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--> --> Feb. 21: A new backyard, memories included By Larry Berteau I have a new deck and outdoor barbecue. This was reported as a work in progress last fall, and this is the update with all the gory details. It's generally a good idea not to report new things at your house, what with the massive waves of crime that sweep our city. (Someone actually tossed a beer keg through the back window of a car over the weekend - then repeated the act moments later with a different keg and a different car; or else two people simultaneously got the same felonious urge and their worlds converged - so don't think I don't know about crime, cuz I'm a devoted crimewatcher.) However, all that wasn't necessary with my deck and barbecue. If someone has the ability to snatch those from my property, they don't need an invitation. It would be just as easy to purloin the entire house and throw in an elm tree. Garden deck, Dresden BBQ Reason being, that my deck and barbecue are large, and forever implanted in my one-third acre of this planet. Long after I've popped my clogs, those monumental edifices will still be standing - lonely sentinels to my imagination and the building prowess of two of my friends. In case you missed the kickoff episode (you didn't did you?), it all started with my wife - the woman of eternal good humor - and I, describing the perimeter of our deck with my friend the contractor. We didn't exactly have a blueprint; rather we coiled a garden hose around the backyard indicating what we thought was exactly where the deck would go. The contractor was a prince, albeit a genuinely puzzled one, and nodded a lot, scratched his head furtively a lot, and mumbled "OK" occasionally in a barely audible fashion. The amazing result was he built a deck out of such meager and uncertain circumstances. My other pal, a bricklayer of such proportion he could have reconstructed Dresden in two weeks with a small crew of prisoners of war. His instructions were even more vague. "It goes here and I want it to be manly," were my precise marching orders. "No sweat," he said, with visions of rare Arizona sandstone dancing in his head. Oh those construction guys They did their jobs. There was only one problem. They both finished their efforts on the final day of autumn. The very next day, the first arctic blast blew through town, and the deck and barbecue have remained unused since. (It's my firm belief that construction guys know these things. Not that they intentionally leave us in the throes of winter on purpose, but that they will never be caught outdoors in it themselves. It's innate.) Eye captain Which brings us to late winter, early spring - both occurring in the last few weeks. The last freeze I took a walk out onto the deck in a rather absent-minded manner. (I was talking on the phone with another friend - one who has a way of distracting me from reality due mainly to his ability to call me past my bedtime.) I hit the deck like Captain Ahab the moment the ol' captain finally sighted that miserable hunk of whale oil. I also lost my footing like I was walking onthe whale oil. It was Fred Flintstone all the way. The first thing that found an object of resistance was the third rib on my left side. The object was the edge of my deck. In comparison, deck edging is exceedingly less forgiving than bone cartilage. I managed to live through the crisis, but had to wait until the next day to find the telephone and my glasses, as they also took silent trips across the deck and spent the night chatting and winking at each other on the lawn. Rhode Isle ramblers A few days later, it turned warm. As I had already experienced a trip across the deck, it was now time to see if I could fly that barbecue. It has an electric rotisserie. It could probably accommodate a pig, but I began modestly with a chicken. For one hour and 15 minutes it worked magnificently. The chicken, swathed in olive oil, garlic and parsley rotated on the spit's axis, popping and browning to culinary perfection. If chicken's had funerals, this bird would have died a corporate executive, errr, an Olympic Gold Medal winner, errr, something terrific - and chickens would have flocked all the way from Rhode Island. With 20 minutes still to go, I left the chicken to her destiny and returned to the house. (Did I mention the rotisserie had to be assembled - by me - prior to operation?) Upon returning in exactly 20 minutes, it seems the rotisserie had worked its way loose and the bird had ceased to be in cook mode, and instead was doomed to cremation. It was very sad. We were all very hungry. We could have eaten it, but the Paleozoic era had come and gone. My wife and my son - the heir to the vast Berteau fortune - had mac and cheese. I ate crow. Get a job, dooby do The next day, in the unflinching light of morning, my son and I examined the scene of the crime. Upon his suggestion I rummaged through the storage area (built in to the barbecue I'll have you know) and found a packet which contained an innoncent looking clamp. No. 1 son suggested that when I assemble an item, it might prove effective if I used all the parts. It would be nice if he applied such logic to things like getting a job and helping defray a few costs around the house, but that's asking too much, I suppose. (In my defense, he IS 14.) So far, the backyard of my dreams has cost me a bruised rib and a failed dinner. It also cost me some dough, but not much. Remember, friends. Next time, when I come back as a corporate executive, errr (see above) I'll include rotisserie assembly in the initial costs. I figure that's the best way to put the clamp on disasters. Larry Berteau is editor of The Tidings. Email your... 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