on rebar betrayal and suburban shenanigans

the secret lives of scurrying sheds

Eighteen months ago I moved my shed.

It’s a simple 10 x 12 building with 8 foot walls.

When I moved it, my cousin and a friend and I were involved.

There was pizza, pop and beer.

We had flood lights, poles, pull straps and a truck with a powerful winch.

It took us about an hour to move the darn thing thirty feet.

The problem?

We pulled it too far forward. There wasn’t enough room in the driveway for two vehicles.

Over the past few weeks I’ve been working to rectify that.

I cleaned up an area behind the shed. I leveled the ground. I even went so far as to spray paint lines where I wanted the shed to end up.

And today?

I dug holes, jacked up the shed and put some logs under it.

I hooked up a come along to a stake in the ground.

Then?

Then I started to crank the winch.

Imagine to my surprise when an inch thick piece of rebar pounded four feet into the ground didn’t hold.

It was a bit of a pickle.

My tools were out of the shed. It was up on blocks and I was desperate to move it exactly twelve feet back.

T…