Invited to a friend's for a delightful Christmas Day brunch, I notice lying on a hall console a stylish hard-bound cocktail table book entitled: Solace -- A Dream Realized, February 2007 to November 2008. Its cover is emblazoned with an aerial view (probably taken by his son, a pilot) of the site upon which I am at that moment enjoying a bracing Bloody Mary. Inside is a photographic chronology of its transformation from forested field to finished abode -- demonstrable proof that for the proud owners this solar-powered, energy-efficient creation was a true labor of love, which they nurtured at every step along the way.
Among candid shots of family, architect, contractor, suppliers, decorators, landscaper, and horticulturist, I chance upon my very own cherished companion JSG bestowing her signature smile of approval on the early stages of a stone patio.
"Did you know," I say to my friend, "that Schewel Furniture has built eight stores in the past twelve years, and that not only do I not have any pictures in my possession, but after a cursory survey of each empty lot, I never returned until the day of the ribbon-cutting? And when my first wife and I built a house back in 1978, I must acknowledge that she did an excellent job on the design, comfort, appointments, and finishes, which I discovered for the first time on moving day."
My friend's eyes grow as wide as the plates we are filling with crunchy baked eggs and tomatoes, cheese grits, and spinach-and-artichoke casserole. He can't comprehend my rather cavalier attitude toward such major investments nor my failure to embrace these projects as precious possessions evoking the devotion of a parent to a child. Only with great difficulty do I refrain from further disillusioning him: where he sees beauty, a three-dimensional work of art taking shape, a vision perfected, I see utility; masonry, framing, metal, and mortar; grizzled hardhats moving in slow motion; and acres of trash, dust, grit, and mud. The few times I have dared a peek at a work-in-progress, they always cost me a pair of shoes.
Of course -- at least with my stores -- I've had the luxury of delegating oversight responsibility to associates and managers. And why wouldn't I, since besides its being grounded in an inveterate distaste for the general messiness involved, my aversion can also be attributed to a total ignorance of any and all matters related to raw or finished material construction. Thus, I wouldn't have a clue as to whether an unscrupulous contractor might be using faulty components or cutting corners to such an extent that a wall might collapse -- which actually occurred in Martinsburg, West Virginia, fortuitously alerting us long before occupancy to the necessity of engaging an independent adviser.
In fact, since most of my waking hours are spent with my head buried between the pages of mediocre books, the house in which I now live alone -- with no crafty spousal eye around to detect troublesome cracks, fissures, stains, odors, and peelings -- might very well suffer a similar calamitous fate without my ever being conscious of it. For example, during a couple of her infrequent walk-throughs, JSG zeroed in on some unsightly gray matter besmirching the head jamb of one doorway (mildew, easily wiped away) and on some suspicious brown ripples discoloring a bathroom wall (glue seeping through wallpaper, scrubbed off with a rag, a dose of Fabuloso, and some elbow grease).
Fulfilling her own long-deferred heart's desire, my mother built the spacious corner ranch back in 1958, and supervised every nail hammering, brick laying, and paint applique as if she were sculpting a monument, while my father's staunch avoidance set the standard for my own obstinate behavior twenty years later. It's understandable that she could never quite let go after selling it to me in 1992 and moving only two blocks away; her occasional unannounced inspections became a source of perpetual chagrin to my wife, further dampening an already sputtering marriage. And just when, abandoned to my own meager resources, I might have welcomed her peerless perspicacity and exquisite taste, at eighty-five years of age, her enthusiasm for delivering unsolicited advice wilted like all the flowers in my untended beds -- although in one last gasp of maternal solicitude she selected, ordered, and paid for three modern full-view high-quality storm doors.
At thirty-eight hundred square feet, including four guest bedrooms and one master with two huge walk-in closets, two family rooms, one upstairs and one down, a combined living-dining area which I breeze through twice a week in order to water an apparently indestructible plant and scoop up a few ornery stink bugs, and a generous kitchen packed with extraneous (that is, for me, anything other than a microwave) appliances, the place might seem excessive for a solo resident, even for two, said my son and his girl friend when they stayed there without me a few months ago. Of course, compared to their minimalist Manhattan quarters, it was an inarguable judgment -- unless, I replied, they wanted to ride out Trents Ferry Road and take a gander at a cozy couple's genuine castle, all fifteen thousand square feet of it, three years in the making, at a cool (rumor as it) eight figures.
The only amenity my father really yearned for was a swimming pool, which he sunk in the back yard in the mid-seventies and surrounded with a deck ample enough for him to soak up rays and hold court with a coterie of friends on summer evenings and weekends. Its inheritance became more of an albatross (or money pit) for my wife and me, requiring two extreme (and expensive) makeovers, the second of which has haunted me ever since; not long afterward, my barber asked me if I had opened my pool yet, and when I said, "No," he gleefully produced a picture of his own watering hole being closed down for the last time -- by a bulldozer. Despite nary a toe-tester for three sweltering seasons, I continue to foot the bill for regular maintenance, ever hopeful the JSG will finally honor her annual promise for a midnight skinny-dip.
A pool requires an enclosure; but if I am blithely oblivious to other deleterious developments, who can blame my neglect when one side of the quadrilateral disappears from sight -- and mind -- beneath a blanket of ivy, weeds, and tree foliage -- unless it be my neighbor? Loath to disrupt our cordial non-speaking relationship, she communicates by mail, spending forty-six cents for a stamp rather than simply slipping her missive in my mailbox or inside one of my new storm doors. I should have saved it, so I can reproduce it verbatim, but, frankly, once I catch the drift, I toss it in the trash. For some reason, she feels compelled to review the history of the fence marking our borderline, even quoting my father, before getting to the point: several boards have fallen out, and it's badly in need of repair. She conveniently fails to mention that most of the hideous greenery which blinded me to this sad state of affairs germinated on her property.
While I let her comments percolate for a few weeks -- curious, in fact, as to whether I can provoke her into a second more-strongly worded complaint, a harassing telephone call, or a demonstrative door-knocking -- I can't help but notice how weather-beaten and shabby the object of her disaffection really is.
Obviously I'm not going to undertake this task myself, but I have no idea how to choose someone to do it for me -- which is partially why I procrastinate. While JSG likes to research prospective service providers online, where testimonials might be available, I prefer the old-fashioned Yellow Pages. I pore over them two or three times, actually reading the blurbs and evaluating the ad sizes, before lighting on one company whose professed longevity gives me some measure of confidence. It turns out to be family-owned, and before long I am in touch with the patriarch, Al, a tall, gravelly-voiced veteran of many fence postings who is happy to make a house call.
Of course, a few stents -- or splints, in this case -- will be a temporary and wasteful treatment; what I need is a complete transplant. Conspiracy theorist JSG maintains that a 24503 zip code is a guaranteed price escalator, and indeed Al's estimate raises my own eyebrows -- and it doesn't even include demolition and removal of the current placeholder. But after Al suggests that my yard man, Jeff, might be able to save me some money on that chore (which he does) and offers me a finder's fee for any referrals I might obtain (none, as yet), I sign the contract, pay him a fifty percent deposit, and put his sign up in my yard -- even though his crew (which includes a son or son-in-law) can't start for a week.
Although my new shadowbox fence is about a foot taller than I thought it would be -- I didn't bother to look at a sample -- it should pacify my neighbor, since all sight lines over, around, and through it have been blockaded. She even receives another benefit free of charge; Jeff can't rip out the old fence without taking some of her undergrowth along with it. When he calls to ask if I think she will object, I say, "I don't see how she can. You have my permission; I'll ask for her forgiveness later."
If the epistolary origin of this minor melodrama was humorously pathetic, its denouement is so aesthetically and psychologically pleasing that I briefly consider penning an effusive thank-you note to the instigator before concluding that my actions have spoken loudly enough. But beyond that the thought strikes me that perhaps her unsolicited diagnosis is indicative of further disease metastasizing before my very eyes, yet stubbornly camouflaged.
Other than my mother, I know one person who can not only detect the creeping corruption staring me in the face but will also be brutally honest about delivering the bad news -- my brother-in-law GAC, and also my polar opposite, as evidenced by his scratch golf game, his culinary competence, and his do-it-yourself dexterity. His single-handed retrofitting of an unfinished basement into snug family room and a dilapidated garage into a comfortable guest apartment certainly lends credibility to my humble request for a critical drive-by.
I wait two days before retrieving his message on my answering machine -- because it's all too predictable. In his distinctive Carolina drawl, he is almost apologetic. "Marc," he says, "the window trims are peeling badly, and it looks to me like the entire siding needs to be painted. And your roof is covered in moss and fungus, and if you don't get it power-washed, you could be in for some real trouble." I'm sure he knows where I live, but I'm just wondering if he forgot, or took a wrong turn, until I walk to the end of my driveway, gaze left, right, and skyward, sigh in exasperation, and mutter two words not fit for repeating.
"Here we go again," I pout, "more dart-throwing at the phone book." I had some spot painting done a couple of years ago, so I'm familiar with at least one contractor. Mindful of JSG's zip code paranoia, even I have a hard time digesting his calorie-surfeited menu, so I dial up my brother-in-law consultant, and ask him how much he thinks the paint job he prescribed should cost me. When he calculates a figure about half of what I am staring at, I pump him for some names, until he finally remembers -- or finds an old invoice from -- Phillip, along with a contact number.
Phillip is stubby, chubby, cherubic, and chatty, gushing with references (including JSG's next-door-neighbor) and as eager for the business as a hungry rabbit. He hops about, trying to root out from his taciturn (and hopeless) customer what it is that he really wants done. Since I received from the other fellow (who basically told me what I needed) a detailed proposal which seems to leave no surface uncovered, ethical or not, I make a copy, minus the bottom line, of course, and hand it over. Phillip calls with one price, then recalculates (downward), reiterates that I don't have to pay anything until completion, and finally ends up about thirty percent lower than his competition. Not wanting to appear too anxious myself, I shamefully tantalize him for a few days before making him a happy camper.
I try to gift him the crippled hot tub -- and save him the trouble of freshening it up -- which squats like a dormant groundhog on my back deck (and harbors a live one deep within its bowels, I was told by a visitor), provided he dismantles and hauls it away; he politely declines.
And so begins the invasion -- when, around sunrise, for the next ten days, just as I am emerging from a shower, brushing my teeth, stepping into my underwear, or scarfing down a bowl of cereal, my house is besieged by a small army of motley foot soldiers -- short and tall, young and old, male and female (including one of indeterminate gender) -- and all their essential equipment: drop cloths, ladders, overalls, brushes, rollers, lunchboxes, drink bottles, cigarettes, and, of course, can after can of sticky, viscous, intoxicating paint.
Fortunately, I have a nearby retreat, my office, or, if I'm really desperate, I can hit the road, and put hundreds of miles between all this activity and me. I can't imagine watching television, reading a book, preparing a meal (a sandwich, that is), wandering aimlessly from room to room, peering over shoulders, or eavesdropping on ribald conversations while these breadwinners are steadily "slappin' on paint," to quote Country Music star Billy Currington.
"How's it look?" asks JSG when I disclose that Phillip has finally hitched up his portable shed and cleared out of my driveway. "Better, I guess," is my reply. Because if my facade formerly appeared pristine to me, how can I now claim a more discriminating vision? Until I cast a glance over my new fence at the exposed upper level of my neighbor's house, and, lo and behold, discern the outbreak of psoriasis -- a plethora of cracks, pits, and chips. If she and her husband ever to decide it's time for some home improvement, I know a good painter.
My roof is more problematic; attending to it exposes how sheltered from the basic elements of independent living I've been for fifty years. "Power washing," said my brother-in-law; sounds simple enough, until a series of fruitless -- and frustrating -- phone calls leaves me with two contradictory impressions: either no one really does this work, or the ones who do are swamped. Finally, I hear from Eric, who says he'll be happy to check out my roof, in about a week, when he's in the vicinity, but needs at least one "What'd you find out?" reminder from me before he shows up.
"I've never power-washed a roof like yours, and I don't know anyone who does," he reports. "And why not?" I grimace into the phone. "Because it's a cedar shake roof, and I'm afraid we will damage the few shakes left that are in decent condition." It doesn't take a civil engineer to figure out what's coming next: "That roof is in pretty rough shape" -- although underneath it's still high and dry, I think to myself.
Eric agrees to test-wash a small area -- over the carport, to be safe -- but afterward advises that to continue will be risky, useless, and a foolish waste of money. I ask him to bill me for his time and good-faith effort, but he refuses.
At this point, roofers start surfacing like treasure divers -- well, two actually. The first, Brad, is a general contractor acquaintance of my assistant; the second, Mike, comes recommended by a friend, WDS, (also a neighbor, but obviously not the next-door one) for whom he just completed a job. He also, I later learn, installed a copper roof on my brother's downtown restoration/renovation.
"What you have here," each one separately concludes, "is a very unusual [and expensive, I add, parenthetically] situation, which I have never seen before. Due either to convenience, frugality, or outright fraud, your cedar shakes were nailed directly atop an existing shingle roof, which has possibly added to their life in spite of obvious deterioration, but which means both the cedar shakes and the shingles will have to be removed when you decide to put on a new roof."
"And just when will that be necessary -- since I'm not seeing any leaks now?" I pose to each of them. Apparently, roof assessment, like medicine, is an inexact science, as I am gently informed that "I've seen roofs like this last one year, three years, or five years. There's just no way of knowing."
Two things are known. First, "No one around here uses cedar shakes anymore [which were my mother's love, thirty years ago]," says Mike. "They are designed for climates where the temperature remains fairly constant [that is, doesn't drop from fifty degrees to zero in a matter of hours]. There used to be a chemical preservative we could treat them with, but Big Brother, in his ultimate wisdom, outlawed it." Second, stripping off two roofs and laying a third on the square footage of this house won't be cheap.
Mike piques my interest. He's youthful, slender, soft-spoken, wears thick black-framed glasses underneath a crew-cut, and looks about as much like a roofer as I do. When I ask him how he got into this line of work, he says his father sent him up a ladder when he was sixteen, and he hasn't come down since, except for a few years doing maintenance at a local industrial plant, which he gave up because "I didn't like being inside . . . Sometimes it's rough out here," he adds with the insight of a rustic philosopher, "but it's a living." I have nothing against Brad, but Mike's understated authenticity and hands-on attitude boosts my comfort level -- plus he's a couple of hundred dollars less.
But, considering what I've just spent on a new fence and gallons of paint, I see no harm in waiting a year or so, even though, as he says, he won't be able to guarantee his price.
With that matter resolved, fate, or blind luck, intervenes. Other than Sundays, I rarely stay at home, and either camp out in my windowless cave at Schewel headquarters or motor to the far reaches of its mini-empire to rattle the nerves of some unsuspecting store manager. On this particular weekday, however, to avoid distraction and enjoy the natural light, I've planted myself at my kitchen table to put the finishing touches on a handwritten draft of a recent blog. (It must have been the one entitled "Who Killed Mary Phagan?) Suddenly, about mid-morning, the sky darkens, a clap of thunder explodes, and the heavens unleash a brief but ferocious downpour.
Within minutes the pounding on my roof subsides, returning me to the state of blessed silence so necessary to my concentration, but not for long; before I can even put pen to paper, I am disconcerted by a mysterious sound stalking me from the rear -- a metronomic ticking that is certainly no clock but more like the telltale echo of water dripping. Yes, just days after I have perished the thought, I have sprung a leak, right in my dining room, where two months hence a gaggle of guests will be sampling lamb chops and oysters at a holiday soiree. I dash down to the basement, scrounge up a plastic pail, and rush back to the scene of the crime to prevent any further damage.
The incident is more of a serendipitous warning than a rising tide. I collect just enough precipitation to dilute a full shot of Scotch whiskey -- and to send me scurrying to my cell phone for a desperation shout out: "When can you start?"
"In about a week," says Mike, which gives me enough time to seek the advice of JSG's designer friend PSW regarding the barkwood architectural shingles which I select as most closely resembling my current cedar shakes. But PSW's gone to Arizona, and I'm too impatient to wait for her return. "But you don't want to make a mistake and ruin the appearance and value of your house," warns JSG, to which I make the stinging riposte, "The only thing thing that's going to ruin this house is another severe thunderstorm."
Thus every morning for the next ten days I awaken to the stomping of footsteps overhead. On my way out the door I am amazed by what I see -- men crawling on all fours like spiders, standing precariously on steep inclines, sweeping away bushels of refuse, hoisting heavy pallets, and tearing up thousands of shakes, shingles, and deeply-seated nails, a much more laborious process than Mike bargained for, he says, giving me a technical explanation which is incomprehensible.
Roofing must be as mentally taxing as it is strenuous, I gather, when I hear outside my bedroom window shouts and curses indicating that some violent altercation is occurring. When I later inquire as to its cause, I'm told that "Mike had to fire his nephew because he wouldn't follow orders," which should serve as a lesson to us all: Don't hire family members.
Mike chafes at the interruption of his schedule when a few scattered showers blow in -- "I know you want us out of here, and so do I," he says -- but I enlighten him with the witticism that "If it never rained, I wouldn't need a roof." I take advantage of the lull to recruit his experienced aerialists to change a couple of lofty light bulbs.
Mike startles me with this sobering tidbit. "Your neighbor [from across the street, not next door] stopped by and asked if we were putting a third cedar shake roof on this house." Well, of course not. But when was the second one put on? He casts a quizzical look my way, and all I can do is shrug my shoulders, reach back into the deep recesses of my memory bank, and extract some vague recollection of my ex-wife telling me sometime within the last twenty years that we needed a new roof. I must have slept through the all the noise, because, I swear, I never saw it.
My state-of-the-art Hyundai Genesis (circa 2009) has a low tire pressure alert, and after three worrisome refills, I take it in for an inspection. There's a nail embedded in the outer edge where a patch probably won't hold, forcing me to order a flashy, oversize, exorbitant replacement. It's a roof nail, I find out when I ask the mechanic, having heard from a friend that roofers -- even using large, powerful magnets -- never round up every last one of these treacherous critters. Confronted by this deflating revelation, Mike equivocates, then agrees to deduct my out-of-pocket from his bill. But when it's time to settle up, I just don't have the heart to hold him to it. He's done a great job. Who needs the $$$ more, he or I? And from the looks of that tire, I likely would have had to replace it soon anyway.
With my exterior now looking as spiffy as a Medicare enrollee in a tuxedo, it's time to address some internal affairs. With two of my upstairs bedrooms having been converted respectively into a tv den and office (in name only, since my computer hard drive died and I haven't replaced it), sleeping space is at premium when my children and their spouses/significant others swoop in for a brief nesting, usually over Thanksgiving. The overflow is dispatched to the basement, where a small bedroom, adjacent bath, and private exit once served as temporary lodging for a late '50's live-in maid -- and later for any adolescent who wanted to come and go without parental scrutiny.
"What's this?" exclaims my younger son, as he beckons me to examine a built-in closet, in which the cedar lining is puckered and grossly stained. It feels damp, as does the outside wall and adjoining carpet. "There's a terrible odor down here. You need to buy a dehumidifier," pronounces his older sibling, and then proceeds to instruct me on how to hook up a pump and water line to keep it sucking up moisture without interruption. (Just finding one is enough trouble, at Home Depot, after Schewels and Lowe's are sold out). "You had better get that place fumigated before someone dies," warns my stepdaughter, who leaves a trail of cigarette butts in her wake.
Thus another roll of the dice introduces me to Neil, a professorial contamination diagnostician who in former times would extract pen, pad, and tape measure from his plastic pocket protector but today scribbles on an i-pad, zaps inner space with a laser beam, dictates dimensions into an i-phone, and inserts needles into wallboard like a nurse drawing blood. He's very helpful, really. Besides devising a plan of attack, he shows me where the water might be coming in and suggests that a slotted drain line, some gutter repair, and elevating the ground level should correct the problem.
I'm a little wary of his technicians when they show up with their gas masks, hazmat suits, quarantine tents, and toxin-filled canisters, but it's all over and done in a day, except for the minor wreckage they leave behind. In order to exterminate the nasty culprit, they had to tear out all the paneling in the closet and a small section in the room itself, which means I've got to track down a reliable handyman.
JSG knows Marc the carpenter (besides the Furniture Marc) -- an affable New Jerseyan who fled south with his family for warmth, hospitality, and opportunity -- and Marc knows Roy the painter, who sounds like a Virginia native. I guess I could have recalled Phillip, but since this appears to be a package deal I don't want to spoil the chemistry. I wince at the price, but what choice do I have? I've got company coming, and I need to get my house back together.
All this home improvement has swelled my own pride, and opened my eyes to the tiniest blemish. I've got Roy right where I want him -- and vice versa. "Come here, Roy," I say. "There's some painted wallpaper peeling in this powder room. Can you fix that? And look at this basement door. Do you see where the veneer is cracking right underneath the window? Can you do anything about that? And the paint has rubbed off the edge of this kitchen door. How about a few brush strokes to cover that up? And I've got two rusted iron and wood-slatted benches on the front and back porches. JSG says if we paint them black, they'll look like new."
I'm ready to lay in the final piece of the puzzle. I'm not sure if the kitchen range in that house has ever been replaced in the twenty-five years I've lived there. But why should I care? I don't cook, and even if the markings on the oven dials are so eroded one can only guess at the temperature and the door is so sprung I have to prop it closed with a dining chair, I can still boil rice and bake a frozen pizza to perfection. But when my wonderful caterer will no longer credit my lame excuse that forty-inch models are hard to find ("Aren't you in the furniture business?" she says) and threatens to boycott my holiday party, I surrender to her benign blackmail and order one. I love the digital timer, but scorch a pot of soup because the burner heats up so fast.
Believe it or not, all this happened in a whirlwind sixty days. And if I had to write several painfully bloated checks, I can console myself with three compensating thoughts: I invigorated the local economy; I put bread (or beer) on the tables of more than a dozen manual laborers; and I will save myself thousands of dollars in home improvement -- next year.
