In House

I may have moved here because I fancied myself a surfer, or some other sort of free spirited vagabond. But, to face my current reality is to accept that my vocation is house building. While tourists created the environment that makes my living as sustainable and lucrative as it can be, it is my clients, the owners that I serve, and Thanksgiving is their week.

Owners of vacation homes visit often, and the lucky ones, usually those with some proficiency in accounting, spend a lot of time in their rental properties and second homes. But many visits, particularly for the rental owners are not missions of joy. The savvy owner of a larger, newer, home with a pool close to the ocean will be here around Easter. He will bring his indentured servants (family and chump friends) and while beer will be drunk, and the sun may peek through the clouds, there is little relaxation. The property must be readied. And these owners will be damned if they will suffer a $5 lightbulb, courtesy of their rental company, this early in the season. They will demand that their pool be opened, and heated. Their children, the only ones with any sense will refuse to swim in it. They might call me for a last minute repair, and by this time of year, I will be forced to explain as politely and succinctly as possible that this is a call I should have gotten two months prior. I will try to fit them in before Memorial Day.

Memorial day visits are for the lower stakes property owners. They've owned the house for years. They come to install screens, touch up a little paint, etc. Still they are serving a cruel master--the $$$.

Christmas is iffy because it is becoming a lucrative rental window. There are also all sorts of weird family dynamics with Christmas. Then there is New Years. Tough to keep the family together then. My client demographic tends to have kids that want to drink, but aren't quite old enough. Not an ideal age to spend New Years with mommy and daddy.

But Thanksgiving!! The blessed holiday of the owner--no--of the house. The beach is viewed through windows; it's cold. This could be the only time of year that the trim detail on the feature window that I agonized over might finally be noticed. Thanksgiving is the holiday of the fireplace surround and living room built-in. The focus is the house, my focus. Also, there is no real preparation. No high season looms. Enjoyment is possible. Maybe I'm going to remodel your beloved home. You've of course told me to hold off until after Thanksgiving. Vacation home owners use their houses like they are just that--houses. For one week they are no longer rental machines. They are homes, fulfilling the day dream that was envisioned amidst those long nights at the office paying for this beast!

For this one week owners treat their houses the same way the rest of us treat the houses we live in year round: A comfortable place to lay our head, a warm gathering place for the family we wish we didn't have to leave every day to support. For this one week, the fruit of my labor is divorced from the economics. Whenever I meet a client and they assert that they are going to treat their home as an investment, and not let emotion get in the way I'm torn. Half of me wants to punch them in the face and tell them they are full of shit! I've not seen anyone pull that off. Something about being human makes us see something that looks like a house very differently than say a security comprised of a bundle of home mortgages. The last time you told your broker to buy JP Morgan, you didn't spend three hours on the phone wondering if the accent tile you picked for JP Morgan's backsplash would compliment your granite selection. The other half of me wants to punch myself in the face. Why did I decide to build houses. I'm tired of talking for hours with people about the merits of eggshell versus satin.

I don't want to punch anyone on Thanksgiving though! Because houses aren't for bragging rights. They aren't about impressing their neighbors. They are mostly dry warm boxes designed for holding families and friends. My whole little town seems to be about something more pure and enjoyable than it is for the rest of the year.

Of course, when living on a margin like this you can never escape the irony. Nothing embodies an American Thanksgiving like eating more food than you need to eat, followed by sleeping in a house so big that you don't even remember what some of the rooms look like, overlooking a pool in which you've yet to swim. Makes you want to hug a pilgrim!

Threat Level DAD

Wee Quinn is a traveler. She has flown, and her ship (actually a ferry) has sailed. We were fortunate enough to visit family in Upstate New York, and friends in Boston week before last. A change of pace was nice, and probably needed. And-a pleasant surprise-Q is a master jet setter. She is a friendly and compliant flyer, and brings a three year old's perspective to things that we jaded adults have long forgotten to be amazed by. And seeing how different the rest of the world is from our home certainly gives us perspective on both.

The look of wonder on her face would be hard to capture in words, but her words were the most endearing. Highlights: "I can see the whole village out the window dad." (In this case the city of Norfolk). Upon beginning our decent, "We're going down guys!" I explained that landing was probably a less provocative description. Adjacent passengers laughed. . .nervously. When landings were bumpy--which they all seem to be when traveling with such precious cargo--"Phew that was a close one!" When I asked close to what, she just shrugged and looked at me as if I was the most naive person in the world.

All of our flights went smoothly and flying from Norfolk to Albany, things seemed tame to say the least. By the time Q was awaiting departure at Logan, she was an old hand. I, on the other hand, found a lot at Logan to occupy my parental mind. I sensed Deanna was feeling the same way when she pointed out a guy in a Saint Louis Cardinals hat (the Cards had beaten Boston the night before, no small crime in Boston, and during the world series). "Why's he gotta wear that hat, is he trying to get beat up?" Then there was the guy doing yoga, why he had to be limber for the flight I couldn't guess. I like to be limber for a flight, but bloody marys work way better than yoga.

Of course yoga guy and his buddy stood in the aisle for five agonizing minutes in which I was 48.7% sure they were up to no good. I was beginning to feel a little like Juan Williams, but nobody had a beard--except me. Maybe this is not unique to me, but as a father, pretty much everyone seems like at least a low level threat. Watching someone do yoga in an airport terminal while listening to the TSA's admonishment to report strange behavior raised my suspicion. In truth, I did a quick inventory in the terminal. I'd say eighty percent of my fellow passengers waiting in the terminal were either reading or drinking coffee or both. I decided to keep an eye on everyone else.

Then we landed, or "went down," if you will. And I spent fifteen minutes of the car ride home silently berating myself for being a paranoid jerk. Then last week there was a shooter at LAX. And I thought about the terminal we'd been sitting in. I thought about wrangling my friendly kid in an airport. I though about trying to keep her close when all she wanted to do was talk to everyone. I thought about how hard it would be to get to her to keep her safe as we stumbled into our shoes just past the security check. I spent some time berating myself for feeling comfortable in our little Norfolk airport--for letting Quinn or Deanna get more than eighteen inches away from me.

Statistically speaking, the ride to daycare, or time in the ocean or pool are far more dangerous to Quinn than flight, airports, terrorists and run of the mill nut jobs combined. Were I a sensible man, this would help me to just relax and take life as it comes. But, I'm a father, so at home or in the airport terminal, I'd say I hover around the same threat level. I'm not sure what color that threat level would be, so I'll just call it threat level DAD.