Old house's charms require constant touch-up

The best thing about being a homeowner is the exercise you get throwing fistfuls of money at repairs.

Much like humans, the moment a house is created it starts to fall apart; slowly at first, and then later as if falling apart is the one thing in which it takes joy.

My house is in its 80's, and if falling apart were a sport, it would be in the Senior Olympics.

Last year we endured the sewer line under the house cracking up as spectacularly as that "agony of defeat" skier they used to show on "Wide World of Sports," except exponentially stinkier.

Now the basement door has rotted out, which is the nature of wooden things which sit outside for 40 years. That's just science.

The door sits parallel to the ground, because I guess the previous owner who built it said to himself, "Now, how can I catch what little rain we get in Southern Cal on a horizontal surface, to make sure none of it runs off?"

Like my confidence in government, my confidence in the water-repelling qualities of latex paint has eroded as I have aged.

The door is made of plywood and heavy 2x4's, and lifting it off the ground has always required the emitting of grunts you generally only hear from Eastern Bloc Olympic weightlifters. The ladies, I mean.

I researched hardy, lightweight polyethylene plastic doors and aluminum doors, but the day I spend a thousand bucks on a door for a part of the house I don't even use is the day you will see me strip naked, strap bacon to myself and run through a Doberman rescue.

What I mean is: you will not see that.

So I bought some fresh plywood and some 2x3's, to rebuild it lighter, got some leftover house paint, and saved myself about $950. I have considered, for many years, building a pulley and counter-weight system which would make raising the door easy, but I have put it off because it would require research and effort, two things I find easier to procrastinate than any two other things you could name.

Now that the basement is secured against skunks (long story), I can almost hear the house pondering plans for its next calamity. The roof? The plumbing?

 An old house is a leaky rowboat. You never quite stop bailing, but it's worth it. After all, you cannot put a price on charm, especially after you have spent so much time redefining it.

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Wednesday Wa Pic - a little Renaissance Faire color

 

 Fair(e) warning.

Emerging cicada becomes guest columnist

I have been waiting 17 years to say this: get me to an IN-N-OUT! I have been underground sucking on tree roots my whole life. Who's got a car? Burger me!

Wait, let me introduce myself. I am a cicada. I am part of that "brood" which is emerging from underground in North Carolina this month, and I have only a week to live, so make it a Double-Double!

George has graciously allowed me to write his column this week. I am sure you have questions. Let me hit the highlights.

Yes, I hatched from an egg in a tree in 1996, dropped to the ground, burrowed in and lived off tree-root juice for the last 17 years.

Yes, that did pretty much suck.

No, I do not have a stinger and no, I do not eat your crops.

Yes, I do have red bulbous eyes which will haunt your dreams tonight.

Yes, I do have a good sense of humor for someone so short-lived.

No, I cannot play "Popcorn" on my abdominal tymbals.

Yes, spittle bugs and jumping plant lice are my cousins.

Yes, technically, I could still marry them.

Yes, since there are often a million of us cicadas per acre after we hatch, privacy during mating is not an expectation.

No, I am not an exhibitionist, just a realist.

Yes, when I emerge from the ground I am called a "nymph." We all are. Go ahead. Make a crack.

Yes, we only live about a month after emerging, just long enough to make a lot of noise, mate and then kick off. Kinda like humans.

Yes, I have a favorite cicada joke: "Cicada, cicahda, tomata, tomahta, let's call the whole...oops, I'm dead already."

Yes, that is a little dark.

Yes, male cicadas make the most noise by far, and it's all mating calls. That wall of sound you hear is the cicada equivalent of a football stadium of guys all shouting "Hey, baby, hey, baby, hey, baby" at the top of their voices. It can be more than 100 decibels, louder than a jackhammer and, frankly, 10 times as sexy.

How do millions of us know to emerge at the same time after 17 years? We text.

Yes, I've got about a week to live still. I've been to the French Quarter, Vegas, the Grand Canyon. Excuse me, I'm getting that burger now. Hey...bucket list, you know?

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Wednesday Wa Pic - Clothes make the gal

 If the universe were fair-minded, this would be right next door to Dapper Chap.

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Firstborn turning 16 brings forth memories

1997

My baby turns Sweet 16 today.

When she was born, I bought a diary in which to collect all the insights I expected to have about fatherhood. I discovered the book, blank, years later and threw it away, because one does not need physical reminders of one's unfulfilled ambitions when one already has family members who know them by heart.

What I did do, faithfully, was write down the cute things the kid has said over the years. Here are a few.

(Non-parents may go outside for a few minutes and smoke. Or text.)

When she was three, and her brother was born, she asked, "Dad, how come when people have baby brothers they're still the way they were?"  (I think from all of our prompting during the pregnancy, once he was born she expected to suddenly, literally, be a BIG sister.)

When she was four, I was searching for her lost paint brushes everywhere, to no avail. She chimed in with helpful advice which sounded strangely familiar: "Where did you last have them?" she asked, followed by "Retrace your steps."

One day driving her home from kindergarten, she asked if we could stop for a milk shake. "No," I said. "Dad," she asked, "why are you always so naked in your mind?" "What does that mean?" I asked, laughing. "It means, why do you always say NO?"

For a fourth grade paper on Thanksgiving, she wrote "I think I love Thanksgiving more than any other thankful holiday."

On her 12th birthday, I made her French toast for breakfast. A week later it was my own birthday.

"Dad, is it your birthday?" she asked.

"Yes, actually, it is," I said, expecting her to whip out some sort of adorable handmade gift.

"Then," she smiled, "can you make French toast for yourself...and us?"

In high school I learned the lyrics to "Sunrise, Sunset," lyrics which, I think, strike a chord with every parent eventually: "When did she get to be a beauty? / When did he grow to be so tall? / Wasn't it yesterday when they were small?"

I realize now that a diary is too small a vessel to hold the things a parent learns, mostly about himself. And I know one thing for sure—if the next 16 years go as fast as the last 16, I'd better respond to those AARP membership offers I've been getting immediately.

2013

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