Floor Sanding Kent

floor sanding kent
    floor sanding
  • Floor sanding is the process of removing the top surfaces of a wooden floor by sanding with abrasive materials.
  • A county on the southeastern coast of England; county town, Maidstone
  • a county in southeastern England on the English Channel; formerly an Anglo-Saxon kingdom, it was the first to be colonized by the Romans
  • United States painter noted for his woodcuts (1882-1971)
  • (ken) cognizance: range of what one can know or understand; "beyond my ken"

The beach has always been a strange place for me. Not quite the peaceful haven it is for others. I often wonder why I can’t just relax. Sit back. Let the sound of the lapping waves wash away my cares. I can’t say for certain. But I am pretty sure it has to do with the summer of 1977. I grew up in a loving Italian family with lots of cousins always around. Fun was in no short supply in my family, and the memories of my childhood are something that I would not trade for all the world. Save for the one. The one that concerns that nasty creature on that fateful day. My grandparents owned a small bungalow on the east end of Long Island in a little town called Shirley. Summer weekends for our family meant packing up the paneled station wagon and heading out to be with my grandma and Nonno. It meant afternoons on the rickety old pier, patiently waiting for crabs to nibble at the baited rings we cast into the murky water. It meant nights spent around a giant bonfire, the likes of which would draw a S.W.A.T. team today if you tried to construct one on residential property. And it meant the Italian folk songs my father and uncles and aunts brought with them from their homeland. “Quel mazzolin di fiori che vien dalla montagna.” Over and over. Until our voices grew hoarse. And our eyelids grew heavy. And we retired to the bungalow’s three tiny bedrooms. Still giggling. Joking. Children stacked like cordwood, two to a bed without complaint. Kids today complain about such things. But this isn’t a story about today. This was 1977. The year of the eel. In all honesty, the beach in Shirley was not much of a beach at all. Coarse gray sand, matted with silt and blanketed in seaweed. Where seaweed gave way back to sand, horseshoe crabs and washed up jellyfish lay claim. But it was our spot. And I suppose, mostly because of its deficiencies, it was not heavily populated. Which allowed for great clamming and perhaps more important, gave us wide berth to bring out the dragnet whenever we so pleased. The dragnet was not some fancy trap, or elaborate piece of equipment. It was precisely that. A net. That you dragged. And in dragging it, you brought up whatever wandered into its 20 foot swath. The killies and shiners of the Moriches were no match for our dragnet. We hauled them in by the bucket full to be used as bait for crabbing. And the crop was seemingly endless. But once in a while, the things that would pop up in the dragnet surprised us. And on this particular summer day in 1977, the haul we brought in would be the stuff of nightmares. As I remember, the day was perfect. There was a picnic of salad and pasta and taralles, and Nonno’s home made wine. An acquired taste for sure. But mixed with a bit of Coca Cola, it went down just fine. The gang was all there this day. My own family, mom dad and sister. My dad’s brother John’s family which included their three girls Isabella, Roseanne and the littlest one, Maria, not yet two years old. And we were joined this day by the three daughters of my mom’s sister, who spent quite a good deal of time with us after my aunt passed away. Yes. The Cortese family defined “extended.” Gloriously. After the pasta was eaten and the clams were dug, and the Frisbees and beach balls and seaweed were tossed bounced and used as devices of torment, respectively, there was but one bit of business remaining. The dragnet. Fetching it from the trunk of my grandfather’s old Volvo, my dad began to unroll the spooled netting. Handing one of the driftwood poles to his brother, off they waded into the Moriches Bay. The first pass proved uneventful. As did the second and third. The usual fare was brought from the ocean floor. Tiny fish and sea creatures of all shapes and sizes. Some edible. Some not. All fair game for the crab lines. The fourth pass began as any other. My father and uncle in their overly tight (in that seventies kinda way) bathing trunks and tank tops, goose-stepping into the brown/green chilly water. Gold chains around their necks glimmering in the midday sun. Wanting to be a part of the action, I was delegated to the mostly ceremonial position at the center of the net. And so we dug into the mud and pushed forward. Diagonally sweeping the inlet as we marched toward shore. My dad and uncle guiding the net as I followed behind. Things seemed to be business as usual. Not a snag. Not a snarl. Just a perfect dragnet run, guaranteed to provide more live bait than we could ever hope to use in one weekend. I trailed along. Just one of the men, all fifty pounds of me. Holding up the center of the net with a great flourish. As we rose out of the water I scanned the faces of everyone on shore. My mother’s pride. My cousin’s awe at the fishing skills (far beyond my 8 years, certainly) that I was displaying. But there was something else I saw in their faces as well. Something dark. Coming over each of them. One by one. First my sister. Then my oldest cousin Karen. The same look. Li
Sun in Pool
Sun in Pool
Taken at Botany Bay, Broadstairs, whilst climbing over the rock pools and getting my feet wet. Turning to look directly towards the sun but facing the floor, i took this image as the sun captures objects and surfaces giving extra glint and interest across the image. A031002545

floor sanding kent
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