Screwdrivered
Page 29
We made great strides toward a continued state of détente when we progressed to the front porch, almost re-creating my fall through the floorboards when Caroline pressed a little too hard in her heels. Once again, Clark surprised and impressed me with his ability to compromise. He did put his foot down—and almost through, which couldn’t have happened at a better moment, when I suggested that the railing and the cornice thingies were a little too fussy for my taste. Though I loved this house I wanted to put my own stamp on it, even if just in the tiniest of ways. When Clark began to make a stink, Caroline wisely interjected with a suggestion that was period-specific but slightly less Victorian. And in the end, he agreed the changes would look nice on the new front porch.
Things began to unravel when we went upstairs. When Clark leaned on a cabinet in the hallway that I’d been unable to pry open, something came loose. A tug and a push and a pull later, the panel slid upward.
The house had a dumbwaiter, like an elevator for food. Or laundry. Or dolls. When we pulled it up there were several dolls sitting there in suspended psychotic silence. And sitting among the dolls was an old bottle cap.
“Holy crow, this is a Nesbitt’s bottle cap! Do you know how old this is?” Clark exclaimed.
“What’s a Nesbitt’s?” I asked.
“Oh my gosh, I loved Nesbitt’s!” Caroline chimed in. “The orange one was my mom’s favorite. It got so hard to find, but I remember having it when I was a kid!”
“What’s a Nesbitt’s?” I asked again.
“Did you ever have the Honey Lemonade?”
“Oh, it’s a lemonade company? Like Country Time?” I asked.
“No! I could never find it!” Caroline replied.
The hallway was getting very closed in, and I walked over to stand next to the Legless Knight’s legs.
“You can order it online,” Clark continued.
“Must be a California thing, huh?” I asked, but nobody answered.
Eventually I was able to pry them away from their bottle cap and the dumbwaiter, which I immediately divested of dolls. Because who the hell needed that image in her head, of a bunch of dolls hiding inside the walls of an old house? Which is now ingrained in the membrane, so Merry Christmas, everyone.
But that was just weird. Things really unraveled when we headed downstairs.
Clark began telling us that in the original plans for the home there had indeed been space allocated for an actual ballroom. But whether due to resources, a lack of interest, or simply because the frontier at that time didn’t host too many balls (Clark’s personal theory), the ballroom was scratched. At that time, however, if a family was a member of society, then balls were a part of the social calendar. And ballrooms were constructed. This revelation led us to a grand discussion, mostly between Clark and Caroline, about the golden age of San Francisco and the parties and balls held in the mansions before the Great Earthquake of 1906 and subsequent fire that burned most of the city to the ground. I listened in with some interest, but mainly picked at the chipped paint on the doorjamb I was leaning on. Clark stopped me every time he saw me doing it, and at a certain point it became a game: How many pieces could I chip off before he stopped me? Childish, yes, but more interesting than listening to that crap.
Which brings me to what really chipped my paint.
If you know anything at all about old homes, then you know they’re very compartmentalized. Homeowners in 1890 would never have entertained the idea of “open concept.” Kitchens would be and should be separate from the dining room, and not just in case there were actually servants serving. Even small houses were constructed that way. Women cooked, men read the newspaper, children rode around on things that didn’t require seat belts or helmets, all in separate places within the home. And then they gathered in the dining room, quite removed from the stink and smoke from old-timey cooking. A swinging door between the two rooms created ease of movement, but allowed the mess to be hidden from view.
I suggested that perhaps not only could the swinging door be removed, but the entire wall between the two rooms could be removed, letting in more light and creating a more versatile space.
I watch HGTV; I knew what I was talking about.
What I had never watched was Survivor, and therefore I knew nothing of an alliance. But I saw one hatched right in front of my eyes. Clark and Caroline bonded, united in their determination to save the swinging door and to never, I repeat never, allow the idea of knocking a wall down at Seaside Cottage to be spoken of again.
That last part? With the never allow, and all that? Go ahead and reread that, channeling Charlton Heston and the best Moses he could muster.
I was outmanned, outgunned, and out-Moses’d.
My backup was firmly in the librarian’s camp, who was now leading Caroline up the staircase to the site of the Battle of the Balustrade.
“Oh, no you don’t, you’re not talking her into saving this rickety old bannister,” I started, dashing up in front of them and standing firmly in front of Clark.
He ignored me, turning to Caroline. “This was handcrafted by Jeremiah Woodstove, and it’s one of the only remaining few in this style,” he told Caroline, who ooohed and aaahed.
I smacked the damned bannister with my hand and the whole thing wobbled. “It’s falling apart. It’s rickety, it’s unsafe, and it gave me a splinter the other day! See?” I shoved my hand under Clark’s nose, and his eyes grew big. Perhaps because last time I was so close to his face, I’d drawn blood.
“I hardly think that a splinter is a reason to tear down the entire balustrade.” He looked at my hand. “But I am sorry about your splinter.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I mumbled. “And I didn’t say I wanted to tear the whole thing down. Just the wobbly parts.”
I stared up at him, noticing for the first time how very tall he was. Sure, part of it was because he was on the step above me, but he was also just a tall man. A tall man with a busted nose. “And I’m sorry about your nose, in case I forgot to tell you,” I whispered.
“You did,” he whispered back, with a tiny smile. “Forget to tell me.”
“Well, I’m telling you,” I said, noticing that Mimi was perched at the top of the stairs peering over the railing like a mouse. And Caroline had backed away and was at the bottom of the stairs looking up.
Smiling.
Ugh.
“Mimi, I’m going to take a few minutes to get my notes together. Why don’t you come on down and help me,” Caroline said, and Mimi danced down the stairs.
Things began to unravel when we went upstairs. When Clark leaned on a cabinet in the hallway that I’d been unable to pry open, something came loose. A tug and a push and a pull later, the panel slid upward.
The house had a dumbwaiter, like an elevator for food. Or laundry. Or dolls. When we pulled it up there were several dolls sitting there in suspended psychotic silence. And sitting among the dolls was an old bottle cap.
“Holy crow, this is a Nesbitt’s bottle cap! Do you know how old this is?” Clark exclaimed.
“What’s a Nesbitt’s?” I asked.
“Oh my gosh, I loved Nesbitt’s!” Caroline chimed in. “The orange one was my mom’s favorite. It got so hard to find, but I remember having it when I was a kid!”
“What’s a Nesbitt’s?” I asked again.
“Did you ever have the Honey Lemonade?”
“Oh, it’s a lemonade company? Like Country Time?” I asked.
“No! I could never find it!” Caroline replied.
The hallway was getting very closed in, and I walked over to stand next to the Legless Knight’s legs.
“You can order it online,” Clark continued.
“Must be a California thing, huh?” I asked, but nobody answered.
Eventually I was able to pry them away from their bottle cap and the dumbwaiter, which I immediately divested of dolls. Because who the hell needed that image in her head, of a bunch of dolls hiding inside the walls of an old house? Which is now ingrained in the membrane, so Merry Christmas, everyone.
But that was just weird. Things really unraveled when we headed downstairs.
Clark began telling us that in the original plans for the home there had indeed been space allocated for an actual ballroom. But whether due to resources, a lack of interest, or simply because the frontier at that time didn’t host too many balls (Clark’s personal theory), the ballroom was scratched. At that time, however, if a family was a member of society, then balls were a part of the social calendar. And ballrooms were constructed. This revelation led us to a grand discussion, mostly between Clark and Caroline, about the golden age of San Francisco and the parties and balls held in the mansions before the Great Earthquake of 1906 and subsequent fire that burned most of the city to the ground. I listened in with some interest, but mainly picked at the chipped paint on the doorjamb I was leaning on. Clark stopped me every time he saw me doing it, and at a certain point it became a game: How many pieces could I chip off before he stopped me? Childish, yes, but more interesting than listening to that crap.
Which brings me to what really chipped my paint.
If you know anything at all about old homes, then you know they’re very compartmentalized. Homeowners in 1890 would never have entertained the idea of “open concept.” Kitchens would be and should be separate from the dining room, and not just in case there were actually servants serving. Even small houses were constructed that way. Women cooked, men read the newspaper, children rode around on things that didn’t require seat belts or helmets, all in separate places within the home. And then they gathered in the dining room, quite removed from the stink and smoke from old-timey cooking. A swinging door between the two rooms created ease of movement, but allowed the mess to be hidden from view.
I suggested that perhaps not only could the swinging door be removed, but the entire wall between the two rooms could be removed, letting in more light and creating a more versatile space.
I watch HGTV; I knew what I was talking about.
What I had never watched was Survivor, and therefore I knew nothing of an alliance. But I saw one hatched right in front of my eyes. Clark and Caroline bonded, united in their determination to save the swinging door and to never, I repeat never, allow the idea of knocking a wall down at Seaside Cottage to be spoken of again.
That last part? With the never allow, and all that? Go ahead and reread that, channeling Charlton Heston and the best Moses he could muster.
I was outmanned, outgunned, and out-Moses’d.
My backup was firmly in the librarian’s camp, who was now leading Caroline up the staircase to the site of the Battle of the Balustrade.
“Oh, no you don’t, you’re not talking her into saving this rickety old bannister,” I started, dashing up in front of them and standing firmly in front of Clark.
He ignored me, turning to Caroline. “This was handcrafted by Jeremiah Woodstove, and it’s one of the only remaining few in this style,” he told Caroline, who ooohed and aaahed.
I smacked the damned bannister with my hand and the whole thing wobbled. “It’s falling apart. It’s rickety, it’s unsafe, and it gave me a splinter the other day! See?” I shoved my hand under Clark’s nose, and his eyes grew big. Perhaps because last time I was so close to his face, I’d drawn blood.
“I hardly think that a splinter is a reason to tear down the entire balustrade.” He looked at my hand. “But I am sorry about your splinter.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I mumbled. “And I didn’t say I wanted to tear the whole thing down. Just the wobbly parts.”
I stared up at him, noticing for the first time how very tall he was. Sure, part of it was because he was on the step above me, but he was also just a tall man. A tall man with a busted nose. “And I’m sorry about your nose, in case I forgot to tell you,” I whispered.
“You did,” he whispered back, with a tiny smile. “Forget to tell me.”
“Well, I’m telling you,” I said, noticing that Mimi was perched at the top of the stairs peering over the railing like a mouse. And Caroline had backed away and was at the bottom of the stairs looking up.
Smiling.
Ugh.
“Mimi, I’m going to take a few minutes to get my notes together. Why don’t you come on down and help me,” Caroline said, and Mimi danced down the stairs.
