Just when we thought that our contractor had run away to Iowa - he had - and would be seen no more, he showed up! We have had some progress on our house project, and although there's much still to do, we can see an end.
The last of the concrete block is in and the windows are in, so the basement is sealed. Ah, but no: there's some trim and insulation and exterior finish that needs to be put in, as I can see daylight along the seams between block and wood . I'm not sure Larry knows that, but he will be shown. A good deal of dirt needs to be returned so that the grade can be established, sloping away from the house, and window wells can be set.
We still have no front porch, but the new entry at the back door now has a door and window and can be closed. Since the old storm door from the back is gone, this is a good thing; the new door has no screen but the window in the entry does. We will have a kind of vestibule. Of course, Wendy hates the thought of a white door, and Larry hung a white door. All our other windows and our other storm door are dark brown, but he apparently missed that detail; the new window doesn't even match the new door but is almond, almost the color that he'll need to paint the new clapboard when he hangs it on the back entry area. And it has the little trim that makes the glass nine-pane, which none of our other windows are; we can't even saw that out, as it's embedded between the panes of glass ("No dusting!").
Then, on Thursday, they were re-doing beams in the basement, and the sewerage pipe from our back toilet was in the way, so they broke it off. That's not all bad: the plumber is coming tomorrow, and will be re-doing much of the water supply and drain/sewer pipe, as well as replacing the back toilet. But it might have been better had they told Wendy, who was home at the time. It's just fortunate that we sometimes let the first whiz sit ("first yellow, let it be mellow; second or brown, flush it down"), or the guys would have gotten a shower they deserved but would not have enjoyed. The plumber does face a bit of a challenge... then there was the hole where that pipe entered the main house sewerage pipe. What about the upstairs toilet, the sink, the shower, the dishwasher? Wouldn't all of that water come spewing backwards out of that hole? Did you know that you could stuff such a hole, cover it with a plastic bag, tape the bag to the pipe, and things would be OK? Ah, but no: it held for a couple days, but has started to drip, and there's no knowing whether it will hold or blow with the next few flushes. Another hazmat challenge for the plumber, I'll bet.
The washer, dryer, freezer and furnace are back in the basement. Although none are connected, they can be. The plumber is to bring the new water heater and a laundry sink, and make the appropriate new hookups, and we may be back in the home laundry business as soon as Tuesday. Since each trip to the laundromat has cost about $9, that will be nice.
Still to be determined: where the central air conditioner will sit and where it will be connected through the wall to the heating system, the ducting for which is also still to be determined. Also, the dryer vent and the furnace vent duct (the PVC pipe out the side of the basement that has replaced chimneys in many homes) need to be situated, and the plumber needs to run a pipe or two outside for hose hookups. So our foundation and/or sill will need to be breached in a few spots.
Then, the building of the front porch is to occur Monday. Wendy will be watching that like a hawk: she has made it clear to the contractor that it must look good, not half-assed. Good round trim, not 2x4s, finished-quality skirting, full steps, animal-proof screening, quality ceiling, etc., and the porch should convey the same look as the old one did, which suited the house. I think this will be the piece that determines our level of satisfaction, although I'll be watching things like dampness in the basement, sags and cracks in the house beyond those we've already had, etc.
The new basement steps are interesting. The flight is longer, since the new basement is over a foot taller, and the incline is slightly less steep, a good thing. This means, however, that there is slightly less headroom where the stairs nip under the first floor: I need to duck a bit, and I'm well under six feet tall. There's also less room at the bottom, just enough space to turn. The back of each step is open, which I believe will be enough to keep the dog out of the basement. We can return the cat's feeding to about the fourth step.
It will take awhile to develop the new basement habits. If the space proves congenial, I may take our couple pieces of workout stuff down there. I mostly ignore the equipment anyway, and Wendy absolutely hates one piece, so the idea of a basement gym space seems like a winner, as we can then spread out the seating in our back room. I can also have the option of getting some exercise while I wait for the last rinse and spin. We will need to get a few more sections of shelving and other storage fixturing, as we had some crappy old wood built-ins that left with the rest of the old basement. And I think that some things may not go back down at all but head for a thrift sale, or Goodwill, or the dump. It looks like some of our sill storage along the stairs has survived, and we may even end up with more; this has served as canned-goods pantry space and a holding area for beverages. I think we'll take our time settling in: we won't do anything until we know the job is done, and then proceed slowly, letting the space tell us what will work.
The next update will probably come after the plumber is done and the porch is up.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Thursday, July 10, 2008
A Tale of Two Highways
You can look at a map and get a sense of where you are, where your destination is, and what you might find on the way. But there are times that the map cannot express the wonder of the terrain.
You may have heard of California Highway 1. It runs up from north of San Diego, through San Clemente and Laguna Beach, through the Los Angeles area. It is the main way through Malibu, and runs on and off with 101 through Santa Barbara, separates and rejoins a time or two, then sets off at San Luis Obispo on its spectacular journey through the Big Sur region. It goes through Carmel and Monterey, around the bay to Santa Cruz, then along the coast into San Francisco. After crossing the Golden Gate Bridge with 101, it heads for the coast again, up through Sea Ranch, Mendocino and Fort Bragg, then joins 101 in time to let you off on the Avenue of the Giants, a wonderful road through small towns and huge redwoods.
I've been on much of that spectacular road at one time or another. We spent a nice day at the beach in Laguna Beach, watching volleyball and eating at El Pollo Loco. Driving through Huntington Beach, I saw the oil wells along the sand. We took the little ferry onto Balboa Island, and I foresaw the real estate collapse but did nothing to avoid it. We stopped and waded at the beach in Santa Monica, a few blocks from the fabled "Ivy" restaurant. I've also dined there, but we didn't see anyone famous. I mentioned my mom's cousin in a previous blog; she lives along Highway 1 in Malibu, in an old motel. Down from the highway are some oceanfront homes, including one occupied by a family who had a photo portrait taken by her husband, Wayne. Some family named Die-lan (oops! Bob Dylan).
Highway 1 takes you past the world-famous Hearst Castle at San Simeon. Of course, although my parents weren't along, we didn't stop. Tours were spendy, in a time when we couldn't play that. On a different trip, we drove down from Santa Cruz, past Monterey and Carmel, and down toward Big Sur (the small town on the map of that name). We stopped at a restaurant named Nepenthe, a well-known landmark with some celebrity claims to fame. What exquisite views from its balcony, what an expensive lunch! In the recent spate of terrible forest fires, the Big Sur fire caused the evacuation of many people in the immediate area of this wonderful spot; I don't know if it still stands.
Then there's the white sand beach in Carmel, and the marvelous streets of shops to walk past and save just oodles of money. Then, on another visit to Aptos, my daughter and I took Highway 1 from San Francisco, where it branches off the freeways, through Pacifica through Half Moon Bay and down to Santa Cruz. And, over 30 years ago, Wendy and I drove with her father down 1 from the northern end into San Francisco, finishing with the curl around Mt. Tamalpais.
The wonder of driving on Highway 1 is its adjacency to the Pacific Ocean. Sometimes you're right along the beach. Sometimes you're hundreds of feet up a cliffside where they had no business building a road. Sometimes you're 100 yards from the ocean but can't see it for the forest, or the grass-covered hills. You'll find yourself on a lovely curving embankment, or an even more lovely curving bridge over a stream emptying into the ocean. Several of the bridges on this road are in the pantheon of great bridges of the world. If you happen to miss a quick view, you can't really go back, as it's mostly two-lane and fairly busy, but have no fear: another soul-restoring view will come around the next bend. And hoo boy, are there bends!
On reflection, I think that I might have done Highway 1 the best way: not all at once, but in bits. Sometimes you just hit sensory overload, and need some time to absorb. Not, maybe, 33 years, but some buffer. I only promise that each of the places I mention is worth a look, and that there are many more views from this unbelievable road. If all your tax dollars could be spent to this wonderful effect...
Are there roads that can compare? I can speak for what is now Minnesota Highway 61, north from Duluth along the Lake Superior shore. In fact, if you keep going into Ontario, and around the whole of Lake Superior, you'll be surrounded by wonderful scenery, great campgrounds and some interesting bits of history. And if you make it back to Duluth, and get up into the town, you'll find some vistas that compare well to views of the Bay in San Francisco. Someone once described the Minnesota shore of Lake Superior as "more like the rock-bound coast of Maine than the rock-bound coast of Maine."
And we live near the Mississippi River, which means that we have a choice of US 61, on the Minnesota side, or Wisconsin 35, on our side, from the confluence of the Mississippi and St. Croix rivers to La Crosse, and beyond on the Wisconsin side. Especially in the green seasons, the roads give views of the bluffs, the fields, the river, the islands, the trains on the busy rail routes, the barge tows, the locks and dams, the cranes and eagles, in as happy a mixture of bucolic peace and transportation might as you can find.
Then, last summer, we found the match to California 1. I don't recall its number, as I was staring out the windhsield pretty much constantly. This was safe, as our dear friend Hasan was driving. The highway is in Turkey, along the Mediterranean coast. If I can find my Turkish highway map, or when Hasan comes to visit in a month or so, I'll put a number to this wondrous road.
If you find the city of Antalya on the southern coast of Turkey, about a quarter of the way east and just beyond a big bulge to the south, you'll be at the eastern end of the route. We had stayed at a lovely all-inclusive resort about an hour east of Antalya, eaten too much, gotten way too much sun and had a fine time. After dropping one of our friends' daughters at the Antalya airport, we headed out of town to the south and west.
This roadway must have made some manufacturer of dynamite rich, as in a number of places it was blasted out of the cliffside. Sometimes 10 or 20 feet above the water, sometimes 100 or 200 feet, or more, it was dogged in its attempt to stay along the water. In places it had to leave; then it went through tree-lined valleys or rich agricultural areas. We saw dozens of plastic-covered greenhouses growing tomatoes or other vegetables: in Turkey, wonderful fresh vegetables are a huge part of the cuisine.
Just before the light failed, we reached the city of Demre. This town is not large or remarkable, except for the historic town and ruins that run into the modern town. The old city was called Myra, and it goes back nearly 2,000 years. It had a kindly bishop in the 4th century, who made anonymous gifts to poor families. Uh, his name was Nicholas... we were too late that day, but there were many gift shops and a couple of shrines for tourists to enjoy this "home of Christmas" city.
We followed the last of the light, lost it, and finally came down a cliffside into a little coastal city called Kas. It's pronounced "cash." As we drove in, Hasan asked a motorcyclist carrying his small child where we might find lodging. He turned and led us to his family's "pension," read cheap but clean guest house, a few blocks from the harbor. His wife was English! We walked back to the harbor area, had a lovely dinner overlooking the water and the main square, and were well-pleased.
The next morning we were forced to deal with more rock-climbing, coast-hugging, 25-mph-curving scenery, until the road climbed away up the mountainside. For miles afterward, the water was still visible, with roads to some of Turkey's best-known coastal resorts. I remember thinking then that this road was the equal of California 1.
Now, after further review, I won't label any one as better than any other. Each road is a wonder, as are many others. I am learning about, and starting to talk to others about, the receiving of wonder from whatever source without rating it. How do you rank a sunrise against another one? At my age, I'm only glad that each one makes it, although at my age I begrudge the late start of the winter ones. I'm very lucky to have been to such beautiful places, with family and friends. I hope to get to many more, and maybe back to these again, and I hope that you can visit wonderful places and, more important, that you can find the pleasure in each.
You may have heard of California Highway 1. It runs up from north of San Diego, through San Clemente and Laguna Beach, through the Los Angeles area. It is the main way through Malibu, and runs on and off with 101 through Santa Barbara, separates and rejoins a time or two, then sets off at San Luis Obispo on its spectacular journey through the Big Sur region. It goes through Carmel and Monterey, around the bay to Santa Cruz, then along the coast into San Francisco. After crossing the Golden Gate Bridge with 101, it heads for the coast again, up through Sea Ranch, Mendocino and Fort Bragg, then joins 101 in time to let you off on the Avenue of the Giants, a wonderful road through small towns and huge redwoods.
I've been on much of that spectacular road at one time or another. We spent a nice day at the beach in Laguna Beach, watching volleyball and eating at El Pollo Loco. Driving through Huntington Beach, I saw the oil wells along the sand. We took the little ferry onto Balboa Island, and I foresaw the real estate collapse but did nothing to avoid it. We stopped and waded at the beach in Santa Monica, a few blocks from the fabled "Ivy" restaurant. I've also dined there, but we didn't see anyone famous. I mentioned my mom's cousin in a previous blog; she lives along Highway 1 in Malibu, in an old motel. Down from the highway are some oceanfront homes, including one occupied by a family who had a photo portrait taken by her husband, Wayne. Some family named Die-lan (oops! Bob Dylan).
Highway 1 takes you past the world-famous Hearst Castle at San Simeon. Of course, although my parents weren't along, we didn't stop. Tours were spendy, in a time when we couldn't play that. On a different trip, we drove down from Santa Cruz, past Monterey and Carmel, and down toward Big Sur (the small town on the map of that name). We stopped at a restaurant named Nepenthe, a well-known landmark with some celebrity claims to fame. What exquisite views from its balcony, what an expensive lunch! In the recent spate of terrible forest fires, the Big Sur fire caused the evacuation of many people in the immediate area of this wonderful spot; I don't know if it still stands.
Then there's the white sand beach in Carmel, and the marvelous streets of shops to walk past and save just oodles of money. Then, on another visit to Aptos, my daughter and I took Highway 1 from San Francisco, where it branches off the freeways, through Pacifica through Half Moon Bay and down to Santa Cruz. And, over 30 years ago, Wendy and I drove with her father down 1 from the northern end into San Francisco, finishing with the curl around Mt. Tamalpais.
The wonder of driving on Highway 1 is its adjacency to the Pacific Ocean. Sometimes you're right along the beach. Sometimes you're hundreds of feet up a cliffside where they had no business building a road. Sometimes you're 100 yards from the ocean but can't see it for the forest, or the grass-covered hills. You'll find yourself on a lovely curving embankment, or an even more lovely curving bridge over a stream emptying into the ocean. Several of the bridges on this road are in the pantheon of great bridges of the world. If you happen to miss a quick view, you can't really go back, as it's mostly two-lane and fairly busy, but have no fear: another soul-restoring view will come around the next bend. And hoo boy, are there bends!
On reflection, I think that I might have done Highway 1 the best way: not all at once, but in bits. Sometimes you just hit sensory overload, and need some time to absorb. Not, maybe, 33 years, but some buffer. I only promise that each of the places I mention is worth a look, and that there are many more views from this unbelievable road. If all your tax dollars could be spent to this wonderful effect...
Are there roads that can compare? I can speak for what is now Minnesota Highway 61, north from Duluth along the Lake Superior shore. In fact, if you keep going into Ontario, and around the whole of Lake Superior, you'll be surrounded by wonderful scenery, great campgrounds and some interesting bits of history. And if you make it back to Duluth, and get up into the town, you'll find some vistas that compare well to views of the Bay in San Francisco. Someone once described the Minnesota shore of Lake Superior as "more like the rock-bound coast of Maine than the rock-bound coast of Maine."
And we live near the Mississippi River, which means that we have a choice of US 61, on the Minnesota side, or Wisconsin 35, on our side, from the confluence of the Mississippi and St. Croix rivers to La Crosse, and beyond on the Wisconsin side. Especially in the green seasons, the roads give views of the bluffs, the fields, the river, the islands, the trains on the busy rail routes, the barge tows, the locks and dams, the cranes and eagles, in as happy a mixture of bucolic peace and transportation might as you can find.
Then, last summer, we found the match to California 1. I don't recall its number, as I was staring out the windhsield pretty much constantly. This was safe, as our dear friend Hasan was driving. The highway is in Turkey, along the Mediterranean coast. If I can find my Turkish highway map, or when Hasan comes to visit in a month or so, I'll put a number to this wondrous road.
If you find the city of Antalya on the southern coast of Turkey, about a quarter of the way east and just beyond a big bulge to the south, you'll be at the eastern end of the route. We had stayed at a lovely all-inclusive resort about an hour east of Antalya, eaten too much, gotten way too much sun and had a fine time. After dropping one of our friends' daughters at the Antalya airport, we headed out of town to the south and west.
This roadway must have made some manufacturer of dynamite rich, as in a number of places it was blasted out of the cliffside. Sometimes 10 or 20 feet above the water, sometimes 100 or 200 feet, or more, it was dogged in its attempt to stay along the water. In places it had to leave; then it went through tree-lined valleys or rich agricultural areas. We saw dozens of plastic-covered greenhouses growing tomatoes or other vegetables: in Turkey, wonderful fresh vegetables are a huge part of the cuisine.
Just before the light failed, we reached the city of Demre. This town is not large or remarkable, except for the historic town and ruins that run into the modern town. The old city was called Myra, and it goes back nearly 2,000 years. It had a kindly bishop in the 4th century, who made anonymous gifts to poor families. Uh, his name was Nicholas... we were too late that day, but there were many gift shops and a couple of shrines for tourists to enjoy this "home of Christmas" city.
We followed the last of the light, lost it, and finally came down a cliffside into a little coastal city called Kas. It's pronounced "cash." As we drove in, Hasan asked a motorcyclist carrying his small child where we might find lodging. He turned and led us to his family's "pension," read cheap but clean guest house, a few blocks from the harbor. His wife was English! We walked back to the harbor area, had a lovely dinner overlooking the water and the main square, and were well-pleased.
The next morning we were forced to deal with more rock-climbing, coast-hugging, 25-mph-curving scenery, until the road climbed away up the mountainside. For miles afterward, the water was still visible, with roads to some of Turkey's best-known coastal resorts. I remember thinking then that this road was the equal of California 1.
Now, after further review, I won't label any one as better than any other. Each road is a wonder, as are many others. I am learning about, and starting to talk to others about, the receiving of wonder from whatever source without rating it. How do you rank a sunrise against another one? At my age, I'm only glad that each one makes it, although at my age I begrudge the late start of the winter ones. I'm very lucky to have been to such beautiful places, with family and friends. I hope to get to many more, and maybe back to these again, and I hope that you can visit wonderful places and, more important, that you can find the pleasure in each.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Maps
I don't know when I became fond of maps. Maybe it was on that 1960 trip, when we had AAA maps with orange lines to show us the suggested route, or the fabled Triptik, which was a kind of flipbook for your trip that helped you through the big cities and highlighted some interesting points. Maybe it was the Christmas before or the one after, when, with the aid of pictorial books by the explorer Richard Halliburton, I visited many of the wonders of the world. Halliburton's last recorded message: "Hardtack bully. Wish you were here instead of me." Almost as good as that wonderful line that came later, and not from Halliburton: "the weather is here. Wish you were beautiful."
At any rate, I love to look at maps. If I've been to a place, the map can take me back there. I can recall the scenery, maybe even the building, or something about the setting. If I am going there, I can build a plan and perhaps not be quite lost when I arrive. And sometimes it helps me imagine, or help deal with what I've seen on the news or read in a book.
I have a highway map of Wisconsin that I have taken a highlighter to. I've marked all the highways I can remember driving or riding on. And that's a whoopin' plenty: from Dubuque, Iowa, to Marinette; from Carthage College in Kenosha to Port Wing and Herbster on Highway 13 beyond Bayfield.
The wonder of travel is that I've been to so many places but have not been to so many more. And I've been through so many places that I haven't been to. I've been THROUGH Albuquerque, NM, two or three times, but never stopped: we camped outside the city once, but never went in, and I went through at rush hour one morning. One of my favorite memories is of an Albuquerque radio station playing a comedy parody of the Kinks' hit "Lola," but I didn't stop in town to listen, I pulled over on the Interstate on the east ridge so as not to pile up the car. Sometimes the map reminds me of where I'd like to go back, so as to have another look, another chance to enjoy.
Of course, you're wondering: "where we drank champagne, and it tastes just like BEER, c-o-l-a- BEER." "Well, I'm not dumb but I don't understand, why society frowns on makin' love to a lamb..." "Well, I'm not the world's most masculine man, but I know what I am, in the barn I'm a ram, to my Lola Sue..." this is disgusting, filthy, and totally unexpected, and I should receive an award for not causing a massive traffic delay when I first heard this exceptional radio parody. I laughed until I cried for about a hundred miles. This was 1991, before cell phones became anywhere near common, or I would have called the station and had a copy sent to me.
When we have a trip coming up, as we do to New York City, I love to study and see where various places, sights, events, etc., are situated, and how we can get to them from our intended lodging. I like to be surprised a little, but I like to have a sense of the terrain. Once the map starts to fit the terrain, I can relax and enjoy what the places have to offer instead of worrying about where we are and where we need to be. Once I get a grip on the subway map, I'll worry less about how to get home from Yankee Stadium and more about how the Twins will do against the Bronx Bombers.
In the next entry, I'll tell you a bit about how maps are useful but not exactly fair.
At any rate, I love to look at maps. If I've been to a place, the map can take me back there. I can recall the scenery, maybe even the building, or something about the setting. If I am going there, I can build a plan and perhaps not be quite lost when I arrive. And sometimes it helps me imagine, or help deal with what I've seen on the news or read in a book.
I have a highway map of Wisconsin that I have taken a highlighter to. I've marked all the highways I can remember driving or riding on. And that's a whoopin' plenty: from Dubuque, Iowa, to Marinette; from Carthage College in Kenosha to Port Wing and Herbster on Highway 13 beyond Bayfield.
The wonder of travel is that I've been to so many places but have not been to so many more. And I've been through so many places that I haven't been to. I've been THROUGH Albuquerque, NM, two or three times, but never stopped: we camped outside the city once, but never went in, and I went through at rush hour one morning. One of my favorite memories is of an Albuquerque radio station playing a comedy parody of the Kinks' hit "Lola," but I didn't stop in town to listen, I pulled over on the Interstate on the east ridge so as not to pile up the car. Sometimes the map reminds me of where I'd like to go back, so as to have another look, another chance to enjoy.
Of course, you're wondering: "where we drank champagne, and it tastes just like BEER, c-o-l-a- BEER." "Well, I'm not dumb but I don't understand, why society frowns on makin' love to a lamb..." "Well, I'm not the world's most masculine man, but I know what I am, in the barn I'm a ram, to my Lola Sue..." this is disgusting, filthy, and totally unexpected, and I should receive an award for not causing a massive traffic delay when I first heard this exceptional radio parody. I laughed until I cried for about a hundred miles. This was 1991, before cell phones became anywhere near common, or I would have called the station and had a copy sent to me.
When we have a trip coming up, as we do to New York City, I love to study and see where various places, sights, events, etc., are situated, and how we can get to them from our intended lodging. I like to be surprised a little, but I like to have a sense of the terrain. Once the map starts to fit the terrain, I can relax and enjoy what the places have to offer instead of worrying about where we are and where we need to be. Once I get a grip on the subway map, I'll worry less about how to get home from Yankee Stadium and more about how the Twins will do against the Bronx Bombers.
In the next entry, I'll tell you a bit about how maps are useful but not exactly fair.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Road Trip 2
Where did I leave us? On California 152, coming into Watsonville. There is a brief lovely descent down the west slope, which gives a long view of the great salad bowl that runs from Watsonville down through Salinas. I knew nothing of that in 1960, being too young to read much Steinbeck. We went north on California 1 for a bit and found the way into Aptos.
In later years, my Aunt Fran became a favorite, then an icon, Then she was a welcoming lady, going with the flow as her kids and others came and went. This easy acceptance both awed and frightened my father, who liked things orderly. The area was beginning to develop then, but I remember looking out over fields of berries or something and at least having a sense of where the ocean was, about a mile and a half away. Now it's all built up, although still lovely, and all you can see out the patio door is the fence and the top of the next house. My oldest cousin, Bruce, was not there that I remember, and the next, Mary, may have been around briefly. I remember especially Carol, a few months older than I am, and Roger, a couple years younger, and I think I'm still most fond of them. Jean was very little and I don't think Peggy was even born; she has powered her way into my heart from a delayed start. Uncle Bob, who died in early January of this year, also grew in my estimation in later years: I hope that I can age out half as well as he did. This family will receive a better tribute in some other entry.
From this house, we visited San Francisco. This involved going up the east side of San Francisco Bay to San Leandro, where we met up with my father's old Marine Corps buddy, Stevie Kelso. We drove into the City, and I went on my first pub crawl. I am just now remembering something about a Marine Corps Club. We stopped at the Tahitian Room of the Fairmont Hotel, which had drinks with umbrellas and a little "tropical shower" over a little "lagoon" in the middle of the room. We went up to the "Top of the Mark" Hopkins hotel, a lovely room with a view. Paul Fix, who portrayed the sheriff Micah Torrance in "the Rifleman" TV series, was there in a tux. Wow.
Then we went to Fisherman's Wharf for dinner. We ate at Alioto's Fish Grotto. I neither knew nor cared for fish, so I ordered a hamburger. The Wharf itself looks very much the same today, although the area, including Pier 39, has developed a lot. We made it back safely.
From Aptos we went down to Los Angeles. Yes, Disneyland was open by then, and yes, we went. I remember Mr. Toad's Wild Ride and the Dumbo ride, both in Fantasyland. No Pirates, no Haunted mansion, no Space Mountain in 1960. We also went to Knott's Berry Farm, which was more competitive then because it didn't have to do as much to be cool to a kid.
The reason for going to LA was to visit Uncle Chet. My mom's uncle, actually; many of the relatives I knew whom I called "uncle" or "aunt" were actually my parents' uncles or aunts. I had Uncle Allan (Dad's brother) and Aunt Alice, and Uncle Ralph and Aunt Ginny (Mom's sister), plus the aforementioned Uncle Bob and Aunt Pep (Fran; Pep was a nickname my dad had for his sister). My parents had Uncle Chet and Auntie Jen (Chet the brother of my mom's mom), Uncle Francey and Aunt Corey (Cora) (Francis the youngest brother of my mom's mom; there will likely be more about these wonderful folks at some point), and Uncle Harry and Auntie Hortense (honest!) (Harry the brother of my dad's mom). I also met Auntie Grace, the widow of my dad's dad's brother, but she wasn't part of the regular discussion. Then there were my parents' friends, especially my dad's friends: Uncle Dick and Aunt Lil, the Fullers (no relation) and Uncle Bob and Aunt Stella, the Colletts (no relation).
Uncle Chet was an oil millionaire, Then he wasn't. Then he was again, and donated a building to Upper Iowa University in Fayette, Iowa (I've been to see it). Then he set up the family trust, and hit the deepest dry well in California history (meaning then, he wasn't). The December 1949 issue of The Saturday Evening Post wrote him up. I'm still an heir of the oil well trust: last year I got about $100, mostly from settled lawsuits and lost trust members. I had met him at my grandma's, and he was really something: tall, with a prominent nose and hawklike visage. And he snorted at me, which made me howl with laughter, and he used to steal my oatmeal. By 1960 his hair was white and he must have been about 70, but he was still a powerful presence. He and Auntie Jen lived in a home in the Hollywood Hills. I remember talking baseball with Uncle Chet, and losing to him at checkers. My mom's cousin, her husband and their boys were around, but I recall absolutely nothing about any of them. Wendy and I visited Chet and Jen in 1978, and also got to know mom's cousin Helen and husband Wayne, but Auntie Jen was lost to Alzheimer's and Chet was almost a shell. But you need to know this: they lived in a mobile home next to Helen and Wayne's home, and much of their beloved furniture was in there. When I walked in, Uncle Chet rose from his chair, fixed me in his old man's gaze, and said, "I used to SNORT at you." We laughed, and it was a good thing.
We did manage to find the Grand Canyon on the way home. I think this was also the trip that took us to Durango, Colorado, and over the Royal Gorge bridge. We headed east into Kansas, but turned north into Nebraska to find a motel with a pool (Kearney): it was too hot to talk about, and even my dad would pay for that luxury. I believe I took up reading the AAA guides on that trip.
In later years, my Aunt Fran became a favorite, then an icon, Then she was a welcoming lady, going with the flow as her kids and others came and went. This easy acceptance both awed and frightened my father, who liked things orderly. The area was beginning to develop then, but I remember looking out over fields of berries or something and at least having a sense of where the ocean was, about a mile and a half away. Now it's all built up, although still lovely, and all you can see out the patio door is the fence and the top of the next house. My oldest cousin, Bruce, was not there that I remember, and the next, Mary, may have been around briefly. I remember especially Carol, a few months older than I am, and Roger, a couple years younger, and I think I'm still most fond of them. Jean was very little and I don't think Peggy was even born; she has powered her way into my heart from a delayed start. Uncle Bob, who died in early January of this year, also grew in my estimation in later years: I hope that I can age out half as well as he did. This family will receive a better tribute in some other entry.
From this house, we visited San Francisco. This involved going up the east side of San Francisco Bay to San Leandro, where we met up with my father's old Marine Corps buddy, Stevie Kelso. We drove into the City, and I went on my first pub crawl. I am just now remembering something about a Marine Corps Club. We stopped at the Tahitian Room of the Fairmont Hotel, which had drinks with umbrellas and a little "tropical shower" over a little "lagoon" in the middle of the room. We went up to the "Top of the Mark" Hopkins hotel, a lovely room with a view. Paul Fix, who portrayed the sheriff Micah Torrance in "the Rifleman" TV series, was there in a tux. Wow.
Then we went to Fisherman's Wharf for dinner. We ate at Alioto's Fish Grotto. I neither knew nor cared for fish, so I ordered a hamburger. The Wharf itself looks very much the same today, although the area, including Pier 39, has developed a lot. We made it back safely.
From Aptos we went down to Los Angeles. Yes, Disneyland was open by then, and yes, we went. I remember Mr. Toad's Wild Ride and the Dumbo ride, both in Fantasyland. No Pirates, no Haunted mansion, no Space Mountain in 1960. We also went to Knott's Berry Farm, which was more competitive then because it didn't have to do as much to be cool to a kid.
The reason for going to LA was to visit Uncle Chet. My mom's uncle, actually; many of the relatives I knew whom I called "uncle" or "aunt" were actually my parents' uncles or aunts. I had Uncle Allan (Dad's brother) and Aunt Alice, and Uncle Ralph and Aunt Ginny (Mom's sister), plus the aforementioned Uncle Bob and Aunt Pep (Fran; Pep was a nickname my dad had for his sister). My parents had Uncle Chet and Auntie Jen (Chet the brother of my mom's mom), Uncle Francey and Aunt Corey (Cora) (Francis the youngest brother of my mom's mom; there will likely be more about these wonderful folks at some point), and Uncle Harry and Auntie Hortense (honest!) (Harry the brother of my dad's mom). I also met Auntie Grace, the widow of my dad's dad's brother, but she wasn't part of the regular discussion. Then there were my parents' friends, especially my dad's friends: Uncle Dick and Aunt Lil, the Fullers (no relation) and Uncle Bob and Aunt Stella, the Colletts (no relation).
Uncle Chet was an oil millionaire, Then he wasn't. Then he was again, and donated a building to Upper Iowa University in Fayette, Iowa (I've been to see it). Then he set up the family trust, and hit the deepest dry well in California history (meaning then, he wasn't). The December 1949 issue of The Saturday Evening Post wrote him up. I'm still an heir of the oil well trust: last year I got about $100, mostly from settled lawsuits and lost trust members. I had met him at my grandma's, and he was really something: tall, with a prominent nose and hawklike visage. And he snorted at me, which made me howl with laughter, and he used to steal my oatmeal. By 1960 his hair was white and he must have been about 70, but he was still a powerful presence. He and Auntie Jen lived in a home in the Hollywood Hills. I remember talking baseball with Uncle Chet, and losing to him at checkers. My mom's cousin, her husband and their boys were around, but I recall absolutely nothing about any of them. Wendy and I visited Chet and Jen in 1978, and also got to know mom's cousin Helen and husband Wayne, but Auntie Jen was lost to Alzheimer's and Chet was almost a shell. But you need to know this: they lived in a mobile home next to Helen and Wayne's home, and much of their beloved furniture was in there. When I walked in, Uncle Chet rose from his chair, fixed me in his old man's gaze, and said, "I used to SNORT at you." We laughed, and it was a good thing.
We did manage to find the Grand Canyon on the way home. I think this was also the trip that took us to Durango, Colorado, and over the Royal Gorge bridge. We headed east into Kansas, but turned north into Nebraska to find a motel with a pool (Kearney): it was too hot to talk about, and even my dad would pay for that luxury. I believe I took up reading the AAA guides on that trip.
Road Trips
Where have you been?
Have you traveled with your family? On your own? For business? For pleasure? Some of each? Did you go to visit family in another city or state? Did you want to go, or have to go?
Did you go with expectations? Of what you would see, or of how it would be? How did those turn out? If you had a bad experience, did it color your memory of the whole trip? If you had one great moment, did it save any number of tribulations?
What do you remember? Were you paying attention? Do you remember things that relate to your age, especially if you were a child?
I remember our one big road trip as a family, when I was ten. This was high summer, 1960. We drove from Appleton, WI, to California to visit relatives. I am aware that, since memory is a goofy thing, bits of other things may have jumbled in. I remember US Highway 30, and that we didn't go through Omaha but somewhere north of it. I remember a sad cheap motel in Fremont (?), Nebraska. I recall getting up early and driving for an hour before breakfast; I remember driving in the dark with the brights on, and the gradual dawn. I remember, for no reason at all, Grand Island, Nebraska, and the road west. Signs for some attraction, "Harold Warp's... (something about cars). We went through Estes Park, CO, and I remember the cold, mineral-tasting water at a restaurant and staying at a motel along the Big Thompson River as it flowed out of the Rockies. We went through Rocky Mountain National Park, and we made a side trip to some old lodge called the Bald Pate Inn, which was a place my parents had been to, perhaps on their honeymoon. I remember pulling up next to a cattle truck at a stoplight in Greeley, CO, and catching a little spray when an animal took a whiz. We closed the windows as fast as we could crank!
The car was a 1956 Ford sedan, which had been my grandfather's car. I also remember that we had a 1957 Studebaker sedan, two-tone copper and black, which we sold when we received Grandpa's car (Grandma didn't drive). For this long trip, we got a Coleman gallon jug, which we kept filled with ice water; there was a cup inside the top but we used the top, too, to drink from. It had a little spout on the side. I think that similar jugs are still sold. Not that it was hot on that trip but I still think of Coleman jugs as sources of blessed cold water. We got some metal screens that you could clip to the window frame to block the worst of the sun. These were great: left side of the car westbound, right side eastbound. I don't recall if we used cartop carrier bars, or had stuff on top. But I remember my favorite accessory: a burlap bag, almost watertight. It held about a gallon, and we hung it on the front bumpers. As we drove, the wind from our passage cooled the water, not to cold, but to cool enough to drink or to pour into the radiator. Very few cars had air conditioning in those days - this one did not.
Did we go to Denver? No. Did we go to Salt Lake City? No. We went to Delta, Utah, and the only reason we stopped there was to get my glasses repaired. Did we drive through some wonderful mountain scenery? Yes. My father saw the rail line and talked about the wonderful VistaDome route in the Denver & Rio Grande that ran from Denver to Grand Junction. Did we take it? No.
Did we go to Las vegas, or even Reno? No. We stayed in Tonopah, NV. ("I've been from Tucson to Tucumcari, Tehachapi to Tonopah. I've driven every kind of rig that's ever been made, took all the back roads so I wouldn't get weighed. So if you give me weed, whites and wine..." a song lyric, the only other mention of Tonopah I've ever heard). We showed up on the east side of Yosemite National Park. One of the highways on the way to the park had the best set of up-and-down hills - roller-coaster-like - that I've ever seen.
I do remember driving through Yosemite, but only enough to plant a wish to go back that I was able to fulfill with Wendy and Laura. When I was ten, it was all mountains and waterfalls and huge trees. I have as clear a memory of the road over the coast range, through Mount Madonna County Park and down to Watsonville. This was the first serious twisting mountain road I remember, and I've driven it on my own just to be sure. Then we went to Aptos, CA, near Santa Cruz, and I met my Aunt Fran, Uncle Bob and most of my cousins for the first time.
TBC.
Have you traveled with your family? On your own? For business? For pleasure? Some of each? Did you go to visit family in another city or state? Did you want to go, or have to go?
Did you go with expectations? Of what you would see, or of how it would be? How did those turn out? If you had a bad experience, did it color your memory of the whole trip? If you had one great moment, did it save any number of tribulations?
What do you remember? Were you paying attention? Do you remember things that relate to your age, especially if you were a child?
I remember our one big road trip as a family, when I was ten. This was high summer, 1960. We drove from Appleton, WI, to California to visit relatives. I am aware that, since memory is a goofy thing, bits of other things may have jumbled in. I remember US Highway 30, and that we didn't go through Omaha but somewhere north of it. I remember a sad cheap motel in Fremont (?), Nebraska. I recall getting up early and driving for an hour before breakfast; I remember driving in the dark with the brights on, and the gradual dawn. I remember, for no reason at all, Grand Island, Nebraska, and the road west. Signs for some attraction, "Harold Warp's... (something about cars). We went through Estes Park, CO, and I remember the cold, mineral-tasting water at a restaurant and staying at a motel along the Big Thompson River as it flowed out of the Rockies. We went through Rocky Mountain National Park, and we made a side trip to some old lodge called the Bald Pate Inn, which was a place my parents had been to, perhaps on their honeymoon. I remember pulling up next to a cattle truck at a stoplight in Greeley, CO, and catching a little spray when an animal took a whiz. We closed the windows as fast as we could crank!
The car was a 1956 Ford sedan, which had been my grandfather's car. I also remember that we had a 1957 Studebaker sedan, two-tone copper and black, which we sold when we received Grandpa's car (Grandma didn't drive). For this long trip, we got a Coleman gallon jug, which we kept filled with ice water; there was a cup inside the top but we used the top, too, to drink from. It had a little spout on the side. I think that similar jugs are still sold. Not that it was hot on that trip but I still think of Coleman jugs as sources of blessed cold water. We got some metal screens that you could clip to the window frame to block the worst of the sun. These were great: left side of the car westbound, right side eastbound. I don't recall if we used cartop carrier bars, or had stuff on top. But I remember my favorite accessory: a burlap bag, almost watertight. It held about a gallon, and we hung it on the front bumpers. As we drove, the wind from our passage cooled the water, not to cold, but to cool enough to drink or to pour into the radiator. Very few cars had air conditioning in those days - this one did not.
Did we go to Denver? No. Did we go to Salt Lake City? No. We went to Delta, Utah, and the only reason we stopped there was to get my glasses repaired. Did we drive through some wonderful mountain scenery? Yes. My father saw the rail line and talked about the wonderful VistaDome route in the Denver & Rio Grande that ran from Denver to Grand Junction. Did we take it? No.
Did we go to Las vegas, or even Reno? No. We stayed in Tonopah, NV. ("I've been from Tucson to Tucumcari, Tehachapi to Tonopah. I've driven every kind of rig that's ever been made, took all the back roads so I wouldn't get weighed. So if you give me weed, whites and wine..." a song lyric, the only other mention of Tonopah I've ever heard). We showed up on the east side of Yosemite National Park. One of the highways on the way to the park had the best set of up-and-down hills - roller-coaster-like - that I've ever seen.
I do remember driving through Yosemite, but only enough to plant a wish to go back that I was able to fulfill with Wendy and Laura. When I was ten, it was all mountains and waterfalls and huge trees. I have as clear a memory of the road over the coast range, through Mount Madonna County Park and down to Watsonville. This was the first serious twisting mountain road I remember, and I've driven it on my own just to be sure. Then we went to Aptos, CA, near Santa Cruz, and I met my Aunt Fran, Uncle Bob and most of my cousins for the first time.
TBC.
The Holiday Weekend
It's Sunday of the 4th of July weekend. I have Monday off as well, so I can slough off longer than some of you. We've already had a good time, but we also opened the question, is the 4th of July a great holiday?
Our town has a very nice set of July 4th activities, going on all day, in our big lakeside park. There's food and drink, softball, fire department-sponsored hose battles, a kids' pudding-eating contest (courtesy of the local Swiss Miss pudding factory), live music, a petting zoo, crafts, a water-ski show, etc., and fireworks at night. On the other hand, it's been the same for a number of years, so we go to have a little lunch, see who's out and about, and watch an event, then we go home for a nap. The fireworks are better viewed from the downtown lake overlook, as it has fewer mosquitoes and fewer crazies setting off their own fireworks, which they do right among the viewers in the park; we didn't even go downtown the past few years, as the folks they hire seem to set off about one shot a minute. We had dinner at a friend's house and went home just about at dark.
Ah, but I opened the day with a stint at the laundromat (appliances still in garage). And I ran some shopping survival errands. Then there was the sign at the park entrance: "Welcome to Freedom Fest! No coolers. No carry-ons. No parking in beach area." Independence Day, my ass. So, all in all, I had a very nice day but not a thriller.
Yesterday, we went up to see our daughter and her boyfriend in the Twin Cities. We visited the "Taste of Minnesota" festival in St. Paul, and spent too much money for parking, too much money for food and drink tickets and beer wristbands, and too many tickets for most food and drink. Ah, but the "Little Charlie" filet sandwich, the shrimp skewer and the deep-fried lobster on a stick were tasty, and the Element 115 beer was dark and full-flavored but well-hopped, so crisp and thus good on a hot day. Then we went to the Twins' baseball game at the Metrodome. This would have been a lovely evening for outdoor baseball (the Twins' new outdoor stadium will be ready for the 2010 season), but we got $7 seats (outfield upper deck), and had some hot dogs and beers, and we got to see a fun ball game. The Cleveland Indians went up 5 to 2, but the Twins came back gradually and won 9 to 6. I didn't hear the attendance, but Ross and I guessed that something over 30,000 were there (31,887 as reported in the box score this morning). Food lines were long, as it seemed many of the upper deck concession stands were closed, but all in all it made for a fine evening at the ballpark.
So we had a very nice day.
It came up that one of our friends remembers not liking the 4th of July. This led us to think back about how each of us ranked the day. Was it a special holiday, like Christmas or Thanksgiving? No. Was it just a day off? In my case, not always. Was it, like our day this year, nice but not outstanding? Was the celebration of our nation's declaration of independence an important part of the day? Nobody mentioned that at all.
Every one of us, however, thought back to our recollections of the 4th when we were kids. Did we go to the park, did we remember fireworks? Pretty much yes. Did anyone recall special family customs? Wendy remembers the bike and wagon parade for kids at her local park; there wasn't anything else.
So: we take the day off (many of us), we grill out, we go to the local park, we drink some beer or lemonade, we watch fireworks or shoot off our own, and we don't get too worked up. Uh, I should probably mention our neighbors here. They have their biggest gathering of the year, with plenty of friends and family. They drape the house and fence in bunting. The guy mows a mini golf layout in his lawn and sets up the obstacles, which are reminders of US history (he's a teacher). And they have a bit of a ground fireworks show. So it may be more fair to say, some of us don't get all worked up.
Is the 4th of July, Independence Day, anyone's favorite or most meaningful holiday? I'll take input, but I'm starting from no. Maybe we need to take a little more time with the civics.
Our town has a very nice set of July 4th activities, going on all day, in our big lakeside park. There's food and drink, softball, fire department-sponsored hose battles, a kids' pudding-eating contest (courtesy of the local Swiss Miss pudding factory), live music, a petting zoo, crafts, a water-ski show, etc., and fireworks at night. On the other hand, it's been the same for a number of years, so we go to have a little lunch, see who's out and about, and watch an event, then we go home for a nap. The fireworks are better viewed from the downtown lake overlook, as it has fewer mosquitoes and fewer crazies setting off their own fireworks, which they do right among the viewers in the park; we didn't even go downtown the past few years, as the folks they hire seem to set off about one shot a minute. We had dinner at a friend's house and went home just about at dark.
Ah, but I opened the day with a stint at the laundromat (appliances still in garage). And I ran some shopping survival errands. Then there was the sign at the park entrance: "Welcome to Freedom Fest! No coolers. No carry-ons. No parking in beach area." Independence Day, my ass. So, all in all, I had a very nice day but not a thriller.
Yesterday, we went up to see our daughter and her boyfriend in the Twin Cities. We visited the "Taste of Minnesota" festival in St. Paul, and spent too much money for parking, too much money for food and drink tickets and beer wristbands, and too many tickets for most food and drink. Ah, but the "Little Charlie" filet sandwich, the shrimp skewer and the deep-fried lobster on a stick were tasty, and the Element 115 beer was dark and full-flavored but well-hopped, so crisp and thus good on a hot day. Then we went to the Twins' baseball game at the Metrodome. This would have been a lovely evening for outdoor baseball (the Twins' new outdoor stadium will be ready for the 2010 season), but we got $7 seats (outfield upper deck), and had some hot dogs and beers, and we got to see a fun ball game. The Cleveland Indians went up 5 to 2, but the Twins came back gradually and won 9 to 6. I didn't hear the attendance, but Ross and I guessed that something over 30,000 were there (31,887 as reported in the box score this morning). Food lines were long, as it seemed many of the upper deck concession stands were closed, but all in all it made for a fine evening at the ballpark.
So we had a very nice day.
It came up that one of our friends remembers not liking the 4th of July. This led us to think back about how each of us ranked the day. Was it a special holiday, like Christmas or Thanksgiving? No. Was it just a day off? In my case, not always. Was it, like our day this year, nice but not outstanding? Was the celebration of our nation's declaration of independence an important part of the day? Nobody mentioned that at all.
Every one of us, however, thought back to our recollections of the 4th when we were kids. Did we go to the park, did we remember fireworks? Pretty much yes. Did anyone recall special family customs? Wendy remembers the bike and wagon parade for kids at her local park; there wasn't anything else.
So: we take the day off (many of us), we grill out, we go to the local park, we drink some beer or lemonade, we watch fireworks or shoot off our own, and we don't get too worked up. Uh, I should probably mention our neighbors here. They have their biggest gathering of the year, with plenty of friends and family. They drape the house and fence in bunting. The guy mows a mini golf layout in his lawn and sets up the obstacles, which are reminders of US history (he's a teacher). And they have a bit of a ground fireworks show. So it may be more fair to say, some of us don't get all worked up.
Is the 4th of July, Independence Day, anyone's favorite or most meaningful holiday? I'll take input, but I'm starting from no. Maybe we need to take a little more time with the civics.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Up In The Air part 9
45,000 pounds. 22-1/2 tons. Ten yards of "mud."
They poured our basement floor yesterday. At roughly 4,500 pounds per cubic yard, that's how much concrete it takes to make a floor about 4" thick, in a space about 23' x 40'. No wonder there are a couple cracks in the sidewalk where the cement truck sat.
I'm not sure when it's safe to go down there and take a gander. Certainly nothing happened today, and I'm betting against any activity tomorrow. But I might toss a ladder through the egress window opening - I hate ladders, and I'm no good on them, and they kill my knees - and crawl down there for a look-see. This means, of course, that our old basement stairs were - mercifully - ripped out and new ones have yet to be built.
I'll want to be sure I know where the floor drain is, and the sump pump pit, and the roughed-in bathroom, and the laundry drain. I'll want to see if I can discern, without spilling a lot of water to test it, if the floor slopes toward the floor drain. And I'll want to call out some spots for ceiling fixtures (light) and duplex or fourplex receptacles (power).
The contractor will need to lower most of the appliances and the furnace through the egress window opening to put them in place. I want them to put in the stairs, and take the dryer down the new stairs, to see if it's at all possible to get such down and up for future appliance needs. The dryer is the lightest of those items that would need to go up and down the steps. Otherwise, there will need to be some permanent accommodation made at the egress window.
They also blocked up all the remaining openings in the foundation walls, except where the two lights (windows) and the egress window will go. All right: an egress window is the escape from the basement in case we or a future owner put a bedroom down there. I don't know what's going in those, or exactly what if anything will be done for window well and drainage. I know the egress window will require either a cover, or gutter at the roof, to keep water out of such a well.
A few treated boards need to be stuffed in between the block and the old house sill, and some sill repair still needs to happen. The plumber has much to do, as does the heating guy: almost all the sheet metal is being replaced and rerouted. Former cold air returns will now be heat vents and vice versa. Then the furnace needs to be hooked up to gas and power, and the central a/c unit needs to be reconnected and recharged. We've run out of luck on that score: days in the mid 80's leave the house pretty warm. The plumber will do a new supply line and reconnect everything, rescue one toilet, and get us a new water heater.
We still need to call out where the furnace and dryer will vent, and where the water connection will come out for garden hose, etc. This is our chance to get the hose hookup where it should be, near the back door. We might even be able to aim the furnace vent (in older times, chimney; now, PVC pipe out the side wall. Where's the elegance?) and dryer vent at the water connection, to help keep it from freezing.
Then comes the rebuilding of the front porch, the finishing of the back entry, and the fixing of the concrete outside the back door (perhaps these last two should be the other way around). This is where I recall that the contractor said, "four to six weeks," and we're finishing six weeks. The contractor needs also to do a make-good on a couple support beams and to have a look at some of the settling cracks and issues - for example, our kitchen counter has moved from 1/8" to 1/2" down the walls and pulled away from the wall by 1/4", although all the cabinets seem to be fine under the counter. The guy's truck bears the legend "Done Right the First Time," and we're not entirely sure.
When the house is done, we can begin to consider the yard and garden. Wendy thinks we can try to regrow the lawn by seed, and I can give that a go, but only if we get a lot of dirt in here to get the grade we need. We also get to redesign the garden spaces, the front walk (house to public walk), and - if we can scrounge enough brick - a patio-like space for a yard table.
Enough of that. Time to wander off-topic.
$4 gas is making itself known on the highway. I have said that I am now driving a little slower, let's say about 70 on the Interstate. This is down about 3 or 4 mph from my previous habits. At old speeds, I used to be passed regularly, about half the time by Minnesota cars and about 10% by even-faster Illinois cars. Today, for example, I was passed only by a motorcycle; I passed an Acura from Minnesota and a BMW from Illinois!
I have a bit of a fall-back position. My employer offers a stock purchase plan with after-tax dollars that gets us company stock at a bit of a break (discount from lower of current or previous buy-period price) and, although that's still attractive (bless me, I don't work for Circuit City, whose business and stock performance is so abysmal that Blockbuster walked away from an offer to buy the company), I could cover about half my monthly commute by pulling out of the program. Not yet, maybe, but a pad is a pad.
If you know me, you'll wonder when I might say something about beer. Here's one to try, but you may need to get west of Eau Claire and east of the Twin Cities to find. The Rush River brewery of River Falls, WI, makes two fine beers. Their "Bubblejack" IPA is tasty of the type, but to my mind their star is the "Unforgiven Amber." This is beautiful to look at and better to put in your mouth. Amber to copper, lovely head, full but not too thick, full-flavored but not cloying, good finish but not lingering aftertaste.
This is where I speak heresy. I drink wine. Sometimes I drink booze. Now, I seldom drink more than one of these flavor families per night, although a little nip of something is nice if not too many beers have preceded it. Generally, if I start with wine, I finish with wine, and if I start with a wee nip, I might well finish with another. Beer is wonderful: if I start with beer, and behave myself, I can finish with a shot; if I start with a shot, I can finish with a beer or two.
But I understand why old men drink straight booze, or wine. It's a cut to the chase issue. They have to pee less often; they may have to wake less often for that purpose. I have a healthy set of prostate problems, and as a beer-drinking man I may be up three or more times a night to drain. Most times, I can get right back to sleep, unless an unsettled house project weighs on my mind. When I drink wine, that might be down to two times, and if I sit with my friend George Dickel (not mentioned in George Thorogood and the Destroyers, "I Drink Alone" but it should have been), I might get by with the 12:30 whiz. The other night I tried drinking a glass of limeade (non-alcoholic) as the only beverage; I was tired and my liver needed a night off. I was still up twice, so I voted to not worry about abstaining. The longer I can stretch things between waking to pee, the more and better I dream. Since I believe that dreams, among other things, vent some pent-up issues in the subconscious, the more I dream, the more I like it. I feel better after dream-filled sleep, even if I don't recall much about any of the dreams.
George Dickel "Original Tennessee Finest Quality Sippin' Whisky" No. 12. Not to be mistaken for No. 9, Sour Mash Whisky. That's drinkable, after a fashion, for those who prefer sour mash. No. 12 is, to my mind, similar to a bourbon and better than Jack Daniel's, which generally costs $5 more per 750ml bottle. From what I have found on the net, the company has been up and down, has sold a few times including recently, has been in and out of production, et., etc. It still tastes as good as it did 40-plus years ago when I first learned about it in the alley behind Conkey's Book Store (Appleton, WI). As long as the recipe is true, the whisky will be honest with you. Hell, it's booze: if you have too much, it'll kick you in the ass, make you behave stupidly, and make you ill. But if you can manipulate such a liquor, get enough that you reach the land of pleasantness without flying past it, George Dickel is one of the more tasty ways to arrive there without making your wallet ill .
I am wondering how the new basement will be in regard to temperature. Our old basement ("Other people have basements. We have a cellar." - our daughter, in her early teen years) was, among other things, cool. It was a great place to hold beer and wine, in what I always called "cellar-cooled" temperatures. In winter, the sill along the stairway to the basement was a great place to keep good beers, as they were ready to drink at about 48-50 degrees, and wine from the basement was at about the same temperature because it was near the old floor. I will need a whole year, starting as soon as they tell me they're done, to calibrate the storage temperatures of the new basement and what changes in refrigeration and holding spaces will be needed to provide the happiest beverage moments with the least energy. I may have to go through some room-temperature George until I have some results to report.
They poured our basement floor yesterday. At roughly 4,500 pounds per cubic yard, that's how much concrete it takes to make a floor about 4" thick, in a space about 23' x 40'. No wonder there are a couple cracks in the sidewalk where the cement truck sat.
I'm not sure when it's safe to go down there and take a gander. Certainly nothing happened today, and I'm betting against any activity tomorrow. But I might toss a ladder through the egress window opening - I hate ladders, and I'm no good on them, and they kill my knees - and crawl down there for a look-see. This means, of course, that our old basement stairs were - mercifully - ripped out and new ones have yet to be built.
I'll want to be sure I know where the floor drain is, and the sump pump pit, and the roughed-in bathroom, and the laundry drain. I'll want to see if I can discern, without spilling a lot of water to test it, if the floor slopes toward the floor drain. And I'll want to call out some spots for ceiling fixtures (light) and duplex or fourplex receptacles (power).
The contractor will need to lower most of the appliances and the furnace through the egress window opening to put them in place. I want them to put in the stairs, and take the dryer down the new stairs, to see if it's at all possible to get such down and up for future appliance needs. The dryer is the lightest of those items that would need to go up and down the steps. Otherwise, there will need to be some permanent accommodation made at the egress window.
They also blocked up all the remaining openings in the foundation walls, except where the two lights (windows) and the egress window will go. All right: an egress window is the escape from the basement in case we or a future owner put a bedroom down there. I don't know what's going in those, or exactly what if anything will be done for window well and drainage. I know the egress window will require either a cover, or gutter at the roof, to keep water out of such a well.
A few treated boards need to be stuffed in between the block and the old house sill, and some sill repair still needs to happen. The plumber has much to do, as does the heating guy: almost all the sheet metal is being replaced and rerouted. Former cold air returns will now be heat vents and vice versa. Then the furnace needs to be hooked up to gas and power, and the central a/c unit needs to be reconnected and recharged. We've run out of luck on that score: days in the mid 80's leave the house pretty warm. The plumber will do a new supply line and reconnect everything, rescue one toilet, and get us a new water heater.
We still need to call out where the furnace and dryer will vent, and where the water connection will come out for garden hose, etc. This is our chance to get the hose hookup where it should be, near the back door. We might even be able to aim the furnace vent (in older times, chimney; now, PVC pipe out the side wall. Where's the elegance?) and dryer vent at the water connection, to help keep it from freezing.
Then comes the rebuilding of the front porch, the finishing of the back entry, and the fixing of the concrete outside the back door (perhaps these last two should be the other way around). This is where I recall that the contractor said, "four to six weeks," and we're finishing six weeks. The contractor needs also to do a make-good on a couple support beams and to have a look at some of the settling cracks and issues - for example, our kitchen counter has moved from 1/8" to 1/2" down the walls and pulled away from the wall by 1/4", although all the cabinets seem to be fine under the counter. The guy's truck bears the legend "Done Right the First Time," and we're not entirely sure.
When the house is done, we can begin to consider the yard and garden. Wendy thinks we can try to regrow the lawn by seed, and I can give that a go, but only if we get a lot of dirt in here to get the grade we need. We also get to redesign the garden spaces, the front walk (house to public walk), and - if we can scrounge enough brick - a patio-like space for a yard table.
Enough of that. Time to wander off-topic.
$4 gas is making itself known on the highway. I have said that I am now driving a little slower, let's say about 70 on the Interstate. This is down about 3 or 4 mph from my previous habits. At old speeds, I used to be passed regularly, about half the time by Minnesota cars and about 10% by even-faster Illinois cars. Today, for example, I was passed only by a motorcycle; I passed an Acura from Minnesota and a BMW from Illinois!
I have a bit of a fall-back position. My employer offers a stock purchase plan with after-tax dollars that gets us company stock at a bit of a break (discount from lower of current or previous buy-period price) and, although that's still attractive (bless me, I don't work for Circuit City, whose business and stock performance is so abysmal that Blockbuster walked away from an offer to buy the company), I could cover about half my monthly commute by pulling out of the program. Not yet, maybe, but a pad is a pad.
If you know me, you'll wonder when I might say something about beer. Here's one to try, but you may need to get west of Eau Claire and east of the Twin Cities to find. The Rush River brewery of River Falls, WI, makes two fine beers. Their "Bubblejack" IPA is tasty of the type, but to my mind their star is the "Unforgiven Amber." This is beautiful to look at and better to put in your mouth. Amber to copper, lovely head, full but not too thick, full-flavored but not cloying, good finish but not lingering aftertaste.
This is where I speak heresy. I drink wine. Sometimes I drink booze. Now, I seldom drink more than one of these flavor families per night, although a little nip of something is nice if not too many beers have preceded it. Generally, if I start with wine, I finish with wine, and if I start with a wee nip, I might well finish with another. Beer is wonderful: if I start with beer, and behave myself, I can finish with a shot; if I start with a shot, I can finish with a beer or two.
But I understand why old men drink straight booze, or wine. It's a cut to the chase issue. They have to pee less often; they may have to wake less often for that purpose. I have a healthy set of prostate problems, and as a beer-drinking man I may be up three or more times a night to drain. Most times, I can get right back to sleep, unless an unsettled house project weighs on my mind. When I drink wine, that might be down to two times, and if I sit with my friend George Dickel (not mentioned in George Thorogood and the Destroyers, "I Drink Alone" but it should have been), I might get by with the 12:30 whiz. The other night I tried drinking a glass of limeade (non-alcoholic) as the only beverage; I was tired and my liver needed a night off. I was still up twice, so I voted to not worry about abstaining. The longer I can stretch things between waking to pee, the more and better I dream. Since I believe that dreams, among other things, vent some pent-up issues in the subconscious, the more I dream, the more I like it. I feel better after dream-filled sleep, even if I don't recall much about any of the dreams.
George Dickel "Original Tennessee Finest Quality Sippin' Whisky" No. 12. Not to be mistaken for No. 9, Sour Mash Whisky. That's drinkable, after a fashion, for those who prefer sour mash. No. 12 is, to my mind, similar to a bourbon and better than Jack Daniel's, which generally costs $5 more per 750ml bottle. From what I have found on the net, the company has been up and down, has sold a few times including recently, has been in and out of production, et., etc. It still tastes as good as it did 40-plus years ago when I first learned about it in the alley behind Conkey's Book Store (Appleton, WI). As long as the recipe is true, the whisky will be honest with you. Hell, it's booze: if you have too much, it'll kick you in the ass, make you behave stupidly, and make you ill. But if you can manipulate such a liquor, get enough that you reach the land of pleasantness without flying past it, George Dickel is one of the more tasty ways to arrive there without making your wallet ill .
I am wondering how the new basement will be in regard to temperature. Our old basement ("Other people have basements. We have a cellar." - our daughter, in her early teen years) was, among other things, cool. It was a great place to hold beer and wine, in what I always called "cellar-cooled" temperatures. In winter, the sill along the stairway to the basement was a great place to keep good beers, as they were ready to drink at about 48-50 degrees, and wine from the basement was at about the same temperature because it was near the old floor. I will need a whole year, starting as soon as they tell me they're done, to calibrate the storage temperatures of the new basement and what changes in refrigeration and holding spaces will be needed to provide the happiest beverage moments with the least energy. I may have to go through some room-temperature George until I have some results to report.
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