Barnlike shed covers backyard digs

Recently I wrote about my tumble into a hole that my industrious sons dug in the backyard. Concerned readers have asked, whatever happened to the tunnel in your yard?

As Paul Harvey says, this is the rest of the story.

The boys grumbled mightily but filled in their hole as best they could. My husband, Derek, knew it wouldn’t be long before they’d be at it again.

Once they’ve had a taste of digging, boys, like dogs, are difficult to train.

Derek eyed the ground speculatively, “This area is just wasted space. I’d hate for you to fall in another hole. Honey, what we need here is a shed.”

“We have a shed.” I pointed to the rusty metal thing next to the house.

“Too small,” he replied.

My husband is a man without a garage. A man without a garage is a very sad thing.

A woman married to a man without a garage is even sadder, for she must trip over fishing poles and climb over cross-country skis to reach her good china.

“I could build a shed,” Derek announced, Warming to his theme, he continued, “Just think of all the space you’ll have downstairs if my tools and fishing gear were in a shed!”

After 20 years of marriage he is wise in the husbandly ways of getting what he wants by pointing out the advantages to me.

When the shed plans arrived by FedEx, I realized Derek’s idea of a shed and mine were different. When he said, “build,” I heard, “put together a prefab from Sears in one easy weekend.” I need to get my hearing checked.

Excitedly, he pored over the architectural drawings and eagerly watched the accompanying DVD, “How to Build a Better Barn.”

That’s when I started to get nervous.

“Barn? What happened to shed? How much is this going to cost?” I asked.

Big mistake. My husband can spout figures like an accountant on caffeine overload. By the time he was done, I was convinced we’d be losing money if we didn’t build it.

Phone calls were made to his father and brother-in-law, and the “consultants” arrived. Since they are both native Norwegians, the consultation involved many cups of coffee and much pacing around the backyard and innumerable murmurs of “Ya…ya.”

They brought loads of crushed rock to level the area and hauled in stacks of lumber. Lumber?

This was no ordinary shed, according to the plans. This would be a “Colonial Cedar Textured Shed with Natural Cedar Trim.”

All I knew is that our unfinished second bathroom would remain unfinished, our dining room wouldn’t get painted, and I would have a lot of time to myself each evening.

And so construction began. Neighbors leaned over the fence and wandered into the backyard, in the grip of shed envy. A photographer came over to discuss some photos, but his eyes kept straying out the back window.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but is that a barn in your backyard?”

“No,” I sighed, “Do you want to see my husband’s shed?”

He gazed at Derek’s masterpiece.

“Now, that’s a shed!” His eyes clouded, “I wish I had a shed like that.”

This monument to manhood is a few shingles and a door away from being complete.

“When are you going to buy the door?” I asked.

“Buy?” Derek gasped, “You can’t buy the door. I’m going to make it.”

Of course.

Eight months into the project, I’m still tripping over fishing poles and skis, but I haven’t fallen in any holes. The boys have been too busy to dig. They’ve been painting the shed and hauling shingles.

Maybe we should wire it for electricity. I could make the shed the new “timeout” destination.

Whenever I need a break from all the testosterone in our home, I could banish one, or all of the men in my family, to the shed.

Now that I think about it, every woman needs a shed.