A heartfelt celebration . . .

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

As Ma Ingalls in the Little House on the Prairie books would have said, quoting Shakespeare, "All's well that ends well," after a near disaster was averted. As it was with our well. It was just plain ol' bad timing that it decided to give up the ghost right after the deck guy left, and while I was plowing through my weekly laundry. It was no one's fault, nothing was damaged, and no one was maimed or killed. It's one of those things that I'd never given one thought to until yesterday. However, now that I've since mentioned it to a few people at work, and then to my neighbor, who saw the big crane in our front yard, I've heard horror stories of wells and pumps and digging up whole yards, and $10,000 repair bills and pumps going out consecutive years. Kinda like pregnancy, people are compelled by mysterious force to share the worst stories possible. So, in the grand scheme of things, it's not unusual, and our situation was quite mild. Just a shock to us city folk. It set us back $1800 (there goes that tax return), but, as Mr. Vadnais said, "Just remember–you haven't had to pay for city water for four years. It all kind of evens out, really." Yeah, sort of, but it is a little harder to stomach when you get slammed at once. If we're lucky, we won't have to think about it again for another decade or so.

We thought it was rather coincidental that our well pump gave out on the two-year anniversary of Bob's heart attack. In a lovely act of serendipity, I ended up with a few cancellations at the end of my day, so I called him on my way home to tell him we're going out to dinner, in celebration his heart attack. He replied, "Is it irony that the well pump went out on the same day that my heart did? Or is that just strange coincidence?" We should consult Alanis Morissett. "By the way," he told me, "we have water again, so we should celebrate that, too."

When I got home, I did a quick workout and then took the longest, hottest, most indulgent shower I've had in a long time. I soaped up good, covering myself head to toe in bubbles, then stood under the spray and let the near scalding water run all over me, sending the bubbles sliding down my skin, twirling down the drain. It felt so good, I contemplating not showering for a few days on a regular basis, just to revel again in the decadence of an act that is taken for granted. 

I emerged from the steamy shower all pink and squeaky clean and quickly dried off. I was getting dressed when Bob came into the bedroom and announced he wanted to go to Marx Wine Bar and Grill in downtown Stillwater, for a big ol' steak. Oh great . . . is it a wine bar or grill? Do I dress up or go casual? Heels or flats? Hair down or pony tail? 

After several agonizing minutes and more than several costume changes later, I decided on jeans and hair down, and to do the driving, in case Bob wanted to knock a few back, in honor of his special day. We started talking, as we do now and then, about that fateful night, two years ago, when he woke me up at 2 am, moaning and writhing in bed beside me. Not knowing he was having a heart attack, but knowing something was seriously wrong, I drove him to the hospital. There are times when I stop and think about that event and am nearly brought to my knees in wonder and amazement that we got through it. And now, it is two years later, and he is as healthy as anyone could ever be. In fact, he had a doctor's appointment and an EKG a month or so ago, and his doc said that it was the first time he'd ever seen an EKG result where he would not have been able to tell that the patient had had a heart attack. Amazing.

As we headed down the road to town, I decided, for old time's sake, to retrace the route I took to Lakeview Hospital that fateful evening. Along the way, we talked, sometimes laughed, at the events that transpired that fateful evening that at once seems like eons ago, yet is still so raw in my memory. Bob questioned, as he has numerous times, my twisted emergency logic–speeding like a demon along the dark, winding back roads of Washington County, which seemed, to him, to be the long way to the ER. At the time, I was thinking that this route had the least stoplights/signs, and I wanted to make as many right turns as I could to save time, like the UPS drivers I'd read about. Yes, thoughts of UPS driving techniques were going through my mind at 2 a.m., in a mad race to get Bob to the hospital. You just never know how you'll react in a major crisis till you're actually in the heart of it (pun intended). That whole story may be a blog for another time . . .

We arrived downtown Stillwater about 12 minutes later. I found a parking spot on Main Street, just across from the Marx's. The moment we stepped foot in the restaurant, I wished I had worn black pants and my hair up. We'd only been to Marx's once before, several years ago, and I'd forgotten how hip and urban it was (it is, after all, a fusion bistro)—with ocean blue and lime green walls, golden pendant lights dripping from the ceiling, and eclectic, vibrant jolts of red, yellow, green throughout the decor, it feels more uptown Minneapolis than downtown Stillwater. Looking around at the surprisingly crowded dining room (for a Tuesday evening), however, I am reminded that we are still in a small, rural river village. There is a blend of young, old, chic, trendy, casual and downright sloppy patrons sprinkled throughout the joint. I'm okay. 

The whole experience at Marx's was simply wonderful. Our server offered just the right mix of pleasantries, knowledge and attentiveness. The ambiance is relaxing, providing good people watching as well as the ability to have a conversation without resorting to shouting, or resigning to smiling and nodding. Bob began with a G-Funny martini (didn't think about it then, but now wish we would have asked what the hell that name meant)—Bombay Sapphire gin, splash of vermouth and garnished with a lime twist and gorgonzola-stuffed olives. I ordered a glass of Willamette Valley Vineyards Pinot Gris. I found it curious that Bob's drink, basically straight alcohol, came in a crazy, crooked-stemmed martini glass that was a major balancing act to hold stead while sober; had to be nearly impossible once the effects of the booze kick in. Oh well, not my tablecloth. My wine was a lovely, refreshingly light and peachy-honeyed little number, perfect for a warm spring evening.

We went whole hog, ordering an appetizer, a salad to split and entrees for each. Our meal began with King Crab teriyaki with dabs of fried banana, wasabi, lime pulp and sweet potato mash dotting the plate. It was a work of art to behold and to taste, a cacophony of flavors and colors. A dab of each flavor on the fork before popping into the mouth yielded a fabulous blend of sweet, spicy, tart, mellow and suddenly—BAM!—wasabi shooting through the nose. We nearly licked the plate clean before the spinach and endive salad arrived, with thin slices green apples, jicama and strawberries, tossed in a black pepper-vanilla bean vinaigrette—light and simple, the subtle yet discernible pepper and vanilla notes in the vinaigrette played off the fruit beautifully. It was huge—more than enough for two people, especially since we'd ordered the appetizer and entrees.

As we were waiting for our entrees, two men set up shop in the front corner of the restaurant, near the bar. A surprise addition to our dining experience—live music! Their voices and guitars began weaving their way through the dining room, playing anything from oldies but goodies of Bob Marley, Simon and Garfunkle, SRV, and Bob Dylan to the current croonings of Jason Mraz and Jack Johnson. Even a few Johnny Cash and Guns 'n' Roses thrown in the mix, for good measure. The music, like the food, was eclectic and unpredictable, yet so thoroughly enjoyable. 

We waited quite a while for our entrees to arrive—the only complaint we'd have, if we were hog-tied, pistol-whipped and forced to complain (which, thankfully, we weren't). I loved the leisurely pace of the meal and was content as all get out to wavering between listening to the music, people watching and talking to my husband about everything and nothing. When our meals finally came, we both agreed they were worth the wait. Bob, in a bold and defiant, thumbing-his-nose-at-heart-attacks move, ordered the grilled Angus Sirloin, with Guinness beer glaze, bacon, roasted shallots and home fried onion rings (he might as well have ordered it with a pound of butter on the side), accompanied by the cutest little baby hamburger about the size of a golf ball tucked in, almost as though someone in the kitchen thought, "This plate could really use a little more protein." I had the nightly special - ahi tuna with soba noodles and veggies, topped with a cute little salmon sushi roll, another, kind of random, Lucky Strike Extra. My tuna was melt-in-my mouth goodness, the accompanying noodles and veggies providing a symphony of flavors to enhance the mild fish—ginger, garlic, exotic spices—there was so much going on, on my plate that a novice foodie like me cannot do it justice. All I know is that, despite the chaos of flavors, it all worked. Beautifully.

My food was perfect—just the right sizes to feel sated but not stuffed. Which was my downfall when our server came and asked if we wanted to see the desert menu. Bob said, "Skip the menu. I have just one question," looking at me, smiling. "Do you have creme brulee?" Our server said, "We do offer a dark chocolate creme brulee." Damn. "Let's do it," I said. "I've never had chocolate creme brulee. And a coffee, please." Our dessert arrived shortly after, garnished with fat raspberries. It was nice, especially accompanied by the rich, flavorful coffee, but I must admit, I'm a creme brulee purist. The chocolate twist was interesting, and there's no denying that I pretty much licked the ramekin clean, right there in front of God and everyone, but given a choice, my heart lies with the pure, creamy goodness of a plain ol' unadulterated creme brulee. Sweet, slightly burnt crusty sugary top with pale yellow, creamy, custard beneath. It's supposed to be cool throughout, but I love it when the edges are cool and firm, but the center still slightly warm (not runny) from the hot water bath . . . something about the subtle blend of warm and cool, soft and firm, all together under a crispy sugary lid that just does me in. The chocolate version seemed more dense, less custardy, almost more sponge cake-like. But, as I like to say (and Bob just cringes when I do say it, especially in mixed company): creme brulee is like sex. Even a bad one is pretty damn good.

Well, well, well . . .

Tuesday, April 21

I'm wallowing in my own filth this morning, not having showered since Sunday. You don't realize just how much you depend on the simple act of turning on the faucet or flushing a toilet until you can't. Well, I'll just make salads tonight for dinner . . . take some greens out, rinse 'em—oh, wait, I can't do that. Cook some chicken, get chicken juice on my hands, turn to the sink to wash them.  Great—can't do that either. Use the john, and then remember that not only can I not wash my hands, but I can't flush either. It's beginning to smell like an outhouse in here. I spray the bathroom with a cloud of air freshener. Gag. The only thing worse than the odor of stagnant body waste is potpourri scented body waste. 

At about 8:30, a big truck appears in the driveway, with Paul Vadnais and Sons lettered on the side. Two men get out—Paul Vadnais with just one son—and wander around the front yard, eyeballing my rock garden, the big birch tree, the well head. I go out to meet them, and ask if they need anything.

"Nope, we should be able to back the truck in just fine. On second thought," Mr. Vadnais says, looking up at the beautiful birch in the front yard that has already sacrificed a limb for this emergency, "We might need a ladder and saw, in case we need to take down another branch to make room for the crane." I head to the garage to find the ladder and saw Bob had used last night, wondering how much of my tree and bank account will be left when these guys are finished.

If I didn't know squat about wells and pumps before, I certainly do now, thanks to the crash course I received from Mr. Vadnais this morning. Vadnais and Son remind me of the father-son duo on Orange County Choppers, on TLC. The father is clearly an expert in his field, explaining to me in layman's term, what is potentially wrong with our well pump, and what they need to do to get at it and replace it. His son interjects much more technical, yet useless information over his dad's shoulder, as though trying to one-up him with his newly acquired technical college education. Mr. Vadnais finally shoots his son a look that says, "Shut the hell up, or I'll clock ya right here in front of this nice lady." Later, when Mr. Vadnais gets in his truck and begins the complicated, backward maneuvering required to get his beast of a vehicle over the walkway, around the rock garden and into the front yard, I hear him shout out the window, "Get your goddamn hands out of your pockets and show me where to go!' I go inside, leaving father and son to duke it out in the front yard.

After maybe an hour or so, curiosity gets the better of me, so I head back outside to see the progress. They weren't kidding about a crane—it reaches high into the branches of the towering birch. Thankfully, no more limbs had to be sawed off. On the ground lay maybe 10-12 metal pipes (another tidbit I later find out is that each pipe is 20 feet long, they connect the house to the well pump, which is deep in the ground at the water level, which is 220 feet below the surface of the ground). In my garden, lying atop what used to be sprouting chives, is a long, thin, rusty torpedo-like object. "Is that little thing the pump that draws life-giving water into our house?" I ask? "Yup," says Son Vadnais. "It's not big, but feel how heavy it is—must be at least 50 pounds. It's pretty dang powerful." He hoists it up by some dangling wires. I take it from him and nearly drop it on his toes. 

"Well," Mr. Vadnais walks over to me. "Your pump did go out. I had to get it up to find out what kind it is, so I could call my wife to bring out a replacement. She should be here within the hour, then installing it shouldn't take too long—as long as that's the only thing we have to deal with." Again, a crack of lightning and thunder, followed by evil laughter would have been appropriate here.

I asked a few more questions: did our excessive water use burn out the pump? Is there something we should have heard/seen that would have alerted us to a potential problem? Is there some sort of "well maintenance" that we should have been doing to prevent this from happening? Simple answers, "No," "no," and "no." The crushing cloak of guilt immediately dissolved from my shoulders. According to Mr. Vadnais, well pumps should last a good ten years, but because they're subjected to such unpredictable conditions, there is no real warranty on them. A low water level could make it work harder, the pipes leading to the pump could become corroded, the well itself could be damaged in some way. He said he'll know more about our situation once they install the new pump and see how it's working.

"Do you mind if I take a few pictures of this whole thing?" I ask. "I need to document this, because, it is kind of funny in a way, that things always seem to happen like this for us—start a simple project, end up with a disaster on our hands . . ." "No problem,"  Mr. Vadnais says. "If you can't laugh, you'll cry, right?" He gives me a wry smile before turning back to his work. After snapping a few photos, I realize I have to leave for work soon. I ask if it's okay if I take off—Bob should be home in a few hours. "No problem," Mr. Vadnais says. "If he's not here when we're done, I'll leave an invoice for you and you can drop a check in the mail." 

So much for trying to nickel and dime our way through our deck project. Our "bargain" deal has now turned into a nearly four grand ordeal. I have to go to work with two day's worth of stink on me, not knowing if we'll even have water when I return over eight hours later. I'm leaving my house open to two strangers who could pick us clean, leave the pump unfixed . . . if only, if only, if only . . .

One thing leads to another . . .

Monday night, April 20

I was so giddy with excitement at the prospect of a"new" deck, that I failed to recognize the funny sound coming from the washer. After a while, the high-pitched, yet faint wail finally registered in my brain, and I went to investigate. I thought maybe the comforter I'd put in earlier had jammed up the machine (a girl can only hope. I've got my heart set on a front-loader, and have been trying my damnedest to stuff this sucker full very chance I get, so it "breaks" and I can get a new one. Don't tell Bob). But, even after re-arranging the comforter, it still didn't kick in. 

I was pulling the half-soaked comforter out of the washer to hang outside when Bob walked in the door. "There's something wrong with the washer. It's not filling with water," I told him. Without hesitating, he asked, "Do we have water at all?" as he walked over to the sink and flipped the faucet handle. Nothing. What?! No water? Why would he think of that, when I'm the one who's been here all day? This is one of many differences between Bob and me. He possesses a cool logic at all times, while I can be indefinitely clueless (ask my sister about my surprise 40th birthday party. I'm sure I'm the only person on Earth who was truly surprised at a surprise party). Another difference? When a crisis rears its head, I immediately slip into self-flagellation mode: If only I had stuck with my original plans and gone into town to run my errands, none of this would have happened! I shouldn't have been doing laundry when Greg was washing the deck! We used too much water! I sucked our well dry! We're going to die out here! I start wandering aimlessly around the house, wondering what punishment will befall on me, once Bob realizes this is all my fault. Why did I want to refinish the deck, anyway? It looked charmingly rustic, in all its grungy glory. Why didn't I know that this could possibly happen?! If only, if only, if only . . . 

 

Bob, on the other hand, walked to the closet, pulled out the Yellow Pages, and made a few phone calls. When he hung up, he told me that Paul Vadnais and Sons are on their way. "They're one of the few plumbers who specialize in wells. He said it might just be a simple fix with the well tank or the electrical work in the house, or it could be something worse, like the well pump, which is down in the well itself, outside." If only, if only, if only . . . "Why do you think you caused this?" Bob asked. "You couldn't have known this was going to happen. It's probably just bad timing. Anyhow, we'll find out when the well guy gets here." If only I had at least showered this morning—who knows when my next shower will be?

Mr. Vadnais showed up about 45 minutes later, and after checking out all the well-related stuff in the basement, declared, "Well there isn't anything wrong in here. As I suspected, it must be your well pump," and went outside and started taking apart the metal submarine periscope-thingy sticking up in the corner of the front garden. Bob and I watched through the front window.

 

"That's the well?" I asked. If it is, we should replace it with something more attractive, like what Jack 'n' Jill had.

"Yeah, didn't you know that? It's technically the well head, which leads down to the well." Bob replied, as though he's been around wells all his life.

"Since when did you become such an expert on wells?"

"I'm not. I just remember that from the inspection when we bought the house."

"Oh." Why don't I remember things like that?

Mr. Vadnais finally came in from the cold (did I mention that it was overcast, with intermittent rain/sleet, temps hovering around 40 degrees, with a wild wind whipping from what seemed like all directions? In April. No wonder he commands $200 just to come out and take a look). "Well, it appears to be the pump, but I can't do anything right now, because I've gotta get at it first to find out what model it is." He launched into a lengthy, detailed monologue about pumps and wells, and liners and tanks, and voltage and such, which was my clue to casually walk away, leaving Bob to remember the details. All I remember is him saying we wouldn't have water until at least by tomorrow afternoon. That is, if it's only the pump that's the problem. He could have just as well added an evil cackle after that.

Bob and Mr. Vadnais headed outside to figure out how to get a truck and crane backed into our front yard, given that our house is built into the side of a ridge, and surrounded by trees and a rock garden, with no easy access.  Bob came back in and said, "Well, if it's just the pump that went out, and there's nothing else wrong, we're looking at about $1800 to replace it." If only, if only, if only . . . He also told me we need to remove the cute little Chinese cherry bush and take down some big branches off the birch tree, and move all the stuff that we had taken off the deck back onto the deck, to make room for the truck and its crane. "I'll run up to Holiday, and grab a couple gallons of water, too, so we can at least brush our teeth." Sigh. 

Swabbin' the Decks, Part II

Monday, April 20, 2009

Holy flippin' cow! It's amazing what can be done with the right tools, the right products, and just knowing what the hell you're doing. Greg, from Deck Renewal and More has been here all morning, since about 11 a.m., working tirelessly on our deck. He's got a big conversion van, a trailer full of all sorts of gadgets and gizmos, and tools galore. He showed up at the house in what I'd assume to be usual garb for someone in the biz—jeans, overcoat and workboots (it's quite blustery today—maybe only 40-ish, but feels like 20, with the wind) and gave me the lowdown on what he'll be doing: power washing/scrubbing the deck, followed by a treatment with some sort of super high-tech kryptonite product that seals the wood for 20 years. Or something like that—I got the glassy-eyed stare when he got all technical on me. The sealant has to cure for a week or two, then someone else will come out and stain the deck.

Bob and I had already removed all the stuff off the deck to the front yard last night - the old wooden picnic table, grill, firewood box, an ugly "country" bench/storage box inherited from the previous owners, my "nature as art," which are two big planters filled with dirt and rocks, supporting several large tree branches, draped in strings of lights. They were probably the most challenging items to move, because they're big, heavy and downright awkward to transport. But I'm so proud of them as all the material used to create them were "found" objects—the pots were left by the previous owners, the rocks, dirt and branches procured from our very own backyard, the lights - leftovers from Christmas. They look pretty cool at night, all lit up—adds a certain je ne sais quoi to the outdoor space. And I don't even speak French. Bob successfully relocated them to the front of the house with the two-wheeler and a big dose of determination.

Greg asked if the big deck was the only thing we were having done today. I showed him the old picnic table sitting in the front lawn and mentioned that it, like the deck, is in relatively good shape, other than the unsightly discoloration of the wood. We considered having that power washed/sealed, too, if the price wasn't too outrageous. He asked, "What's 'too outrageous?'" I wouldn't pay more than $100 to refinish the table, as it's over 10 years old and could be replaced if it were to cost more than that. 

He looked at the table, then at our front steps and asked, "Do you want the front steps done, too?" We hadn't considered it, as we were thinking of replacing them at some point (which, in our world, could be five years from now, give or take), along with the uneven brick pavers that ran along the side of the house. I didn't want to refinish them if we were just going to replace them sometime soon. Greg thought for a moment then said, "How 'bout I clean and seal the table and front steps for a $130?"Seriously?! "Sure. You could stain and seal them yourself, and not have to pay the next crew to do that, if you want." For that, I could live with those steps indefinitely! Done deal.

I went back into the house, back to my writing, a little laundry, the dishes. When I look outside, Greg has slipped into something a little more comfortable—rubber pants up to his armpits, rubber boots, rubber gloves, a rubber hat and goggles, manhandling a giant, serpentine hose across the deck.. He looks like he should be on a whaling ship in Alaska. He fired up the sprayer and a blast of water shot out of it with such force, I thought he was going to topple over. If you saw the video of me "power washing the deck," you'll see I'm sporting a tank top, shorts and tennies, with a scrub brush attached to a garden hose. 

After about 45 minutes listening to the deafening sound of the powerful sprayer against the deck surface, I started to feel like I was living inside a car wash. I decided to take Gaia on a walk. We walked over two miles (which is long for Gaia, considering she walks about two miles an hour). By the time we got back to the house, Greg was packing his gear up.

I went inside and took a sneak peak at the deck outside the kitchen window. The wood was stripped bare, like it just came from the lumberyard. I looked out the front window, where the picnic table was, and that too, along with theat the picnic table and front step, was bright and gleaming as the day it emerged from the factory! Three hours of heavy labor by someone else, and already my deck looks like a million bucks!

Just for fun, let's compare the power-washing attempts of first, mine and Bob's . . .

(see all the black mildew-y stuff we couldn't get off?)

Now Greg's (below). Notice a difference? There are times when the saying "time is money" is blatantly evident. This is one of them.

 

Swab th' decks, matey!

We have lots of great outdoor space surrounding our li'l house on the ridge. Big decks. Little decks. High decks. Low decks. A screened deck off the living room. Funny, I just read a blog by my mom (a gifted writer and rockin' mom who also house/dog sits for us a lot), about our decks a few days ago and said almost the same thing about our decks! The spring weather always gets me itching to get out and enjoy them. The big deck is my favorite, as it sits a story above the ground; in the summer, surrounded by cottonwoods, oaks and birch heavy with leaves, it's like living in a tree house. Some day, I want a cozy li'l 2-person hot tub on the deck off the master bedroom. I envision soaking in it, on a snowy December evening, with Bob and a bottle of wine (yeah, I know, I know, alcohol and hot tubs don't mix - this is my fantasy, okay?), snowflakes softly sizzling in the water around us . . . The decks were the selling point for us when we bought the house four years ago. Even in February, with a foot of snow covering the decks, we knew we'd love the outdoor space.

The decks have "good bones," but have been worn by the elements. I don't think they're original to our 1974 rambler, but they have seen better days. Faded, stained, weather-beaten, they're in desperate need of a good scrub-down. We tried cleaning and staining the decks ourselves the first summer we lived out here. Below is a video of us (umm, me; Bob is conveniently "documenting" the event) doing this the first time, a few years back. Warning: you may hear a few colorful words from me during this clip. I wonder how many hapless souls have declared, "Hey, this ain't rocket science - why pay someone hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars to do something we can do ourselves!" You soon find out it could just as well be rocket science, because you don't have the proper equipment, cleaning agents, or good ol' fashioned know-how to do the job right, no matter what the guys at Menard's tell you. Before you know it, you, too, will be swearing a blue streak, cursing the day your spouse came up with this lame-brained idea. Don't say I didn't warn ya.

 

After three day's worth of back-breaking labor, the decks didn't look much better than when we started, as clearly evident in the photos below. We couldn't get all the discoloration off the wood, so when we stained them, it turned out blotchy and uneven. By the end of summer, wind, rain and sun had taken their toll; you'd never had guessed we had done anything to the deck. I'm still suffering from lateral epicondylitis (aka "tennis elbow") from that damn project, nearly four years later. As I learned in a basic finance class at St. Cate's, time is money, and sometimes it pays to pay someone else to do the dirty work. 

before . . .

deck after it was "power washed" . . .

newly stained deck . . .

We briefly talked about replacing the decks with some kind of maintenance-free, eco-friendly material, but for the amount of deck space that we have (at least 1000 sq. feet), that just wasn't in the budget. And, the wood itself was in good shape, so that route seemed rather wasteful and excessive, as well. Instead,  at a loss for what to do, we did what most good homeowners do: forget about the project and just let 'em sit, at the mercy of the elements.

Fast forward a few years to the spring of 2008. I attended the Living Green Expo at the State Fairgrounds, and came upon a company, Deck Renewal and More, that refinishes decks in an eco-friendly manner, and guarantee their work for seven years. I'm going to naively trust that the people who organize the Expo hold their exhibitors to certain high ethical eco-standards, and as such, I am going to believe the Deck Renewal people when they say their products that are safe for pets and the environment. And, that with the average cost of $1800 for most deck renewals, there would be no more maintenance for at least seven years, compared to the cost and labor of doing it ourselves, or hiring a deck maintenance company to come out every few years (didn't even know there were such companies)!

I was impressed with what I saw at the Expo, and with what I read on the company's website, yet another year passed before we finally decided to make the phone call. A friendly, grandfatherly salesman named Dennis came to the house a few weeks ago, gave me a quick, yet thorough description of the process, and took measurements of the decks. After punching numbers with big fingers on a tiny calculator held in place with velcro inside his three-ring binder, Dennis looked up from his notes announced that it would be $3800 to refinish all the decks. I'm sure I failed miserably in disguising my complete and utter surprise - so much for the "average cost" of $1800. He said, "Well, your situation is unusual, because most people don't have 1000 square feet of deck surface." Seeing my shock, he quickly followed with ways to cut the costs: we could do just the big deck, we could do just the first two steps of the process - cleaning and staining - and leave the acrylic topcoat for another time, up to two years later. 

I told him I would discuss the information with Bob and call him as soon as we decided what to do. I called Bob after Dennis left, and we debated the pros and cons of the project as in-depth as if it were a bill we were trying to pass in Congress. After much deliberation, we decided to go ahead and do the big deck,  and just the first two steps for now, at a much easier-to-swallow rate of $1600. We could even do the last step at the end of the summer, just to spread out the cost, but at least we have some time to decide on that one. I called Dennis back that afternoon and put name in the queue. 

We waited patiently for almost two weeks, but just got a phone call from someone from the deck company tonight. He said it's short notice, but he can come out tomorrow (Monday) and start the project. Yippee!

Been a long time . . .

Been a while since I checked in here (what's it been, over a year?), for a million and one excuses, none of which are any good. I couldn't even remember which e-mail address I signed in, much less, what my password was. But, a few tries later, and I'm up and running again.

I'm kinda trapped in the house today, as we're getting our deck refinished, and the guy doing step one has blocked the garage door with his van and trailer. Not that I have anywhere special to be today, and I've been longing for an excuse to simple sit and write, so here it is.

I need to get warmed up again to the idea of blogging. I've got to get over the idea that I have to be an expert on what I'm saying, what I think, what I leave on these pages. I don't want this to be an online diary, where I post inane, mundane blurbs of my life. I'd like to have a few general topics to focus on - health and wellness, relationships, travel, financial tidbits, home improvement projects, maybe some green living experiences to share. But who knows? Maybe it'll morph into something else entirely. The important thing I do now, is simply write.

Maui, Wowie . . .

January 30, 2008

Aloha and Mahalo! (translation: “Hi and Thank you!”)

Those are the two words I learned in Hawaii, and feel that, knowing them, I could blend in with the locals and no one would be suspect . . . aside from the bright red hair, blinding white skin, the zinc oxide smeared on my face, the full-coverage bathing suit and the oh-so-Minn-eh-sooo-tah accent, seriously, no one would be the wiser. Our trip was very nice, though too short, as vacations always are. That sounds odd, “kind of nice,” when speaking of Maui, doesn’t it? I don’t know whether to laugh my ass off or cry a river, as we, once again, encountered “once in a lifetime” weather conditions in Hawaii, as we have the previous two winter vacations we’ve taken!

A little aside: two years ago, we took our very first winter vactation to Sedona, AZ, where we had three feet (yes, feet, not inches) of snow dumped on us – roads to the Grand Canyon were closed and we were stranded for an extra day in Sedona before we decided, “We’re from MN, dammit! We can drive through this sissy, slushy shit!” and, all warnings be damned, made our way to the GC, knee-deep snow and all – super cool pictures to go along with that tale . . . last spring, in Santa Fe, NM, more snow, though not of such epic proportions, but snow, nonetheless. Sooooo, in the Christmas letter I sent out this year (did you get yours? If not, send your snail mail or e-mail address to me and I'll be sure to pass along a copy of Christmas Novel 2007), I mentioned our upcoming trip to HI, and jokingly said, “If it’s snowing in Maui, you’ll know we’re there!” So, with that, I begin the saga . . .

For the love of God and small children, it eff-ing SNOWED on MAUI!!! I am NOT making this up! Seriously, this was a news-worthy snowfall, and again, we have the pics to prove it! Granted, it was on top of Haleakela Crater (an ancient, dormant volcano), and with an altitude of 10,000 feet, it does occasionally get a dusting of snow here and there in winter, though the rest of the island might be balmy and idyllic. The kicker is that, while we’re there, the national park on top of the mountain closed for the first time in something like 35 years, due to all the snow and ice! Why does this affect us, when we’re miles away, relaxing on the beaches of Ka’anapali, in 75+ degree (albeit windy) temps, you ask? Because on that day, we got up at three eff-ING a.m. (in the morning, in case you were unclear about that) to make the 2 ½ hour drive to the top of the mountain. To view the sunrise. “Why the hell?” you ask? Because we’re nuts, I reply. And, because Haleakela Crater is purported to be the sight of an astounding view to behold: a sunrise so surreal and magnificent that, according to legend (and guide books), when witnessed at the rim of the ancient crater, above the clouds, the colors and intensity of the sunset are so powerful that . . . (drum roll) . . . people damn near have visions from God, aliens, or other such life-altering experiences. So. That was our vision quest. To see the sunrise from the top of Haleakela. And maybe see God. Or ET. Or to be rid of this awful rash that’s creeping across my back . . . and it could have happened, if it weren’t for that meddling Mother Nature . . . DAMN her!!!

At any time of the year, it’s much colder up there than anywhere else on the island, especially at 5 a.m. with fierce winds comin' atcha. But, being from MN (and considering it was 15 below zero when we left MN for HI), and being we had read guide books ahead of time, we had polar fleece, mittens and long jonnies in our possession. So, before we head out, we call the local weather service for conditions and sunrise times and, given no reason to believe otherwise, make way for the hills.

½ way up the way up the mountain, still enveloped in way-too-early morning blackness, we’re startled by a flashing road sign that tells us that the park is closed due to hazardous weather. “Hazardous weather on this part of the island?” we ask, incredulously. “Whatever,” we scoff Mutha N., and keep driving, figuring that being from MN, we can “bust the gates doing 98”, and make our way up to the summit, as we did in AZ, hazardous weather be damned. Short lived that decision was, as we were stopped by park officials at 7000 feet, telling us that we can’t proceed any further – roads are closed due to seriously icy conditions (evidently, they don’t have a fleet of orange dump trucks filled with sand and salt on Maui on hand for such occasions. . . we’re not in Minnesota anymore, Toto . . .). Sooooo . . . we turn around and make the eff-ing hour and ½ drive (imagine, if you will, a long, winding road, lacing the back of the mountain like a corset, in total darkness) back to Kahalui at the base of the mountain, grab a coffee and blueberry scone at the local coffee shack and assess the situation. It’s 6:30 a.m. In hindsight, we should have just gone back to the condo and called it a day. But high altitude, frigid temps and lack of sleep tend to mar the decision-making process. What the hell. We decide, since we’re out this way already, we’ll just do the Hana Highway, a legendary strip of narrow blacktop that hugs the cliffs of the northern Maui shoreline, through rainforest terrain, across 1 lane bridges, maneuvering through 600+ twists and turns, for 50+ miles down to the costal village of Hana. Mind you, this drive takes several hours in good weather. And then, we’d have to turn around at some point and do the same drive in reverse, as an earthquake in recent years has rendered parts of the highway impassable. At 6 a.m., we'll beat the Hana Highway crowds - let's go!

So, what do we encounter on our drive to Hana? Torrential, ferocious rainfall, all 50+ miles of the drive . . . near wash-out conditions along the way: peaceful streams turned ferocious, powerful bowels of nature regurgitating red, frothy water across the road - the Linda Blair of nature . . . waterfalls that have morphed from breathtaking streams of water gently tumbling down the mountainside to full-force gushes of violent brown sludge gouging the valleys of the Hana Highway deeper and deeper into the mountainside . . . I guess that’s what “they” mean by “rainforest . . .”

It truly was all I could do from breaking down and booking the next flight off the island. I tried so hard not to be, but I was tired, wet, muddy and pissed as all get out by the time we got to Hana. In near silence, after being up for a half a day already (and it was only 1 p.m.), we snagged two plate lunches (a local thing) from a family fundraising tent at the edge of town, took our grub to the seaside and ate in near silence, watching the water crashing the shoreline in absolute fury. I swear, it was the best meal I've wolfed down in a coon's age: fat shrimp tangled with colorful peppers, green beans and onions in tender pasta, gently soaked in a light white sauce . . . Bob had sweet, juicy bbq chicken, with a mound of sticky white rice and creamy macaroni salad. After filling our bellies, our dispositions seemed to even out a bit (not much, just a bit), and, by a stroke of good fortune bestowed upon us from the Hawaiian goddess Pele (to whom I was praying every inch of that drive), we were blessed with near perfect weather on the trip back. Talk about taking your breath away . . . rainbows arcing across the ocean and spanning rich green valleys, lush, tropical rainforest enveloping us, crashing waves on the rough lava shores hundreds of feel below, temps in the 70’s . . . I felt like I was driving in a postcard . . . Maui was experiencing fluke weather all winter (Nov. to about March or so) – lots of rain, constant wind . . . the temps were very pleasant – upper 70’s and sunny, and only occasional rain for the most part, where our resort was, but the waters were very choppy and churning – not enticing for a dip or snorkeling or much of anything else, and hiking was out of the question, as many trails were closed due to weather conditions. But, whadda you do? You make the best of the situation, eat lots of great local grub, take a whale watching boat ride, partake in a luau, drink mai tais, pina coladas and other sickly sweet cocktails when you normally otherwise wouldn’t, soak up the sights and take lots of pictures for proof back home . . .

So, it was a bittersweet vacation. Nice to get away, nice to relax and do things most people don’t do while on Maui, but the weather prevented doing lots of things we really wanted to do. Anyhow, as usual, the rambling has taken over, and must be reeled in for the night . . .

Aloha and Mahalo!