter.
I always figured my descent into madness would be slow and gradual. I realized because of quarantine it would happen suddenly and all at once. Stuck inside, I hit a wall of woe after four weeks of relentless conference calls and spreadsheets as far as the eye could see. I decided that taking a week of vacation was just what Amy Acton would order. With the idea that I could kill two great blue herons with one stone, I happened on the idea to build the pavilion as mental therapy on vacation.
I did not want the seven hundred pounds of giant boxes to languish in the garage this fall and winter.
While the assembly of this is deemed DIY, I quickly deduced it was WTF. I was over my head in so many ways: Gaps in tools, talent, and knowledge would have to be overcome. I fired a flare for help from ringers and ladders and was rewarded with both. A great couple guys spent two days socially distance constructing this pavilion through all 42 pages of instructions in three languages. There were minimal injuries and we came in under budget on oh-shit moments.
I learned a lot over the past two years and I’ll share my sage advice to anyone who asks.
Having it up before May 1st feels like it got done early.