Last week, I had a visit from old friends John and Michelle Mackin who live in Greensboro, Vt. John is a carpenter and we spent three days together restoring two large bureaus in my home, me painting the drawers and John redoing the countertops. As John worked, I immediately noticed a sound I hear often when carpenters toil over their labor — a soft, tuneless whistling.

“What the hell?” I thought, “makes carpenters so happy to be using their tools?”

For me, it was a somewhat unpleasant task — removing the drawer pulls, sanding, priming, painting, sanding again, painting some more. I found myself in uncomfortable positions with a roller and brush, my arthritic knees inquiring of my brain, “What the hell is he up to now?”

My home has a name — The Pond House — but there’s nothing fancy about it. One of my friends says it’s “a nice little box,” at least having the courtesy to leave out the last phrase — “if you like boxes.” She’s right — it is a 1,500-square-foot box — but it’s also an elegant container for living. The style is 1960s modern, sort of Frank Lloyd Wrightish, painted in the palate of the day: yellow, green and red, with pull-out countertops, an ironing board that descends from a niche and other novel touches. It’s made of the “hot” materials of its day: textured plywood walls, linoleum floors and a cinder block fireplace. It’s lit by cleverly concealed fluorescent tubes (which were then in vogue), bullet sconces or flying saucer floor lamps. It’s an unprepossessing place, but it works marvelously well.

She does need some gussying up, though, and that’s what John and I were doing. The bureaus (there are two of them) are huge — 14 feet long and 30 inches deep, a total of 24 ample drawers requiring paint. Just the thought of it made me grumpy.

Then, the spirits began to appear.

I had become used to Bob’s visits. I talk to him and occasionally he talks back. We were old friends, had purchased the house together, and when he died Bob left his share to my wife and me. Mostly, I thank him for the gift but often I find myself muttering, “okay, OKAY, you were right.” This usually happens when I shower in the bathroom he insisted on rehabilitating in a style that then seemed grandiose but now feels appropriately comfortable.

The architect of the Pond House also called on me — a cousin who has long since passed on to a better place. Max Moore looked just as I remembered him — handsome, lean and angular, with a wry, somewhat askew smile. He did not speak, seemingly pleased with just observing my contortions as I squirmed under the built-in furniture he had designed. This was Max’s first visual appearance in the house, but I had spoken to him many times in the 10 years I have lived here.

“Nice work, Max,” I would tell him as I used a countertop handily placed in the kitchen or watched the geese land in Farm Pond through the big picture windows he designed.

Max also designed the bureaus I labored over. They are handmade and feature pulls crafted from dowels and tiny, hand-cut, metal pipes. Each had to be removed before I could paint and as I unscrewed them, I detected the work of two different craftsmen. One set of pulls would be screwed in way too tight — a big bruiser of a guy; others were easy to unscrew — a more gentle carpenter. Underneath the bureau, I found shavings left behind as they trimmed the drawers to fit. Their spirits were present also.

On the second day of toil, taking a break, I rummaged through faded plans and construction documents. Here are Max’s hand drawn designs for the bureaus — and even the drawer pulls. Here’s a letter from Max to the original owner discussing what kinds of door knobs to use, and another detailing the color scheme. Here’s a watercolor painting of the house. Like ancient scrolls, they were accompanied by the aroma of mildew and, well, time.

Thinking of all this, I began to lose consciousness of my aching knees.

“Thanks, Max,” I told him as he gradually faded away, that wry smile going with him.

In the other room, John continued to whistle.

By day three, the work was nearing completion. I noticed a change of rhythm both mental and physical. I had slowed down — no longer considering how much time the work was taking — just enjoying it. With a small artist’s brush, I began to paint each drawer pull. I had become immersed in a deliberate process that repeated a cycle begun when Max first put his pencil to paper.

And there was something else.

I was not whistling — but I was humming.

Gazette contributor Sam Low lives in Oak Bluffs.