One Thing Leads To Another part I

About a year and a half ago now, we got new neighbors. There was concern that the fence between our yards that has been standing since 1960 was going to fall down at any moment. Being a good neighbor, I offered to re-build it but was met with hesitation. The neighbor was concerned such a project was beyond my reach. He wanted something better than wood. Something waterproof, something that might last a little longer than half a century.  Something I feared would not be mid-century-modern-cool.

I nodded, bid good bye and tended to other responsibilities. Months passed. He asked me again as winter set in last year and I said we’d discuss it in the spring.

About that same time, my buddy Seth wanted to borrow the Thomas bike to put in the window of his high traffic Chiropractic Clinic for the winter. I wasn't surprised then in the spring when he said he was going to buy a Bullitt cargo bike to haul his two boys around. His older son is about the same age as G and the two are thick as thieves. In fact, we often swapped kids on adventure rides when they were 3 and 4. G liked riding on the tail of his Surley Big Dummy, "because it felt like riding on a motorcycle".

 Through the winter we came up with various box design ideas. Finally we decided on building a helicopter cockpit complete with a Gatling gun that shot water. In April I took my rough sketches and Pinterest "Choppers" page to my dad's shop and got busy building what I dubbed the, "Three Headed Monster." When I floated the idea of the squirt gun, the old man off handedly recommend using a windshield wiper motor since Seth was going to have an e-motor to get the boys up their steep hill home.

As spring began to blossom, the neighbor caught me between trips to Mr. Plywood and asked me again about the fence. I told him again I was happy to build it and had some design ideas that would be rad. He again shared concern for my ability to build a fence. I reminded him that I built the shed he could see from behind our geriatric divider. He was not dissuaded from concern. I then made it a personal challenge to find creative ways to park the Thomas in front of his house, leave for rides while he was outside, or stop by to say “hi” when we returned from rides with the Thomas bike. Mostly just to remind him that a fence was not going to be a problem.

 

Building the 3-headed-monster went well. I tried a new tactic of using foam core board from the Dollar store to cut out a rough profile of the cargo box, but in the end, I think it just created more work. Having a beer or two, squinting at the bike, looking at pictures on my phone, then sketching a shape before cutting up a bunch of wood I think works just as well. But the beer costs more than the foam core board.

Work started getting the better of me and the 3 Headed Monster was taking up valuable space in my dad's shop. He took over on the canopy, elevating the craftsmanship from my solid ability of a 6, to his standard 11. Seth's Bullitt arrived and the e-motor was being installed. Time was ticking and spring was quickly becoming summer. Seth, the old man and I got busy on the finish work and cranked out the sanding and paint work.

Portland being Portland, there was some minor public pushback for making a weapon of death and destruction for innocent boys as a play thing. Those comments gave me a better sense of accomplishment than even the guy in his rusty Bronco that yelled, “That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever seen!” at us while riding the original boat bike. But the neighbor still wanted a new fence.

The Big 0-5

Remember in the movie, 'Cars' when all the cars raced through the water park and 'Mater was launching water balloons with his tow-hook?

Neither do I because I'm pretty sure that never happened in any of the Cars movies. But when you're 4 and planning your 5th birthday party, reality is sort of an after thought, like napkins to wipe all the cake off your shirt.

So it went then that G, -having missed a 4th birthday party due to it being the day we moved into the Cold War Dream House and the previous and following weeks being filled with all the pomp and circumstance of remodeling and selling and buying and remodeling homes,- had a good one coming for birthday number 5.

His plan was a Lightning McQueen themed party with his blow up slide, swimming pool and Slip'n Slide. Given that our yard has multiple elevations, the layout of it all would be awesome for sure. I envisioned a wave of water from a popped inflatable swimming pool washing a fence away at least. Possibly flooding a neighbor's basement. Certainly there would be some crying kids. To make sure that last one would happen, G insisted we also have plenty of squirt guns.

Then the coup d'etat request; A Tow Mater pinata. The Lightning McQueen paper plates, napkins and Disney Cartoon shaped cake were all optional. Finish line flags, NASCAR references, Jeff Gordon look-a-likes were all unnecessary. But the 'Mater pinata was the key to the whole party. According to the 4-year old.

G's birthday represents more to The Newmaforma than just a kid turning a year older. Without getting sappy or rehashing details, his birthday is a day of celebration of family and health. A lot went down before and after G was born and we are each blessed to be here as a family. So we celebrate.

This year celebrating as a family meant making a pinata. Earlier this summer I went to a paper mache' party where I wrapped a balloon in soaked, torn up newspaper and was "allowed" to leave the party early because I sucked at making a balloon shaped paper mache' thing.

We all sat for 3 nights after dinner at the kitchen table working on Mater. I roughed up the basic frame work. A did most of the paper mache', knowing of my previous balloon aberration. G painted with mostly a brown pallet. The funnest part, the late-night Mom and Dad time building Mater's details were the time that A and I had to really enjoy.

It's amazing what skills surface when you have kid projects to do. Before G, we didn't really roll with the paper mache' crowd. Cargo-bike family fun, riding from park to park wasn't really our thing either. Nor was staying up till 2 a.m. reminiscing about how we used to  sleep for gluttonous hours at a time.Yet, it was quality time to reflect as she painstakingly made Mater's eyes and I wrote his name on the doors. We eagerly showed each other our detailed work and then basked in our completed project before reminding ourselves that some little pre-school kid was gonna destroy Mater with a wiffle ball bat.

In the end, Mater was as G had insisted all along, perhaps the best part of the whole party. Each of the dozen kids got a few swings. Mater was torn from the string hanging him by a slightly taller-than-average kid and this fool had to get his hands all into the hard end of the wiffle ball bat to keep the pummeling for candy at peak interest. G, going last, was able to purge his energy into destroying the 12 hours or so of his parents' handiwork. The kids fought en mass ripping the candy from Maters' innards and from each other before ingesting as much as possible before their own parents confiscated what was unable to be gripped in their tiny little hands.

Happy birthday G.

Every Tool Needs A Shed

The main updates to the Cold War Dream House have mostly been wrapped up. I'm still uncertain why a house actively being constructed during the Cuban Missile Crisis was not amended to include a fall-out shelter. Khrushchev  had already proven that brick and mortar work can be done on the fly. I guess that floor plan update will have to wait until my lottery numbers align.

More importantly though, I need a place to put the yard tools. It's a slippery slope piling gear in the garage; I have an agenda for that square footage. At the Cold War Starter Home, I simply bought A a car that wouldn't fit in the tiny garage.  Lawn mowers only add clutter to my garage vision. I needed a Dojo for gardening.

Location was an issue, the best place for a shed was straight across from the living room window. The ground was most level and highest elevation, as well as the least amount of shrubs to remove. There was a gap in foliage to the rear neighbors deck that would best be blocked, and I had multiple shades of left over paint and an art interest spurred by youthful cycling heroes.



Unfortunately my inability to read a tape measure was highlighted as I made the doors way to big for the space. Of course I didn't measure the doors themselves until after I had glued them together, taped and primed them.

I had to make a run out to my Dad's shop to cut, router, pucker and rebuild. At one point, he told me to grab a chisel to clean out the routered groove in one of the joints. I asked where a chisel might be and he responded, "On my workbench."



 With the doors fixed and ready to hang, I had a vision come to me during a dream. But first a little back-story; A's Grandpa had a thing for shellac. He put a glossy coat of chemical preserve over EVERYTHING. The brick chimney in his basement had a candy coating as if it was made of red M&M's.

So in my dream, I was spraying shellac all over the kitchen with a pesticide pump sprayer. A was yelling at me to not spray the windows, but all her knickknacks on the counter and window sill had a shiny preserved coating and it looked HOT.

 Of course the dream clearly meant that I needed to shellac the inside of the shed. And so you know, a pesticide sprayer works great for spray sealing. I brushed it out with a broom because everyone knows if you paint with a broom you're a Bad ass.



Settling into the Cold War Dream House

I can honestly say that remodeling a house to sell, remodeling a house to move into, moving 15 years of marital bliss and 23 bicycles is probably not much different than the effort it took to put a man on the moon. Rest in peace Neil Armstrong.

Speaking of Space Race, while the new place was being worked on I had a dream that I neglected to check the basement cabinets for a portal into a backyard bomb shelter. I woke in a sweat, heart racing at 3 a.m. figuring how it would totally make sense given the slope of the lawn, the patio cement slab and access from said floor to ceiling cabinets. I raced over to the new house the next morning to check, but alas there was no subterranean survival center. The contractors, (a great group of guys that felt more like friends helping with my project, only better, as they showed up on time, finished on time, didn't eat all our food, but wanted to be paid with more than beer. Go figure.) all laughed when I explained my dream. They agreed with the logic that it would have been a great place for a bomb shelter and offered to bid the job.

So we're mostly moved in and getting a feel for the neighborhood. At the old place when G and I would ride to Thunder-dome there was an occasional homeless guy sleeping under a tree but never any other signs of degradation. It was never a problem. I expect so much from a Portland City Park that resembles a campground with the soft ground, tall old trees and such.

At the new place, the park doesn't quite compare, so G has taken to making a "race course" around the surrounding blocks. On the backside descent to the tight, off-camber corner near the retirement home, we've already found used condoms in the street. I guess it makes sense that these old guys are popping Viagra like PEZ and taking Grandma on a walk up the hill to the gazebo that looks out over the community garden. Just the other night the retirement home had a Luau that went well past 9 p.m.

With the Luau in full swing and G and I watching his favorite movie, A decided to hit the grocery store alone in hopes of some peace and quiet while shopping. Turns out, after dinner Friday night at the Fred Meyer's is as much as a meat market as the retirement home.
She got back just as G and I were walking upstairs to get ready for bed. I had the living room windows open and the house smelled of smoke. The neighbors have consistently been partying on weekends and have a fire pit so I gave it no thought. In fact, a week after we moved in, the retired neighbor lady came over to tell us of her parties and apologize if they get too loud. Apparently backgammon after dark gets a little rowdy.

A was flustered and complained of the smoke just as I was processing that it smelled a little strong. I closed up the windows, looked out the kitchen window to see a glowing house a block away filtered by heavy smoke just as she asked if I hadn't heard the sirens.

She then went on to explain, in her animated way, her shopping experience and the guy in flip flops pushing a flatbed cart that she couldn't shake through the store amid the beer buying maze of party goers. In fact, her story was so intricate that she had to sit at the kitchen table and draw a diagram of how it all went down while barely able to contain herself.

The guy left the store about the same time as A and, as chance would have it, they were parked right by each other. By now his cart was loaded with a way-too-big-to-fit-into-his-car, boxed bistro table set. A loaded her groceries and watched puzzlingly as he opened all the doors of his Crown Vic and tried to jam the box unsuccessfully into each portal one at a time.

He got it jammed partially into the trunk, took the cart to the cart corral, walked back, jumped on the box some more, swore, tried to stomp his frustrations but was emasculated by his own flip flops. He then brought the cart back, held it from rolling down the slope, pinning him against his car with a fully extended leg and his big toe against the handle of the cart while now standing on one leg and attempting to pick up the large box, pivot and set it back on the cart behind him. I think she said he swore some more.

As sweet a soul as A is, she decided that 10'oclock at night was no time to offer to help or tell the guy to just take the table and chairs out of the box.

"It was so obvious the thing wouldn't fit! He didn't even need to measure anything to know the box wasn't going into that car. He was so angry, he finally stomped his flip flops and pushed the beat up box back into the store, presumably to return the thing, and I just threw it in reverse and floored it to get away from the guy."

Now, standing in the middle of the kitchen surrounded by empty grocery bags, eyes ablaze with her story, she turned casually to see out the window at the glowing house a block away, "old people are having sex, houses are burning, what's next: pets' heads falling off!?"

Swan song

As best as I figure, tonight was going to be G's last evening at the local park he calls Thunderdome, as residents of the neighborhood.

The neighbors along the four blocks or so to the park have become accustomed to his tearing down the sidewalk on his skuut bike with me next to or right behind him on my own bike. The one guy around the corner especially, who recently told us that riding bikes on the sidewalk was illegal. What keeps me entertained about him is that every day that we ride by his house, Gavin asks, "Is the cranky guy happy yet?"

Cranky guy sits in his living room next to an open window reading the paper every evening. I answer, "We can only hope so son."

So tonight I had visions of G riding through the park, down the grassy hill, circling around giant redwood trees, not understanding the magnitude of this last after dinner excursion. I imagined it a summary of all the riding and playing we have done there over the last 3 years.

Instead, he wanted to walk to the park...wait for it...with Abeeee in her stroller.

I thought A threw that stupid stroller away months ago. At the very least in the last few days while packing. I admit I am the one who caved and bought it for him after he earned a trip to the toy aisle at Fred Meyers for not peeing his pants or eating all his dinner or something.

But alas, my lovely wife, the mother of this fine child, had not thrown it away. Leaving me to walk to the park with my son, his doll and her pink stroller.

Cranky guy was happy this evening.

The dog walkers, other families making their way to the park and most everyone driving by, all smiled. Some pointed. Some shared how great they felt it was to let a child express him/herself.

I was impressed by G, not for wanting to embrace his feminine side, but for being able to launch Abeeeeeee down every slope we came across. He pushed evenly never tipping her heavy either left or right. She did have a few jettison moments with curbs though.

He was careful to look for cars before letting her "cross the street by herself."

Once at the park, G found a cool stick, ditched Abeeeeee and ran around till he was dripping with sweat and finally broke the stick. I sat on a bench consoling her while talking with another dad whose daughter regularly wears a super hero suit consisting of purple snow boots, butterfly wings and a cat mask made from a paper plate.

Abeeeee thought the stick breaking was pretty awesome and that G had it coming after dropping her like a homely prom date once the slow dances started. We had to discuss her attitude before it got the better of her. Bitterness is ugliness.

Then G and Super Girl found a Hot Wheel car under a pile of bark dust and Abeeeeeeee was indignant. So much so that when it came time to walk home, Abeeeeeee wanted nothing to do with Gavin.

It's one thing to walk to the park with your son while he pushes a pink stroller with his 'daughter' in it. It's totally different to carry that stroller yourself while your 4-year-old gets to cradle a rad, lime green Ford Mustang Hot Wheel car.

Believe it or not, as a red blooded man, there is a right way to carry a toy stroller and a doll. Unlike carrying your wife's purse which is just plain wrong. First, is the fundamental chin up, chest out. Good posture is the foundation of confidence.

Next is to palm the stroller like a basketball. Squeezing the flimsy pink plastic handles together with just enough force that they may break, but not until your close enough to home that you don't have to carry a broken girl toy with your son for a distance further than you could throw the stupid thing. Despite the grip, the girl toy should hang casually at your side like how the old timers carried their lunch pale into the factory every day.

Lastly, is to acknowledge passers by with a subtle sternness. A look that says, "Yeah, I know that you see me carrying a girly toy and walking with my son, but wouldn't it suck if you got beat up with this stupid, pink, pre-school play thing?"

It worked. As Gavin stumbled over the uneven sidewalk, not watching where he was going, while analyzing the car in his dirty, sweaty, little hands, the same dog walkers and new parents who walked in a haze with their precious babies asleep in real strollers, looked at us again but instead of smiling that cheesy, "oh how cute," smile, gave me the nod that men give men out of a silent respect.

Then we got home and each had an Otter Pop while G told me knock knock jokes that all ended with Abeeeee farting.

Cold War pimpin' Dream House

As first time home buyers we were asked to make a list of desirable features. Stuff like marble ceilings, full wall mirrors in every room, an indoor swing, bomb shelter and Lion head door-knobs didn't make the cut. That stuff costs big money and try as we did, none of it was found in houses in our meager price range. Except for the swing. But that house made me feel like I picked up a venerial disease just walking in.

So the second time around we have more strategic desires. Now we know despite how Mike Tyson might decorate, marble goes on counter-tops and entry way floor, not ceilings. Mirrors go on ceilings. Duh.

All I really want is a little more shop space and not to have to make the same improvements yet again on a different house. And of course, Lion head door knobs. A would be happy with kitchen cabinets that allow her to reach the top shelf. G wants train tracks in every room and tunnels through every wall. I can't fault either of them.

So all that said, here are a few highlights of our options:

This basement was 'move in ready'. I thought it would be a good place to have an 'under the sea' prom -after party at.

The finished garage is a classic. I would put the tv facing the parked car though so as to also get that drive in feel on date night.

These were the finest ceiling tiles I've seen by far. Not a new install either! This whole house was a time machine. I kept waiting for Christopher Walken to come out from around a corner as Calvin Webber from the movie Blast from the Past.

Dew-drops along the basement stairs.

This basement was the best man-town I've seen. The downside, not pictured was the furnace which was as big as an SUV.

Seriously, the pool table matches the paneling. The poker table and matching Joker light = good times. Off to the right is the wet bar. This was the only part of the house that didn't need work!

Remember her for later...

Gavin said there was no way he could pee in a girls bathroom. So had to scratch this one off the list.

I think the dirty perv bathroom got some movie time in the 70's.



Okay, this bed...friggin RAD! Imagine the cheesecake oil painting in the same room. A and I both wanted to buy the house just to get the bed worked into the deal.