Satisfaction in a House

I'm lucky this year. Two of the houses I'm working on are actually going to be occupied by the clients I'm working for. I live in a resort area, so most of my work goes into rental programs. It's work, but that's all, it pays the bills.

This year, I'm doing one remodel for a guy who actually live in the place full time. We've transformed his pretty ridiculous, bullshit contemporary man cave into a passable living space. The fact that it is ocean front doesn't hurt. But, he's failed to recognize that the client is a player in the build, been slow to make decisions, when he made them at all, and is not too happy with the project.

The other project is a summer residence for the family of a successful couple. They seem like typical upper-middle-class Americans. But, they are really nice, polite, engaged, and excited. Their deadline is a little tight, ok, it's completely unreasonable. But, I like them, and I want to make their dreams come true. And, in fact, that is what we are doing. They bought a neglected house. They want it to be transformed into a summer getaway that they can really enjoy.

I turned the corner today. I've been let down by my flooring contractor, they've complicated a schedule that didn't need to be complicate, but this is life. The tile showers are not finished. They won't be finished in time for the cleaners to do their work. But, on Friday, I will be there, I will tie up the loose ends, and the clients will arrive. Hopefully, I'll be home with my family when they arrive. IF I'm not, they will tell me to go home, because they have kids, and respect that I have a wife and child.

Today, though, as I was sweeping, I realized something. I love that moment. When, the pandemonium of meeting a deadline is all around me, but I can sweep a floor, or wipe down a bathroom. Or, have the appliaces running, for the first time. It may not be perfect, but it will be done. It will be painted, the materials will have been placed, by talented craftsmen. The clients will have questions, concerns, requests, and I will gladly accomidate, because they will be content. They will be impressed. They will be proud of the decision to rennovate.

Remodeling is a huge pain in the ass, but. . . There is something magical about that swept but not yet mopped wood floor. The immaculate kitchen hiding under the thin veil of contractor detritus. As much as I hate to admit it. There is even something magical about the last time I move that pile of personal belongings that was not important enough to remove, and will probably be discarded, for the last time. I'll stack it neatly in the corner of a bedroom, and be glad to be rid of it, but be so happy to have the house organized.

At the end, I can see some value in what I do. Bringing something to a conclusion. So much of what we value today occupies the realm of ideas, or services. At the end of a job, I'm happy to have created something. It's not art, but it is craft, and I find that satisfying.

Fortunately, while scrambling to finish this job, I've been starting another. Today was little hectic as rain threatened all day while I tried to will an addition's shingles to completion. I lucked out, it's dried in, and the rest is details, and soon, I'll be sweeping those floors. It's another summer home. A hard won summer home, after decades of rentals, hard work, and hard won retirement. These clients are intense, but would really like to have their house ready for their daughters wedding. I'd really like to make that happen.

Opinion Interlude

I don't pretend to know any key details about Elana Kagan's jurisprudence. I do know one thing though. The bleeding heart Liberals (among who's company I count myself), and the Elitist Conservatives are both bitching about her. Right on. confirm her.

I am two levels of commitment short of a radical environmentalism. I support gays and pretty much everyone else doing exactly what they want, as long as it doesn't infringe on others. And I'm not talking about others' feelings. I mean their Rights. I think Republicans are pussies because they don't have the stones to become Libertarians (a group that really might be able to check the Left). I think Democrats are pussies, just because they are.

However, the judiciary has to be moderate. No matter what. The Supreme Court should be made up of nine moderates. The fastest way to affect that is nominating moderates. You cannot balance a court of nine with an equation of extremists. I'm no mathematician, but I cannot divide nine evenly. Obama has done the right thing. If the talking heads are right about Kagen, she's perfect. Sign her up.

Changing the subject....

The only thing good about the loss of a deep sea drilling rig, and the lives of eleven human beings, and the tragedy of millions of gallons of oil wrecking the Gulf Coast, is that the sacrifice might give us pause. We must stop drilling!! And we must reduce our dependence on any oil, not just foreign oil. BP will pay big money for this spill. But they will never be accountable for all of the damage, because even if we drove them out of business, they can't pay the tab! The fact is we owe the tab, because we drive cars. We've created the demand that makes this kind of drilling feasible. So, if the Senate wants BP, Trans Ocean, and Haliberton to take a bath, we've gotta jump in with them. We probably won't, and they probably won't, and we'll prolong the inevitable, like the Greeks. Ask them how that's going.

We have got to change our lifestyle. A few Priuses and some rain barrels are not going to do it. Not only are we soiling our nest. People are dying. People are dying!! Miners in West Virginia, drillers in the Gulf. The pelicans, marshes, beaches, and seafood are a tragedy. The loss of life is unacceptable, even by Conservative standards.

The Greek Prime Minister stands no chance of being reelected after demanding that his people pull their heads out of the sand, or their asses. No American politician will be reelected either, if they do what any sensible person knows is right. If we keep demanding that everyone else make the sacrifices but us, we will make no progress. And slowly, suffocating in figurative spilled oil, or quickly in a figurative explosion, we will be gone.

Sailing Builds Character. . .

. . . which means, inevitably, that sometimes, it's not exactly fun.

This past weekend's voyage fell into the less fun category. During the week we made a lovely evening sortie to watch the Colington fleet go out for their weekly Wednesday night regatta. There was a slight wind chop, but Grandma Cindy was down from NY and the weather was absolutely great, so it turned out to be a nice little outing. Riding high on this success, I wanted to take Cindy and the regular crew (Quinn and Deanna)out for a Saturday afternoon sail.

I shouldn't have pushed my luck! Sunday was breezy, so I elected to move the outing to a sheltered area between Colington Island, and Kill Devil Hills. There's a sweet little dive called the Blue Crab Tavern on Colington Road. They've got a great little deck, and cheap canned beer, and a sweet dock. It took about thirty minutes (never mind the passing squall cruising over the boat ramp we'd just left)to beam reach to the Blue Crab from Avalon Beach's ramp. That is, we were in the vicinity of the Blue Crab. To access the Blue Crab's dock we needed to head dead down wind.

The Quinn Anne's Revenge is a capable boat, but no Sparkman and Stephens. Grandma Cindy and Quinn were in the cabin keeping out of the building wind. Deanna was forward in the cockpit, and as we began to sail wing-on-wing down the narrow slot to dock at the Crab, I realized that the combination of stiff breeze, forward mast, forward passenger configuration, and bad luck dictated that I had about zero steerage. Right as Deanna was asking what you call it when the jib and the main are on opposite sides of the boat, we began careening towards a makeshift pvc channel mark. Somehow, before the boom came crashing to across the QAR, the rudder caught, the boom slammed back into original position, and the careening started anew.

Keep in mind, my primary motivation is this: to go sailing again. Gone are the days of, adolescent boy scaring adolescent girlfriend. This is my wife, daughter, and mother-in-law. Continuing to sail dictates that these trips must be pleasant! In a flurry of activity, I decided that dead down wind with not steerage, in building unstable air was not going to help me reach my goal. The sails had to come down. This meant loosing two halyards, furling a jib, and acting like everything was totally cool about me dropping the tiller and less than gracefully executing these maneuvers, as we drifted aground.

Dear wife asked some questions as I bounded around the cockpit. I'm not sure I would say I handled them delicately, but I'm sure my gasping helped me to sound sincere. All the while Quinn dozed in her hammock, and I'm not sure Cindy was aware that potential disaster was upon us, until after it had been averted. We motored gracefully along side the Blue Crab's deck, disembarked and ordered beers.

Quinn was still in an outstanding mood, and Deanna and her mom seemed really happy the worst was over. As I sipped my Busch Light, I tried to hide the fact that I feared the worst was just beginning. Ironically, leaving the Blue Crab meant going further from our actual home to return to the trailer and truck. I'm sure Deanna knew that something was up when I suggested that one beer was probably plenty and we should head back.

The squall had long passed, leaving behind dropping temps and rapidly increasing North Westerly breezes. Actually, by the time we motored out of the small creek and into open water, it wasn't a breeze, it was wind. I didn't want to press my luck. The wind was dead on the nose. I knew tacking off the wind would be more comfortable than beating into it with our little 4.5 horse outboard, but I also knew we'd heal pretty hard. Now, in a hard chined day sailor, healing means headway. My hunch is that the Revenge's Dagger boards are pretty useless compared to a sixteen foot hull side of essentially vertical plywood. Especially when you can bury a third of the gunwale in the drink. But, testing this theory would have usurped my ultimate goal . . . sailing again.

So, I stared into uncertain adult faces, and one pretty happy infant, and motored into rising chop for what seemed like an eternity. It probably only took thirty minutes, but it seemed like forever. I'm sure my fear that the engine would crap out at any moment was hidden from mother-in-law by my "aw shucks grin" and casual conversation. But Deanna saw right through it. She told me so. Once we got in of course.

We made it in, and there is not permanent damage to crew or craft. As soon as we got Quinn in her car seat, she began to howl. That's my girl!

Once home Deanna offered a conciliatory hug or six, and began peppering me with questions about sailboat design, and what exactly these old boats are capable of.

I was once hiking with some kids on a Summer Camp trip. We were all miserable, hot, and I think it was raining, and they whined about why I was putting them through this punishment. "Because it builds character," I said. They knew I was right. Because, they knew how to walk. Trudging through the woods with kids that know how to walk, carrying a familiar heavy bag, full of stuff they packed builds character. Sailing in tiny creeks in unstable air, and crossing huge oceans in gales builds character too. It builds character in those who have learned to sail; those who know their craft, and are testing themselves.

For those who've been dragged into it by their partners and friends, and who aren't exactly sure how all of the forces acting on them are working in concert. It may build trust, if everything turns out alright. But, it can destroy it just as fast.

I take my greatest lesson from my new daughter this week. Things can be on the verge of going terribly wrong, but until they do, they are still going right. And that is something to smile about! This is what my compatriot looks like while sailing:

First Family Voyage

The winds were 15 to 20 mph out of the south southwest. Baby Quinn is the proud new owner of an infant pfd. Coastguard approved, mind you. I sort of view that as a tacit acceptance of what I'm doing.

We spent the weekend in Gloucester with the parents, looking at another boat that we shouldn't buy for a year or so. In fact, it was the perfect boat. Manageable, but seaworthy, roomy, but compact. Well built and well maintained. Oddly, the usual mental conflict associated with boat shopping all melted away on the water this afternoon. The Quinn Anne's Revenge is enough for now.

As we left breakfast this morning with friends, it was 85 degrees and windy in Newport News. It seemed like a great day to go sailing. Or, at least what I used to consider a great day to go sailing. My neck was sore, Quinn was mildly fussy, and Deanna had a lot of billing to get done before any fun could be had. I had a pretty desperate bathroom that needed to be cleaned as soon as we got home too.

Billing was done, bathroom was clean and Quinn was even more unhappy. We were an hour and a half behind our target departure time, and still we pressed on. It was worth it. By six Quinn was on the boat in her new hammock, Deanna and Tiza ( the dog ) sat somewhat apprehensively in the cockpit as I backed the boat into the water. The outboard stared right up. I parked the truck and we were off.

This was our first true family cruise. No extra crew. Family and boat performed well in spite being short-handed. We sailed around the harbor and watched the larger boats come in from what had to be a nice afternoon cruise on the Sound. In the parking lot we stepped the mast, packaged her up, and enjoyed sandwiches and beers as the sun set. Quinn was in great mood on the boat. She snoozed in the hammock for the first half of the cruise and sat in Deanna's lap looking around for the second half. The Quinn Anne's Revenge truly is plenty of boat for right now.