Time to pour the floor. Well, a bit of it. I was working on my own on this particular Saturday since Amy Sheep was taking a much needed breather on a beach somewhere. Mixing enough concrete for a section of the perimeter on my own was not really an option, so I decided to start with the floor. More specifically, the two (2) foot wide strip which runs adjacent to the cinder block wall/storage platform.
I started by removing the carpet and raking out all the loose dirt. This left an area that was about four (4) inches deeper than the adjacent concrete floor.
I gave the area a gentle once over with the jackhammer, and increased the depth by another couple of inches. I probably don't need a six inch slab, but this section is the main thoroughfare, and I would rather it is over engineered than not.
I only had to build a form at one end, and the rebar was doweled into the existing floor and into the footing at the wall. Super quick and easy!
I snapped a red chalk line at the wall to help me get the concrete to the correct height.
When Amy Sheep and I mix concrete together we cut the bags as we need them, but I thought I would prepare ahead this time since I was on my own. It is much easier to lift and pour a 40 pound bag into the mixer than an 80 lb bag.
I hosed down the target area, and then I went for it.
I've never poured concrete which needs to be good enough to look at on this scale before, although I did get started "in the biz" when I was very young. When I was around six years old actually, while I was spending a glorious week at my Grandparents house. One morning over breakfast I was informed that Grandad and I had "some cementing" to do. Wow! This was exciting news! The nearest I had previously been to real, proper sand and cement was on the pages of What Do People Do All Day.
The adventure began in my Grandfather's garage which was, on the outside at least, a very small single width detached structure with a lean-to greenhouse at the right side. When his car was in the garage you could only just open the doors, but when the car was on the driveway the garage became an Aladdin's cave of tools, wood working equipment, partly completed projects and my Grandfathers collection of antique keys.
The garage had heavily worn herringbone flooring and smelled of old wood. I stood at the entrance scanning the interior, trying to imagine what was inside all the toolboxes and cabinets, while Grandad looked through boxes and drawers in search of his masonry trowel. This went on for probably ten minutes while Grandad muttered the occasional inaudible comment. Eventually he discovered the trowel in a plastic carrier bag down the side of the bench, and, to his dismay, it was caked in dried-on mortar. Grandad held the trowel in front of me and decreed, as only he could: "Don't ever let your children borrow your tools!"
I must admit that I was more concerned with the potential cancelation of the cementing project due to a lack of available tools, but I should have known better. Grandad had a table-mounted circular saw which was probably the most dangerous use of a circular blade ever, but was also, I discovered, prefect for chipping mortar off a trowel. Looking back on this now, I have to assume that the saw blade was sacrificed so that my morning entertainment could proceed.
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| Larking around in my Grandfather's backyard, summer 1975 |
This is the look after I worked over the slab several times with the finishing trowel:
The photo below was taken the next day. I think I worked the concrete over four of five times at about 30 minute intervals. I'm super happy with it. Everything I know about concrete has been learned from my Grandfather and from the folks at Odell Complete Concrete.
Stay tuned while we cover everything we own in hazelnuts, sultanas and thick, thick concrete...
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