The Further Adventures of My Man's Mustache

It would be upsetting if he didn't have the vanity akin to a wire-haired terrier, but my man's mustache is already making a scene in our new little town.  So far the stir has been caused by men much younger than I ever was, another possible point of contention if I wasn't enjoying the consolation prize of long studies of their bodies and behavior.

The first scene was at the supermarket down the street from our house---the one where the classes mix freely, not the one across town that most can ill-afford.  I was at my usual observation point, the exit aisle beyond the check outs, waiting for my turn to bag our few groceries.  Behind my husband were two dark blond brothers very close in age, likely no older than twenty.  They looked a lot alike except for one maintained the latest careless look, complete with a heavy mop of hair, while the other had his hair very short and neat.  Both were very small men, only a couple of inches taller than my husband---with fine, almost delicate features.  They had a full shopping cart, suggesting that task had been left to them because of a long unconventional if not broken situation.  They were very at ease with their cart, with the neat one going off for a last minute item.  Shaggy had a large can of Monster in his hand.

The checker was a dark haired young woman, and by a few words exchanged between them it was likely they knew each other from high school.  She was now scanning our few items, a task she didn't have to pay much attention to because she had obviously been observing the neat one for some time.

"What are you staring at?!" she said sharply, her tone a perfectly unspoken oh my god.  I heard her even at twenty feet.

"His mustache," the neat one said meekly.  "I love it.  I want one."

My husband absently reached for the upturned corner of his facial accessory and smiled.  "Maybe when you're older."

The checker just shook her head in disbelief, as if to say you want to look like him?

Of course that would be impossible.  With my husband's big eyes, big nose and long upper lip his mustache is in perfect balance.  Any attempt at replication by that sweet young thing would look like he was snorting a dead gerbil.  He did sport what whiskers he had neatly along his jawline, a look he pulled off well---giving a masculine edge to his prettiness.

Yes, he was rather pretty---which gave pause to what he actually loved and wanted.  Shaggy seemed unperturbed by his brother's admittance, so obviously both had a strong sense of self.  My last glance over them made wonder if they were actually twins---not identical, perhaps, but with a deep understanding of one another from a long reliance.

A week or so later we were sitting in the left turn lane in our Patsy Prius when a large pick up rolled up beside us, playing what my husband calls "boom-boom" music.  It's one of his terms to go along with a half-dozen inflections that makes him sound like my grandmother, which is understandably alarming.  Anyway, my husband looked up out of his open window---and for some reason I made the effort to cop a gander myself.  The driver hardly looked the "boom-boom" type---appearing quite small and suburban in his big truck.  I don't know what kind of levity my husband was broadcasting to him, but the driver finally looked down and a moment later the noise ceased.  In recollection I recall the old-fashion jumble of words and music as someone flipped a knob, but seconds later the latest country-western music started pouring out of his cab.  While ever-mindful of men in Wranglers, my husband's taste in country music falls off somewhere between Patsy Cline and Lynn Anderson, but it was a definite improvement---if not a knee-jerk reaction to a long ago head slap for not respecting your elders.

And what does this have to do with my man's mustache?  I can't imagine what change of genre we would have experienced without it, let alone any consideration in the matter.

The Solid Glass Cadillac

I swore a number of years ago never to build another house, and now I'm ready to avow never to renovate another.  The former was a four month job of building 'The Not So Big House' that lasted eighteen months.  I'd spend weeks in the forest in a trailer with aqua appliances and nothing would happen, and then I'd go back to civilization for a week---only to return and find that the wrong windows were installed.  This time the accursed contractor is ancient history but we're confronted with the big box store delivery of incorrect windows.  It's sorta like paying cash for a red Cadillac and being delivered a burnt orange Datsun.

Americans are quite aware of the cachet of luxury cars but appear to think that windows are for filling holes in their walls.  Vinyl is final---now show me the granite counter tops and industrial strength ranges.  I don't know how many times I've growled no grids between the glass---not wishing to live out my days like an old hen staring out of her coop.  Oh, don't get me wrong---salesmen get very excited when the queer guy comes along wanting quality windows, but the industrial complex never seems to follow through.

It's very clear during a walk through here that 1958 was not a good year for windows.  Victoriana would be more efficient than the featherweight properties of aluminum windows that bring the outdoors in like a drunken request for make it a double.  We won't even mention the unseemliness of rubber gaskets hanging low like busted brassieres.  There are simply some things one can't paste nostalgia to, and like outhouses, the tinsel glitter of aluminum windows is one of them.

But how does one honor the mid-century ranch?  Aluminum allows a certain airiness that cannot be replicated by other materials, and in trying to retrofit, it appears contractors were then working in another dimension.  The answer lies in going back to that era and studying what they were honoring but modernizing---and cheapening, the true ranch house.  We'll take pine windows---double hung, thank you.  Wait---these windows are so high off the floor that the division between the upper and lower panes would block my line of sight.  Asymmetrical panes, you say?  How kicky.  One pane occupying the upper third of the window, the lower pane occupying the other two thirds.  Solves the line of sight problem and makes a clever design note.

One ringy-dingy.  Two ringy-dingys.  What do you mean you can't get double hung in that size?  Custom?  Why, that's like Zsa Zsa putting a down payment on another pink Rolls!  I'm ready to slap this man, but he's bigger than me...

Casement windows are nice.  Ranch authentic.  We'll just hope the end result won't be as darkening.

Way out on the west side of the house is acres of plate glass---three eight foot sliders and about another eight feet consisting of three panes affixed with quarter round between turned studs.  A deep porch shades the proceedings for most of the day, but the late afternoon sun starts creeping over the sills, and then refracts off the river and fries us like a fly under a boy's magnifying glass.  Our only hope is the heft of triple pane Pellas---with honeycomb shades between the second and third pane, rising from the bottom.

Enter the delivery truck from the the big box store.  One man is quite nice to look at but appears a bit old for the job.  The other is the typical young thing from these parts---chaw between his cheek and gum and a tobacco tin tattooed through his Wrangler butt.  They start unloading---and sweating---and I start inspecting.  Hmm.  Why are there double hungs here with the casements?  These Pellas have the shades dropping from the top.  Why are these glass doors with sidelights half glass, not full glass?

The older deliveryman stares at me, sweat dripping off his brow and down his white sideburns.  I feel vaguely hysterical---or that I could bellow out a maniacal bwhahahahaha.

My final offer: "Why don't we all just say fuck this?"

"No," the elder replied firmly---suddenly a gentleman, though I had already overheard him mutter shit.

"Well, then---this all has to go back.  It's all wrong."


"All of it?"

"Everything but this front door," I replied with a wave of my hand.  "It at least appears correct."

"What about these?" he asked, producing several boxes of oiled bronze lock sets.

"Wrong," I answered like a game show buzzer.  I was giving a nod to mid-century modern glitter by using brushed nickle.

So everything went back on the truck and we signed off on the lone glass front door---one of our fiberglass Chevrolet compromises.  No ostentatious entry for me, thank you.  It would simply be a waste of money, since its location both inside and out is discrete.

The next day and forty miles away at the big box store, we walked through what went wrong with the order with the salesman.  A floor clerk was with him checking over our stack---a bubbly woman of a certain age I had noticed in the past.

"Your red windows are gorgeous," she gushed.  "As soon as they came in I got all excited: Someone was brave enough not to pick white!"

We, of course, immediately invited her over for a post installation inspection. 

With her help, the salesman discovered that the half glass doors with the full glass sidelights was his mistake:  The units had originally arrived damaged, so he returned them---and in the paperwork he accidentally marked the box for half glass.  The units could still be installed and the correct doors swapped out when they arrived from the factory.  The upside down shades in the west facing windows and sliding doors was a Pella factory mistake, but those units too could be installed and the blinds corrected by a Pella technician since the blinds are designed to be removable to cater to the whims of fashion.  Things were looking good in just getting the gee-dee things installed before the rains came.

Now, that heady mixture of casement and double hung windows.  Hey, we're all consensual adults here---prone to misunderstandings and grievous assumptions.  I assumed that since double hung would not work in the living room and were being replaced by casements that casements were the rule house-wide.

"I made sure the master bath window was a casement so the front of the house had balance," the salesman explained proudly.

I thought: Yes, dear, but our house is not a modern tract home with a typically schizophrenic array  of window styles.

I said: "Thank you."

After all, the double hungs were on the south side of the house, outside of our guest's and my judgmental prospective---and the style did not clash within the two rooms they were used in.  Besides, my husband really liked the idea of double hung in the hall bathroom---and marriage being all about compromise---and the fact that the salesman had really pulled strings so I could get these six wood windows at a vinyl price---well, I just had to politely concede.

The next day our installers went south to pick up our rainbow coalition of window styles so they could keep their schedule somewhat intact.  They returned, popped those babies in and it was amazing how good glass instantly banished Indian summer from the rooms.  My only complaint was that their exterior protuberance reminded me of the pimple poppin' scene in the movie Hairspray---but I chose to believe the judicious use of trim and a future monochromatic sable paint job will soothe the irritation.

The following day brought back the big box delivery truck---which had been proceeded by the pompous announcement that they expected help in unloading what they unloaded themselves the first time around.  I stayed away by mowing the lawn, but my husband trotted out to tell me that one of the guys was foxy.  My mind set on further drama, I considered the word was meant in the truly archaic sense.

"Which one?" I asked, squinting off in the distance.

"The one with his butt towards us."

Oh, that kind of foxy...

Still I stayed away, allowing my husband his fantasy and the installers---the one bright spot in this project---to do their job. They were pleased that two of the three slider openings were still square and level after fifty five years, so their installation went smoothly and soon we had doors as solid and silent as a Hudson gliding down the highway.  The windows were not so cooperative, being that another factory error had them at a slightly shallower than ideal depth.  Being good workers and mindful of the day drawing to a close, they worked hard to make the first installation work---and when they were finished one could not tell there had been a problem.  When they unwrapped the next window, it was unfortunately the correct depth---and so was the last one.  There was a lot of muttering about the work they put in for the one incorrect one as well as the return job of removing the casing of the other two to either rip it down to size or replace with the correct pieces provided by Pella.

"It's always like this," the more talkative of the two reported.  "Cheap windows always need tweaking, and the rare times we get to work with quality windows the installation is fantastic until we come upon an assembly line error---and there's always those in a batch order.  Still, quality windows are a more satisfying finishing job---I mean, look at them."

I'm lookin'---I'm lookin'---and again I marvel about how a very warm late afternoon was suddenly cut short by their presence.  I recalled the little house we built not so long ago, and that glass was supposedly of the same technology but never seemed to perform so pointedly---but that's the difference between new construction and a renovation: there is no before and after.  Out on the porch they're stealing the scene.  That's acceptable if not thrilling for now, but the contrast will be quietly hue based instead of tonal once we lay down the sable brown paint elsewhere.

We kept the windows open overnight for the traditional interior cool off, and the next day my husband complained that it was too cool inside.  Men.  So the windows were opened and the last day of Indian summer was allowed in---and it dallied inside all through the following first rainy day of the cool season.

Nice.

Right Here In River City!

A mother knows when it gets too quiet in the house something's going on.  I suppose it's just the same here at Rancho Notorious...

Where's Daniel?  Surely he's not still on the road.  We've heard he's back in town, so to speak---so perhaps he's just stuck on recollecting a day that fails to excite him.  Perhaps he's distracted by more current events---weddings, gardens---deer that need their ass kicked.

No, no---it's just that hobby I wrote about in the past---the one under the title V is for Very Interesting, But Stupid.  It's all that handsome Realtor's fault---the one with the delicious little ears.  He kept calling my husband, luring us on with one wanton listing after another.  Finally the combination seemed right, and we fell for the siren call of full frontal riverside living.

Looking south from our dock

I have long questioned the meaning of forever.  It is at best a spiritual term, for everything around us is forever forming new relationships.  At this very moment the minutest of matter is sloughing off and shacking up elsewhere.  Just take a look under my chair. We rewrite history to suit our needs.  Then we look back again---wisely or foolishly, but usually with a strange, visceral fondness---and rewrite history once more.

A house is not quite a marriage, but it does have its ongoing affairs with repairmen.  Even a house designed by yours truly is an island in time, drifting at a different speed from what we call reality.  My eldest aunt can't believe I can leave my "little jewel box" behind, but then she admires the unabashedly thick old growth board and batten cedar siding on the house we're purchasing.  But to tell you the truth we'd need to spend more money to anchor our Rancho Notorious away from the shoals of what we perceive as diminishing returns---and we decided we might as well spend our money elsewhere.

The view from the dining/living room.  The wall beyond the lovely ceiling fan will be removed and replaced with a four foot tall cabinet to further open up the view and make the kitchen less isolated

Nothing's perfect.  We're switching out fire for floods, but since the former is always the more common and destructive threat in California, I'll take plenty of water, thank you.  Being on some half acre of ag land in the heart of River City, we even have the right to pump water directly from the river.  The sloughing of Mother Nature has left behind top soil thirty feet deep, and a deer was last seen in the vicinity some hundred years ago.  It's a gardener's paradise---unless I discover that the tree squirrels are suburbanized delinquents that devour every bud and blossom in sight.  The pecan tree is suspiciously lacking in nuts, but at this point we'll blame the lack of a pollinator.

The house is far less glamorous than the one I reviewed earlier this year, but for what it lacks in the detritus left behind by 'gay hoarders' it makes up for in what I call foreclosure madness: the propensity for superfluous flash and trash over serious repair.  The nearly flat roof leaks and the 1958 aluminum windows are as brazenly ineffective as Jayne Mansfield pouring out of her cocktail dress.  Still, we're getting it for less than half of what it sold for last time---and its 'real' value, once the house and grounds are restored to my whimsical if not entirely good taste, falls somewhere in between.  My artistic mind has devised light fixtures made of vintage ColorFlyte Melmac for the kitchen....

What would June Cleaver do?  Who cares?  Let's paint over the Millennial grays with chocolate brown made gay with bright red windows and soften that relentlessly long eave with climbing Rosa gigantea hybrids!

We're fortunate in that we don't have to immediately sell our Rancho Notorious in order to pull this off.  My husband would not have it any other way.  There are projects to finish at the ranch before it can be put on the market anyway.  We can grin and bear the twin expenses of roof repair and quality windows at this house before winter comes, and then focus on making the ranch as charming as possible for the New Year of Selling.

You can be assured of many more adventures in home rejuvenation in the years to come.

A Conspicious Lack of Industry

Tuesday, 16th April 2013

Map: Webster, New York to Sandusky, Ohio---342 miles

We breakfasted a la business class at the Hampton Inn---rubbing elbows with the suits, chatted up by the relentlessly cheerful staff.  We stood out in boots and plaids, and upon hearing of our journey one of the skirts behind the counter was ready to join us.

The first forty miles of the day was via Interstate 390 to Geneseo, New York.  Golden morning light made the rolling countryside attractive but left a stranger unprepared for the view driving into town on US 20A.  Cresting a low ridge, we suddenly came upon a long view dropping like steps over the farmland to the west.  It was very clear, and it seemed if it was just a bit clearer we would have been able to see all the way to Lake Erie, about sixty miles away.

Geneseo is a charming little university town threatened by its exurban status to Rochester.  It does seem to be striking a balance, though---with projects like the restoration of a beautiful old high school for university use.

West of Leichester we turned southwest on Highway 39, driving through rich farmlands to Castile.  The sky was rapidly darkening as we climbed a bit towards Bliss, where the countryside again broke out into a beautiful step down view.  Huge wind generators spun below gray violet clouds.  A large sign at someone's farm screamed NO FRACKING WAY.  Fracking is particularly contentious in New York state, where it's not allowed---while many farmers are reaping huge profits from it in Pennsylvania.

As we dropped down to Arcade, I tuned onto Radio Zoomer---CFZM 740---courtesy of the amplifying effects of Lake Ontario some 75 miles to the north.  Lake Erie would have the same effect on the signal, allowing us to easily listen in at up to 200 miles west from the transmitter---almost to Cleveland.

Spanish blue bells

I must admit I've lost the location of the following two photographs.  Nothing definite comes from studying Google maps, which has already saved me several times, but it's safe to assume this town was somewhere between Springville or Gowanda---although I'm not promising it's Collins.  At any rate, the Spanish blue bells in the lawns around town were fantastic, and the first sign of spring we had seen in four days. I was also duly surprised to see a rainbow flag flying off someone's porch, for the town seemed inhabited predominately by senior citizens.

A darker blue form of Spanish blue bells.

We dropped down into Gowanda, zigzagging through town and then along a charming Main Street.  It looked a lot like a movie set, and indeed it was used for the Steve Martin vehicle Plane, Trains and Automobiles (1987).  Less charming was a peculiar odor to the general area---like something less than wholesome cooking.  We never saw the source of it.

After pausing in the bustling city of Fredonia, we took a beeline side road under the New York Thruway and out to Lake Erie.  A light rain was falling now, draping the landscape with a dreary veil.  Still it was interesting for the thousands of acres of grapes, something a Westerner doesn't expect to see in New York state.  Wineries waited impatiently for the tourist season.

Looking east of the harbor at Barcelona, New York.

I served off and down to the tiny harbor just below Highway 5 at incongruously named Barcelona, New York.  Not that it isn't a charming little village, but it could never stand in for Spain.  Looking east, we could see waterfalls dropping into the lake.  On a clear day it must be a beautiful sight, but the weather didn't dampen our enjoyment of the scenery much.

We drove right through Erie, Pennsylvania on their Bayfront Parkway---through a waterfront redeveloped for pleasure instead of industry.  It's very attractive but feels removed from the city just above the bluff.  The parkway shifted back up into the city and then made it's way westerly through decades of suburbia and then exurbia on Lake Drive.  Lake Erie was never in sight, but the little farms and crossroads were attractive.

The lake came into view again at Conneaut, Ohio as we drove down Broad Street and right down to the little harbor.  The town had a sleepy, off-season charm---a far away feeling that I'm not sure would survive the warmer months.

Glimpses of the water, estates and parks passed by as we continued west on Ohio 531 through Astubula to Geneva-on-the-Lake, the latter a place to avoid at all costs during the warmer months.  On this cool overcast day it appeared to be an empty carnival---tidy and expectant.  Old trailer courts with vintage trailers vied for my attention midst the rental cottages.  Everything had the look of a long held tradition, largely ungentrified.  It's a prospective long gone way out West, where speculation and rapid expansion have no patience for such settings.  I'm glad I got to see it---on that day, not in high season.

We had to head inland to old US 20 at this point, and then west again towards Cleveland.  Old motels and half-forgotten crossroads made it an interesting drive, and I had long forgotten any worry of heading straight to the waterfronts of these big old cities.  After connecting to the old Lakeland Freeway and driving through a stretch of somewhat seedy old blue collar neighborhoods, the cityscape opened up again to a revitalized waterfront, clean and breezy.  All the factories were gone, with their attendant grit and grime, and the scene was expectant, proud.  Perhaps there's reason to be, but if this was an equitable world there would have been a compromise for the environment and our economy.  Fundamental goods like steel can be manufactured with less impact locally and globally rather than simply drawing a curtain over the poisoning process by moving it half way around the world.

Once past Edgewater Park, we connected onto Clifton Boulevard---very much a pleasant surprise.  Designed in a grand style some 120 years ago, it still moves six lanes of traffic along nicely midst wide tree shaded medians.  Upper middle class homes and apartments in Beaux Arts, Tudor and associated styles lined the way like dowager duchesses---maintaining their distance from the rush with quiet dignity.  They wore a patina of consistent maintenance instead of a new-found glory.  Children walked home from school, the youngest accompanied by both men or women.  It was an uplifting scene.

The boulevard narrows into Lake Road, lined with lakefront estates both old and new.  Occasionally a more modest house appeared, allowing the peek of the lake from around their small dimensions.  One, well maintained but giving off the air of despondency, was for sale---and I wondered how much it was worth, and how little the house would be valued in comparison to some McMansion.  The view from the street would be filled in someday soon.

There's a gradual shift as US 6 continues towards Lorain.  The estates are left behind, and then the twee small town feel of Avon Lake falls away to the dead end feel of old blue collar neighborhoods.  I know the name Lorain from circa 1930 ads for gas ranges---in particular, the Lorain automatic oven temperature control, which took the guesswork out of baking.  I looked around as we drove along, wondering where that factory was, but all there was to see were the largely lookalike houses and an occasional electric plant that lorded over all like face brick castles.  Major cross streets were empty of both commerce and traffic, but the town looked clean and respectable along Erie Avenue.

We checked into Knight's Inn on Cleveland Road on the outskirts of Sandusky---a motel with a common Google complaint of being noisy, but being off-season I assumed that would not be a problem.  Aside of the busy train tracks across Cleveland Road it wasn't, but the motel had a palatable spiritual vibration---a residue of running, thumping and splashing way into the summer nights, peaking at around midnight, when the Cedar Point amusement park would likely close.  It was easy to tune out, though---and the dirt cheap room was clean.

Rear of condemned fitted native stone block building, Sandusky OH

Driving on into Sandusky is interesting only for the plethora of dubious tourist attractions that vie for Cedar Point's traffic.  Gray sky met gray asphalt---yet that was more comforting than the aspect of a hot and humid summer's day.  Eventually this is passed by for old blue collar neighborhoods and a downtown trying to maintain its dignity, with fair results.  The waterfront, stripped of manufacturing, eeks out a living via ferry traffic, pleasure boats and fishing.

We came down to the waterfront to eat dinner at a fish joint recommended on Roadfood---The New Sandusky Fish Company.  It turned out to be as much a fish market as a fish fry place, providing a minimum of seating and ambiance.  That usually portends great food, but first we had to figure out what we wanted from the limited menu.  The man behind the counter bore a striking resemblance to my dead friend, right down to his plush beard and an expression as if I was trying to pull something off and not succeeding.  He looked over at my husband and then back at me.

"You can't grow whiskers like he can, can you?" he finally asked, his tone knowing but friendly.

I was taken aback, because my mustache is always ignored---I presume because most people don't say anything at all if they can't say something nice, let alone that it grows in the shadow of my husband's publicly revered, luxuriant handlebar.

"No-o," I finally replied, touching my throat.  It was a cool day, and my shirt wasn't unbuttoned enough to show my hairy chest. 

"My dad's the same way," he smiled---taking my no as an affirmative.  "He can go without a shave for a week and his face just looks dirty."

I smiled wanly, realizing that there was no gaydar going on---only a mirror image of his familial situation.  No use explaining that my beard is just has thick as his, although I was tempted to say Well, you ought to see my back hair!

Cedar Point from Sandusky's waterfront

We shared a combination dinner of perch and walleye out on a picnic table under occasional raindrops.  The fish was good, but not extraordinary.  As I ate, I recalled deliciously fresh and succulent white fish in Mackinaw City, Michigan.

Calling Gloria

Sometimes a vintage radio appears on eBay that's an obscure little gem.  The obscurity may start right from a poorly thought out title, in this case: Vintage Deco Tube Wood Table Radio.  That narrows it down to about twelve hundred radios at any one time.  Like a chorus girl, she's lost in the lineup.  She's got to have a name.

Calling Gloria.

Her face is familiar.  As far I know only one company had dial like that, and that was Remler Radio of San Francisco.  But her name is Gloria---or so she claims, with a brass-plated accent.  She was once pretty, but her birds-eye maple complexion shows the ravages of time.  A highly qualified makeup man can fix that, if she has redeeming qualities.

Turn around, dearie.

Nice rear.  Oh, nothing special, really---just a four tube tuned radio frequency circuit with transformer.  But nice because she wears her union card proudly: Bruner's Radio Service, Santa Rosa, California.  At first I thought of Bruener's---a San Francisco furniture store that was established way back during the Gold Rush and became a phenomenon of sorts, with stores all over the Bay Area---but then I notice the different spelling.  So Gloria isn't quite the department store 'house brand' I imagined---although still a rebadging of a Remler radio.

Another nice touch: Gloria is date stamped---February 1[-], 1937.  Sure she's fresh, but we're more interested in keeping track of her.  Let's pencil in 1937, since it smudged when stamped.  Dating would not interest Remler or any other radio manufacturer; that's what serial numbers are for.  This was likely done by a Bruner's clerk the day Gloria was sold so to keep track of her warranty.

Here's a mild shock: While Bruener's Furniture sank into bankruptcy in 2004, Bruner's Radio Service is still alive and well in Santa Rosa---although now dealing more with two-way communications than consumer electronics.  I'm having a suggestion of deja-vu, a recollection of considering Bruner's for radio restoration when I lived in San Francsico some twenty-two years ago.

Gloria's starting price was right---twenty bucks.  She might have flown under the radar and out the door for that, but I restrained myself.  After all, I have to control myself from excess collecting by insisting that my California brand radios have the stations printed on the dial, and Remler didn't feature that until some time later.  I was a bit surprised when she caught on and climbed into the sixty dollar range.  Did the local history catch someone's attention---even Bruner's attention?  Gloria flew the coop for $92.78---surely making the seller happy.

Rude Reentry

Monday, 15th April 2013

Map: Saint-Zotique, Quebec to Webster, New York---264 miles

Dawn at Saint-Zotique, Quebec

A ruddy winter's dawning glowed through the unshaded windows of our fifty dollar once DeLuxe room at the Motel Rive du Lac.  I got up and went into the dingy kitchenette and inspected the stained Mr. Coffee before brewing a pot.  I handed a cup to my husband still in bed, and we sat and watched the colors warm and the waterfowl troll for breakfast.  Eventually the sun peeked over, and an orange glow spread westward over the dock.  I ran out in my nightshirt to photograph the scene and then darted back in, thankful that the heat had finally dropped out of space above the suspended ceiling and warmed our room.

Sunrise at the dock on the Fleuve St. Laurent.

The water was hot and shaving with the light behind me wasn't as annoying as I expected.  We packed Patsy Prius and headed out, passing a number of cars parked in front of the lesser rooms.  I wondered about their condition, and the price the guests had paid for them.

We planned to drive for awhile and then stop for breakfast, but not atypically we drove a lot farther than we expected before we found a cafe to stop at.  The border with Ontario was quickly reached, and then the mailboxes along Highway 138 slowly switched from French to English names.  Lancaster seemed as likely a place as any to find a meal, but despite a rather busy early morning appearance we saw nothing open at that hour.

The view from Summerstown, Ontario

Highway 138 returned to the edge of the St. Lawerence, swaying by retirement and summer homes.  The restaurants were still closed for the season in Summerstown, but the views were pleasing.  The water was so clear you could see the rocks on the bottom, and the lavender gray light painted the land and waterscape a nostalgic, bittersweet shade.

The name of the highway changes to Montreal Road as one nears Cornwall, so it was not surprising when we found ourselves in a neighborhood reminiscent of the French-infused cities in the state of Maine.  Twenty-four percent of the city's population claim French as their first language, although the commercial signage rarely reflects that.  It's a very bilingual way of life, where the public tongue is English and the private is French.

Prom Dresses: Babydoll drag or future mother-in-law's Dreamcicle chiffon.

My husband pointed out the King George Restaurant, a venerable eatery with its name awkwardly spelled out in gold face-brick, but I drove on---looking for something more interesting.  We never found it, but enjoyed circling back around and looking at the many old concrete block homes along the way.  The food at the King George was satisfactory but unmemorable, the view amusing from our booth.  We spent most of the meal commenting on the tacky dress shop across the street.

Unbeknown to us, the landscape west of Cornwall and continuing for some thirty miles to Iroquois was greatly altered by the creation of the St. Lawrence Seaway in 1958---but I did notice the whole stretch looks like a tidy, well planned rural roadside commercial and residential district, circa 1960.  Towns were wholly or partially submerged by the project, and relocation efforts were conducted by an international design competition.  Historic buildings were moved to a site called Upper Canada Village, a living museum.  Now the consolidated villages of South Dundas has a museum quality themselves---removed from through traffic by the Macdonald-Cartier Freeway to the north, they sleep until summer.  In the 1990s Ontario removed the provincial highway designation from the main road we drove on, providing an even deeper sense of isolation to the the low forest and islands.

The ubiquitous McIntosh apple was discovered in 1811 at nearby Williamsburg, Ontario---growing midst a thicket of second growth forest at an old farm.

The Iroquois Locks on the St. Lawrence Seaway

At Iroquois my husband wanted to detour to see one of the seaway locks on Harkness Island.  An adjacent park and huge parking lot suggested it was once a popular tourist stop, but the rough asphalt and the fact that the gift shop was for sale indicate it is now low on the scale of interest.  We stood there for awhile, I recalling learning about the Erie Canal and St. Lawrence Seaway in high school---wondering if that kind of history of commerce and transportation is even covered anymore.  Nothing happened while we were there---I suppose that shipping also has a season, just like tourists.

The countryside returns to a full sense of history west of Iroquois.  Old farms nestle close to mid century modern homes along the St. Lawrence, and the towns of Cardinal and Prescott seem livelier. Perhaps this is because they're close to Brockville, an old and long upscale city once home to lumber and transportation titans.  Driving into town, the St. Lawerence is lined with magnificent old homes---turrets putting on airs in a reception line.

The dowager queens of Brockville, Ontario

Brockville was also our last chance to visit Canada's top tourist destination, Bulk Barn.  Since Patsy Prius's GPS is largely indifferent in Canada, we had to stop and ask a woman at a gas station for directions.  My studies of the store locator map that morning proved helpful---we were only a block away from the store.  Being that we were now in a British-esque province, I could find those delicious wine gums in the candy section---as well as other curious items, such as coconut flour.  However, I'd soon be lamenting the fact that I didn't buy enough of their high quality flavored black teas.

We were so intrigued by the glacially groomed, granite studded landscape on the old highway west of Brockville that we failed to see the short and easy connection back to the freeway and the border crossing into New York.  So with irritation as the waste of time and the trepidation of impending annoyances, we continued almost to Ganonoque before making the connection and then headed back to the Thousand Islands port of entry.  This border crossing is very touristy---a plus at that time of the year, since there are no tourists.  Only one car was ahead of us, and they soon passed through.  Of course this meant the agent would be on the rather bored side and may pull out all the stops on interrogation.  Our passports were handed over, our relationship lied about.  One is never sure how to answer that question when your country doesn't recognize your marriage but your state does; however an agent has never countered our assertion of being friends, either.  I'm under no delusion of privacy.  Someone that spends more time looking at a computer screen than your face has much more information on you could ever give him off your cuff.  He typed and read a little more and then said:

"So you're telling me that you drove all the way across the country just to spend two days and nights in Quebec..."

If I was in the driver's seat I would have given him a Zsa Zsa Gabor bitch slap, but I only glared off into space as my husband once again went into even more details of who we visited along the way.  This kind of government mandated insolence is just disgusting.  If I was trained for violence, do you think I'd crumble under such obvious machinations?  Eventually he and/or the computer was satisfied, and he handed back our passports and lifted the gate.

"Welcome home," he said a bit too cheerily.

Oh, fuck off.

My husband drove on for another grumpy twenty miles through the most unwelcoming part of upstate New York.  The farms along New York 180 have gone feral; the old homes imploding and the mobile homes exploding from either social or chemical disaster.  Tourist services were weed choked.  It was a shock after being in Canada for several days, where the countryside always displays a veneer of respectability, if not good taste.

We switched drivers down at the old mill stream in La Fargeville and continued south southwest through an improving landscape on New York 3 and 104.  Unfortunately there's no through roads along or very near the shores of Lake Ontario, and there's a distinct feeling of missing out on something when the lake is occasionally seen from afar.

At Webster we splurged on accommodations at the Hampton Inn---mainly because there was nothing cheaper that didn't have a bad reputation.  I find this kind of generic luxury interesting---I can see the appeal of the predictability of it all, and at the same time how it isolates the guest even more from the community they're staying in.  It would be easy to stay in such places every night and drive the Interstates all day and have nothing to say for yourself except that you slept very well.  Which, of course, we did.

We had family diversions on my husband's side in Webster, though---nieces and nephews grand and otherwise, not to mention their better halves---half of whom I only had acquaintance with via Facebook.  We met at one's rented farmhouse---a virtual time capsule of a post war remodel of a circa 1900 house, save for some Carol Brady wallpaper in the kitchen.  Via my postings on Facebook they knew I'd be enthralled and chatty about the details---right down to the wall tile in the bathroom, which I declared looked like the advanced stages of colitis.  The ceiling was ultra-coved into a tunnel effect and covered with gray subway tile---essentially giving the feeling of going under the Hudson or walking into some Automat shrine.  The basement was a maze of storage and somewhat sinister prep areas for the turkey operation the farm once was.

Nieces and nephews---grand and otherwise---and their significant others.

We carried on our revelry and frank observations down the street to the local Red Robin, where I considered a cocktail but settled for caffeine.  It was a thankfully quiet night there, so we could hear one another and mostly just disturb the staff.   Our ginormous fresh salads pleased both me and my husband---he so much so that he thought it was a worthy stop four days later.

But that's another story.

Do You See What I See?

Last Monday my husband had cataract surgery.  It's his second time around, so he knew what to expect and wasn't all that nervous.  Still, in medical situations more than anywhere else he points out to anyone within earshot that I'm his husband.  The results have run the gamut of a rude Yeah, I know and then pointedly ignoring me (in return we filed a complaint and nixed that nurse practioner from any further contact with us) to Together fifteen years?  You could show us straight folks a thing or two.

When the post-op nurse came to retrieve me from the waiting room, I could tell she was at ease with the relationship.  Still, she was a woman of a certain age and accustomed to the traditions of marriage---which apparently includes a similar age among the two parties involved.

We were walking down past the numerous patients recovering in their curtained surroundings when she asked me: "Have you had cataract surgery?

I glanced over at her, my gray-blue eyes surely flashing just a little.  "No."

"Oh."

It was, of course, only her way to make her small talk seem both professional and personal, but I considered what she saw in me---perhaps a sexy sixty-something, but the question merely made me feel a fugly forty-five. 

For once my husband looked his age and a bit groggy.  He lay there listening to the nurse delineate all the dos and don'ts---a list she surely mumbles in her sleep, although her delivery at that moment was again striking that balance between professional and personal.

"Okay, then," she announced.  "You're free to go."

We all held our breath for a moment, not quite knowing what to expect from one another.  My husband slipped from the gurney and though steady enough his body language expressed an uncertainty.  Subconsciously I heard something---was it the nurse, saying take his hand---and so I did.  Hand holding comes naturally to some couples, and it's certainly lauded between men and women, but since it's not publicly permitted for us, it isn't a habit of ours outside the gayest of ghettos.

So there I was, gently holding my husband's hand as we paraded past the patients.  From their blurry perspective I was merely a good son, holding Daddy's hand, while the nurse walked ahead us, casting glances back at the married men following her.  I was starting to have an identity crisis.

The nurse smiled up at me when we reached the door:  "Perhaps we'll soon see you too for cataract surgery."

My husband snorted and I gave her a bristly smile back.  "I don't think so.  My vision is still nearly twenty-twenty."

"Oh.  Well, aren't you lucky."

Somewhere in the back of my head I could hear myself screaming at her I'm only forty-five years old, but my tight, upturned lips kept my thoughts to myself.

"Then I guess we won't see you two again," she continued as she opened the door.

We thanked her and turned to our audience looking back at us from the waiting room.  I dropped my husband's hand.  With a soft slap it hit his jeans, a signal to move forward.