Heavy lifting

I am not built for manual labor. The kind of burly build necessary for jobs such as highway construction or ditch digging just isn't in my genetic makeup. Anyone who's seen me in a t-shirt can tell you that.
I'm OK with that. I've found ways to make my living that do not require me to lift heavy things. Tromp through fields, yes. And climb fences occasionally. But nothing that requires any degree of plain, brute strength.
Even in my personal life, I rarely have need of bulging biceps or rock-hard abs. Outside of moving things for my parents, who seem to have gone out of their way over the years to accumulate some of the heaviest, most ungainly home decor items available to the public (Honestly, a life-size chainsaw carving of a cowboy? Why don't I just carry a mature maple down to the basement?) I've always been pretty well able to get by with the underwhelming upper-body musculature ensured by Hansen family lineage and a general lack of interest in any formal weight training program.
There are exceptions, of course. And I assume that owning a house — and having to do home-related chores — means those exceptions will pop up at least a little more frequently.
Last weekend, for example, I might have wished, if only for a second, that my upper body was more Arnold Schwarzenegger and less Tom Arnold.
One of the less appealing features of the house I bought last November was a decrepit-looking swingset installed in the back yard. Judging by the rust on the main structure and on the metal seat of the swing it was installed sometime shortly after the Civil War.
The swingset had to go, but getting rid of the thing was a bit of a challenge. The structure was simple enough — just an arch of steel pipes braced by two more pipes angled up against it. But it was designed to stick around longer than Hillary Clinton.
The support pieces weren't too tough. Once I'd separated them from the main structure it was as simple as digging out around their bases and rocking them out of the ground. The main structure was another matter altogether. Anchored in two places, it didn't want to move no matter how much I dug.
Eventually, a neighbor loaned me a sledgehammer. Heaving a heavy piece of metal over my head was a challenge — I'm fairly certain one of my biceps ruptured — but I have to admit: breaking up concrete with a sledgehammer is about as much fun as you can have swinging a giant hammer without police officers getting involved. There's just something satisfying about shattering stone into tiny pieces.
There was plenty of stone to break up, too. I'm pretty sure they built Soviet-era apartment buildings with less concrete than I pulled out of my back yard. I don't know the kids that thing was built to support, but I'm glad I'm not responsible for feeding them.
I spent most of my Saturday breaking rocks and pulling at the aging play structure. Nothing. Ultimately, it took my neighbor and his truck to pull it up. The thing bent nearly double before the crossbar finally broke off. After that, we were able to pull the remaining pieces out of the ground without too much trouble.
I woke up sore all over Sunday morning. My arms responded only grudgingly to any request to lift anything and my hand seemed mostly unwilling to grip things. But at least I got the job done, underwhelming musculature and all.
Now, I just have to get the other one out.


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