No, Really

We have a move in date!  Don't laugh.

The Tyranny of Choice

I have in my hand one of those paint-swatch “wheels,” that gather together a manufacturer’s offerings in one handy – and utterly bewildering – place.

            This particular wheel comes from Benjamin Moore.  Each of these gathered swatch cards shows seven related colors, moving across an effectively infinite spectrum.  There are well over 200 cards in this wheel representing several different collections – the Historical Colors collection, the America’s Colors collection, Organic Colors, Inorganic Colors, and others. 

This inventory, then, which does not even constitute the entirety of this one maker’s wares alone, includes more than 1,500 hues, many of them almost indistinguishable from the one before or on the next card or in another collection with a different set of themed names.

There is an entire collection of just Off Whites – because, of course, “White Ice” is nothing like “Icicle,” which is so very distinct from “Ice Mist,” which only a blind-ass fool could mistake for “Glacier”.

Now, I’m sure these shades are, in fact, demonstrably different. I’m confident science possesses instruments fine enough to measure these distinctions.  And, to be fair, I actually can see them with the unaided eye.  Really.  But only when they’re right next to one another and only when we’re engaged in the fool’s errand of trying to choose just the right thing.  Were the paint store to accidentally give us “White Heron” instead of  “White Dove,” we’d never know the difference once it was on the wall, and it would have no effect whatsoever on our lives.

Yet we struggle to get it just right.  The perfect shade for each room – to go with the floors, the furniture, the rugs.  To set the right mood.  To complement the next room over.

The mathematical possibilities created by the absurd overabundance of colors available render it, for all practical purposes, impossible to achieve the perfection desired.  And the confusion is worsened by the multiplicity of makers, times the proliferation of “bespoke” pigmenteers, marketers who merely put their name on a subset of colors undoubtedly already offered by other sellers under other names – but in less appealing brochures at much less reassuringly exclusive prices.

            The futility of the whole exercise is further compounded by the nature of light and color itself. The “Wickham Grey” we picked for the entry hall and stairwell – which, in the sample we chose from looked, you know, grey – looks bluish over here and greenish over there, depending on whether it’s receiving natural or artificial light, what it’s next to, and what you had for lunch. 

            Our friend Justin captured this dilemma long ago.  Having grown up in Jamaica, Sweden, and the U.K., he was entirely overwhelmed by the staggering amount of variety he was confronted with everywhere he turned in the States. The act of ordering lunch, simple where he’d grown up with only a reasonable range of options, became a labor under the imperative of making the best possible order out of an ever-expanding universe of choices.  The implied potential of enjoying the single, perfect sandwich made the threat of ending up with a merely good one unbearable.

Ironically, the freedom to choose exactly what you want makes you a slave to the tyranny of increasingly fine distinctions.  Please, let me choose between just drawer pulls A, B, and C. I simply don’t need the combination of styles, variations on said styles, colors and materials to make me sift through nano-differences up to ZZZ₁₀.

I’m sure it’s un-American to suggest that one’s freedom of choice should be so infringed. But I can’t help thinking that liberty might be better used in some other pursuit than parsing out the ontological implications of the Dakota Round Knob versus the Dakota Button Knob. 

The Myth of Tantalus

The myth of Sisyphus, that devastatingly concise reduction of the drudgery and futility of ongoing existence, is well known – in part because he had a good modern publicist in Camus, but also because his grim experience is immediately understandable to us all.  We all put in our time behind that boulder.

Less frequently invoked is the tale of Tantalus. For his crimes – and biggies they were – he was punished in Tartarus with unending dissatisfaction, the objects of his desire forever just out of reach. He was immersed up to his neck in water, but when he bent to drink, it drained away; luscious fruit hung on trees above him, but when he stretched for it the winds blew the branches away from him. His suffering was not for nought, however, as it gave us the splendid word, “tantalize,” meaning “to torment with the sight of something desired but out of reach; tease by arousing expectations that are repeatedly disappointed.”

Which brings us to the end game of our project.  They’ve made terrific progress.  So much so that it’s now all in sight.  It seems as though there are just a handful of items left to tick and we can move right in.  Yet . . . yet . . .

Somehow, there’s still a good month to go.  The garage is full of appliances waiting to be installed.  The walls are primed and ready to paint.  The countertops are being cut.  It seems that a concerted week’s worth would get us there.

But no.  This has to happen before that, and things need to dry, and inspectors have to come, and they actually have some other jobs than ours to worry about, too. So, it’s a month.

We really haven’t room to complain, actually.  Jefferson originally said eight months, and that’s just what it’ll be if we’re in by the end of March, as it appears we will be.  As always, it’s the wishing that gets you.  It seemed like we might be in earlier, therefore it’s a loss when we aren’t.  Self-inflicted, of course.  As John Cleese said in the little remembered “Clockwise,” (1986) in which he portrayed an English school headmaster, thwarted at every turn as he simply tries to travel to receive a longed-for award: “It’s not the despair.  I can take the despair.  It’s the hope I can’t stand.” 

If Jefferson had said 10 months, we’d think ourselves lucky right now and be absolutely delighted with the progress.  Since he said eight we hoped for seven, and it’s the anxiety of the race, instead.

But we’re close.  Tantalizingly.

O, Pioneers

Appeared in Pioneer Press newspapers,
December 23, 2011

“Every church has at least one Grand Lady,” wrote Pastor McPeek of the Millburn Congregational Church, “a person whose wisdom, wit, generosity and dedication is an inspiration to everyone.  At Millburn we are fortunate to have several women who qualify for that title.  Certainly Beatrice Anderson, leader, worker, historian, and inspiration, qualifies for our title of first grand lady and gracious friend.”

Mrs. Anderson was the longest resident of our new old home, occupying it for some 60 years. And she seems to have been the very spirit of the town, having seen, and embodied, so much of its history.  She also wrote that history, as one of the area’s foremost chroniclers (of, apparently, two).

She was born Beatrice Low in 1897 in Waukegan, where Low Avenue commemorates her family’s early connection to Lake County.  Her mother was a member of the Bonner family, among the county’s original settlers (also recognized in our geography, with Bonner Road in Wauconda, among other commemorations). 

She purchased the house from its builders, the Strang family, the original thanes of Millburn, which was first known as Strang’s Settlement or Strang’s Corners.  The name Millburn – Scots for mill creek, the current name of the waterway that trickles through our land – was suggested by George Trotter, whose daughter, Helen, married Jake Strang, builder of our house.  Beatrice sold the house to Bonner relatives, from whom we bought it.

According to Beatrice’s history (which can be found on the Web site of the Historic Millburn Community Association: http://www.hmca-il.org/default.htm), many of the early Scots and German settlers of the area, headed west long before Horace Greeley’s exhortation, fleeing New England’s economic Panic of 1837.  They arrived in Lake County, then populated primarily by the Potawatomi tribe, found in it rich soil, game and fish, and began building. By 1856 the Strangs, who came south from Canada, were prosperous enough to construct the fine brick store at the corner of what are now Grass Lake Road and Route 45 – the epicenter of the famed Millburn Strangler -- as well as our house which, as Esther Foster, the area’s other historian, describes it, “stands beside the stream [Mill Creek] in nineteenth century magnificence today.”

I thank Mrs. Foster for the kind words, but “magnificence” may be a stretch.  It is, as the song says, a very, very, very fine house – strong and honest, lovely in a way that bespeaks good character.  Its building signaled, perhaps, the end of the town’s frontier days and a new degree of establishment and prosperity.  But it’s very much a provincial beauty; one that speaks to its time and circumstances, the people who made it, the way they thought and the things they valued, foremost among which were commitment and perseverance.  They built a house that, 150 years later, is standing strong and still telling their story.

So, we’ve set down new roots among the deep ones of these families that pioneered this area.  A different kind of pioneer, meanwhile, is pulling its roots up, as the Pioneer Press newspaper chain, unfortunately, is discontinuing its North Group of papers, serving the communities around Old Mill Creek – Gurnee, Grayslake, Lake Villa and Antioch. 

And that, too, is in the pioneer tradition.  The Strangs and their neighbors came here out of economic necessity; in another difficult time, Pioneer Press is leaving for the same reason.  It’s a pity these towns will be left without the papers that helped form their identities and gave them a sense of community.  But I suspect that gap will be filled before long

Personally, I’ll emulate the original settlers who came here and stuck it out – the Strangs and Bonners, and, especially, Beatrice Anderson, the teller of the tale.  While this will be the last installment of this column to appear before this paper is shuttered, I’ll continue it online.  If you’re interested in coming along, please join me online at http://talesoftumbledownfarm.blogspot.com/.  Hope to see you there.

The Permanent Staycation

Appeared in Pioneer Press newspapers
 December 2, 2010

My brother-in-law Chris used to be somewhat envious of my eminent retireability.  An energetic and ambitious chap himself, he had a hard time imagining how he’d fill his days without the demands of work consuming their better part.  I, on the other hand, seemed born for repose, requiring only a steady supply of books, movies, and music to be completely happy.

            Yet, somehow, I find myself in possession of this farm that shatters this happy vision of idleness by A) requiring me to stay at my town job in order to meet the financial burden I’ve created for myself with said farm, and B) presenting insatiable demand for labor.  There is always something – or a dozen somethings – that need to be done there.

            And, surprisingly, I like that.  Who knew I needed to be productive?  But I’ve finally recognized that it’s the busyness that makes the downtime sweet.  And the farm always presents occupation that feels worthwhile.

            So, my happiness with the place extends even so far as accepting its crushing of my boyhood dream of doing nothing at all.  It has much the same effect on other leisurely concepts, such as vacationing. And that’s more than okay. I relish the idea of the farm as our permanent staycation – a place that offers beauty and interest and activity, without ever having to go anywhere to find them.

            Of course, this is a pretty easy sacrifice for me to make, as I’ve grown to see vacation as the self-infliction of virtually unfulfillable hopes and expectations. To me it offers the perfect formula for disappointment:  invest emotional energy and considerable resources in planning and looking forward to an escape, with wishful expectations of life-changing events or, at least, conspicuous pleasure; almost invariably undercut by the grim realities of  body scans, luggage claims, lines for everything, yahoos everywhere, mounting expense, the pressure to have fun despite these undertows, and the thousand other cuts that bleed the vacation experience dry; all of which requires extra work before, after and, probably, during the time off in order to earn it. 

           Now, I probably wouldn’t feel this way had I not been fortunate enough to have done a good deal of traveling.  And, gripes aside, I have enjoyed it, learned from it, grown from it.  I’m interested in everywhere and generally game – if you asked me to go somewhere, I’d probably agree to.  I’d look forward to it until it actually drew close -- at which point I’d find myself wishing I could stay home, instead.  Then I’d go and enjoy it – but be glad to get back home again.

            The thing is, I never feel like being somewhere other than where I am.  And now I feel this strong impulse to be in this particular place -- to know every inch of it, invest myself in it, see life through it.

            I certainly don’t suggest that I haven’t much new to see and do; that it wouldn’t be profitable, eye-opening, expansive to continue traveling to new parts of the world.  But I do feel somewhat like Breaker Morant, protagonist of the great Australian film of the same name, who, when offered a means of escape from his unjust imprisonment, and the opportunity to go on the run and “see the world,” replies simply, “I’ve seen it.”  He longs for a home, for the place he belongs.  That I get.  And I feel I’ve found it.  So that’s where I want to be.

            Now, once I tie myself to this blessed plot I will, undoubtedly, catch the travel bug and think only of the far-off lands I can no longer reach.  Such is being human.  At least being this human.

            But, for now, I think I’ll just set a spell.

My Shiny, Deadly Toys

Appeared in Pioneer Press newspapers
November 15, 2010

The van died the other day. The minivan that the kids grew up in and that came to be one of those things that your hating together makes you a family. 

It went in for a simple, out-patient-type recall and never left the hospital.  We discovered we’d been driving around on a broken axle, among other maladies.  So, rather than pump more money into a 10-year old junker with 100,000-plus miles on it, I was forced – forced! -- to drive home the truck I’d been spoiling to get ever since we bought the farm.

            This may be the decisive step in this transition process – the passing of the ultimate symbol of our former, gas-guzzling suburban life for this big, honking symbol of our new gas-guzzling rural life.  Don’t worry – we’re going to grow stuff to offset all the carbon.  

            “Awesome,” said Jefferson, checking out the new wheels.  They’re puny compared to his big rig, but large compared to, say, something merely large.  “Now you’re too legit to quit,” he added, generously suggesting that I’d reached critical mass in my farmerization.

            While I don’t think that’s quite true yet, I have, at least overcommitted us to the point that we’re “too broke to joke” – so there’s no turning back.  While salivating over the inevitable truck to come, I’d hoped to forestall this purchase for a while.  It would be nice if there were at least one way in which we were not hemorrhaging money – but, alas, it was not to be. The fates spoke clearly through the recall they providentially issued on the van, and who am I to resist the manifest will of the universe?

            But this farmin’ stuff does require a whole lot of gear.  And its price goes a long way toward explaining the chronic economic plight of the American farmer.  This stuff is as expensive as it is powerful – which equals powerful expensive.

            It’s also powerful dangerous.  Everything on a farm seems to involve sharp edges – most of which have engines behind them, turning mere hazard into truly awesome splattering power.

            Let’s start with the tractors, Fat Man and Little Boy.  Little Boy is more a riding mower-plus than a full-on tractor, though he can do a lot of work.  But, because the model is most often for lawn use, there are all sorts of safety features built in for civilians. 

            Fat Man, on the other hand, the grown-up tractor, is meant for more serious use – and assumes you know a thing or two.  This one’s for the heavy-duty work in the big fields, with the rotary cutter.  It’s driven by the tractor’s PTO (power take off) which, the manual points out in its own subtle way, will mess you up most seriously.

            Then there’s Da Ripper, my DR brush mower, an industrial-strength weed whacker that you push on two wheels and can take out small trees.

And, completing this year’s purchases of ways to jeopardize my health, is Husky, the Husqvarna chain saw.  We’ve taken down a good few trees together already.  I’ve got a lot of respect for Husky. He demands it.  Look at them teeth. 

Kevin taught me the proper etiquette to show one’s chainsaw the respect it deserves.  It includes appropriate attire, including the Kevlar chaps, the steel-toed boots, and the groovy helmet with attached ear protectors and face mask.  Looks quite ridiculous – but better to be silly with all my parts still on.  Otherwise, we could well be screening “The Illinois Chainsaw Self Massacre”.

            Kevin’s doing his thoughtful best to get me past the tenderfoot stage with my tender feet still attached.  “It’s a great way to lose a leg,” he warned after an early session when I’d gone at it in shorts.

            Thank goodness for these senseis looking over my untrained shoulder. With their help I might be able to avoid bleeding the red in addition to all this green.

A Constructive Year

Photo:  Kevin Lyons

Appeared in Pioneer Press newspapers
November 4, 2010

We bought the farm – in the literal sense, though it’s sometimes felt that we might get the figurative, as well – just about one year ago.  It has been a highly instructive and memorable twelve-month.  That is not to be confused with, say, “fun”.

A few times, in the period between signing the purchase contract in mid-October and closing one month later, we not infrequently asked one another if we really wanted to go through with it, noting that now was the time to change minds, and that that would be fine, because we had it good right where we were.  And there have been plenty of times in the year since that we’ve had occasion to think that letting this particular dream go might have proved the better part of valor.

But light is beginning to appear at the end of the tunnel – maybe even closer. It’s looking like a real, by-god house now, with a roof, windows, and doors. And, as with other forms of labor, the pain is largely forgotten when the good part arrives.    

Jefferson, our designer/builder said construction would take eight months, and, thanks to the great work of his team and a run of unreasonably good weather straight through October, we’re looking to be a bit ahead of that schedule. 

When we first announced our plans, a friend of Lis gave us a copy of the old Cary Grant chestnut, “Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House,” an ironic primer on everything that can go wrong in this process. And we fully expected to endure Blandings’ fate.  But, so far, things have gone quite well (clearly, I should not be saying this out loud). 

There’ve been a few surprises, of the kind that are inevitable with a house this old. But Jefferson and crew have taken them in stride, devised good fixes, and knocked ‘em down without much ado.  I’m delighted to report that our experience thus far has been entirely unworthy of cinematic treatment.

It’s actually been a pretty enjoyable process to observe and document – from paper, to hole in the ground; then a frame, then filling it in. It’s a well-established drill, with an extraordinary number of parts and interlocking systems.  And seeing them come together from scratch actually makes the previously mysterious workings of the whole organism that is the house reasonably understandable, even to me. 

And it’s cool to watch this well-drilled team do its thing.  The framing was pretty much done by just two guys:  garrulous Dave and quiet Brian. There’s Kent, the project manager, a historian of housecraft and construction sage.  There’s Mitch, who manages the million details of scheduling, ordering, keeping everything organized and moving. There’s the cast of a thousand subcontractors:  plumbers, electricians, roofers.  And then, of course, there’s Jefferson, the dynamo, generating enough new ideas to fill his monster truck every time we talk.  If he were still wielding the tools instead of running the operation, we’d be living there by now.

It’s a good crew, highly skilled and a pleasure to work with. And, it seems to us, the guys have all had a real feel for the place and taken pride in their contributions.  As Dave told us, when we were getting in his way, marveling over the second floor he’d just created, “This is my view until you move in!”

We’d originally hoped that would be by Christmas.  And it would have been, dammit, had we not lost two good months to the invention of credit default swaps. We’re tantalizingly close.  But the stuff that looks the biggest – the making of the box -- actually goes the fastest; it’s the fine, painstaking, finishing stuff that lies ahead and will keep us visiting the farm, rather than living there, for a while to come.

But we can pretty much see it all now, and begin to feel what it will be like to live there. So, it’s felt like a long year.  But the evidence is beginning to show it’s been a year pretty well spent.