Easter House

The theme of Easter, the holiest day on the Christian calendar is resurrection; "Behold, all thing have become new!" writes Paul to the church in Corinth.

Feeling the coming Pascal tide, Sue declared in mid-March, "Easter house!"  Time for the old to become new.  The primary focus of the renewal activity was in what we refer to as "Grant's room", though he has moved out, gone to college, and we are proud to say, has since found work and does not seem to be coming back to reclaim is former domain.  We, his parents are grateful.  The old "Grant's room" is to be transformed into "guest room".

Major mucking was his mother's first chore, though not herculean, it was a challenge.  A phone consultation with the former resident as to what was sentimental and a 'must keep' vs the mother's prodding of what 'really must go'; rules of engagement were established.  Some things were transferred to Inga's room (no resurrection here - yet) and some went to the Goodwill.  With the room cleared, it was more than obvious that a new paint job was in order.  My artistic sensibilities were called upon, and I chose a color scheme of light green walls with two accent walls of a contrasting creamy golden yellow.  It works.

There is a TV commercial that has been running for years locally featuring Hall of Fame baseball pitcher Nolan Ryan, pitching for a foundation repair service.  Nolan tells us, "Cracks are bad - especially around doors and windas."  As usual, Nolan is right.  Here we had half a dozen significant settling cracks in the drywall going back to the great drought of 2014 that wreaked havoc on our foundation.

So before we painted, I insisted that a silver dollar-sized hole in the bedroom drywall needed to be patched.  And as long as we were summoning the powers of resurrection, it was time to fix those bad cracks around the rest of the house.   I taped, scraped, mudded and feathered repair compound around and over the cracked drywall for several days.  Layer by layer.  Then I applied knock-down spackle, primed and painted.  I wish I took a before and after photo of my work, as it turned out, behold! I have the power to make old flaws pass away and the walls to look like new.  My handiwork looks really pretty good.

With the muck gone, a fresh coat of paint in a snappy color combo and the furniture rearranged to accommodate guest better, we have a bonifide guest room.  It is a resurrection miracle.

Y'all come by and see us now, ya hear?  

Together to the end

We've all heard the story of the faithful, old married couple who lived and worked together for so many years, and then when one of them suddenly dies, the other spouse then follows them in death within hours.  Such is the sad but true story from our household.

They were side-by-side for 28 years, and as things go nowadays, they all say you'll not see the likes of a pair like that again.  They both served us diligently and without complaint since they first arrived as a part of our household back in 1988.  We were still kind of newlyweds, had just bought our first house and knew we needed a pair like this.  Sue searched the Consumers Reports magazine in the local library, as there was no such thing as the internet, and she made an excellent decision when she selected the both of them to come aboard the Suneson household.  It was an unlikely pairing, somewhat like the Montagues & the Capulets, the Sharks & Jets, or maybe the Hatfields & McCoys.  He was a Maytag, she a Whirlpool.  

We placed them side-by-side in a small utility closet, I was thankful for their presence which brought to an end the days of wasted time and memories of  my squandered youth, as I waited with a pocket full of quarters in the laundromat for my clothes to cycle through wash and dry during my college years.  Mr. Maytag was a washer, nothing fancy, no computerized electronic gimmicks, bells or whistles, just a straight-up analog turn-the-dial and let-me know-how-you-want-me-to-handle-your-load-of-dirty-laundry kind of guy.  His faithful companion for lo these many years was Mrs. Whirlpool.  After Mr. Washer had done his usual yeoman's job, she willing took in the water-soaked load and tumbled them until they where fresh, warm and dry.  So nice.  Neither of them ever expected a fist full of quarters to do their work.

So, it happened like this, on Saturday morning, a usual load was accepted by Mr. Maytag washer, he filled filled his basin with warm water and began to agitate the soapy water with a load of denim and terry cloth.  Then suddenly, he let out a piercing squeal.  Sue ran to him to find that he was in a bad way and was smelling bad too.  She eased his burden and put a stop to the laundry load.  I opened him up as a measure of first aide, and found a pile of rubber shavings and diagnosed him as needing a new belt.  We let him rest comfortably as Sue took a basket of half-finished soggy jeans and towels to the local laundromat. A call to Staten's Appliances on Monday morning had a Mr. Staten's son out at the house by 9:45 to look over the patient.  We were told the sad news that it was not Mr. Maytag's belts that needed service but rather his transmission had failed.  Sadly, there was no hope of repairing his transmission.  With a lump in my throat, I consulted my wife and we decided to pulled the plug on Mr. Maytag.

The very next Saturday, after we purchased a used Whirlpool washing machine and had done just a single load of wash, I went to place the wet laundry into Mrs. Whirlpool dried, only to have her refuse my instructions to begin drying. This had never happened before.  But she just would not, could not respond.  She too had given 28 years of service and was now also done.  Another call to Staten's Appliances and I was walked through the diagnosis over the phone, no house call necessary.  In Mrs. Whirlpool's circumstance, she needed her door safety switch replaced.  Once a used part was put in place she began to dry again once the door is closed.

Mr. Staten tells us the new appliances are filled with electronic controls that do not hold up for more than 4 or 5 years in the humid environment of a laundry closet.  America used to build washers and dryers with mechanical controls that would go for 25 to 30 years.  But that quality of machine was an "unsustainable economic corporate manufacturing model".  Old Mr. Maytag, you were made right and ran well, you were what was right and good about America.  So sorry to see and the values you held go to the junkyard.   

It Sure Smells Like Dinner at 4:20

We never really had much a winter here in the Dallas area this year.  Spring seemed to creep up on us around February.  Come early March, I was feeling rather mellow (quite right) and I thought my eyes caught sight of a hazy green look to the air.  This is totally a far out trippin' kind of look in my backyard.  I attribute the hazy atmospherics to the first day or two when the leaves on the trees first start to bud, leaving no discernible leaf shapes but just a hint of a green aura around the still dominant view of the bare branches.

Feeling the need to munch, I rolled out my charcoal grill to the back deck and lit the coals for a couple of thick porch chops for dinner.  On the way through the patio door out to the back deck, I passed a bowl of dried herbs that my wife had sitting on the counter top for the past several months.   I though, "Wow dude!  Wouldn't those dried herbs be real fine if I hand-rubbed them over the grilling meat, adding an herbal savor to the pork chops?"  So I did.

As I rolled the dried basil between the palms of my hands, inevitably some of the now finely crushed basil drifted into the heated updrafts emanating from the red hot coals and was immediately incensed.  There was no mistaking the aroma from the burning of the powdery herbs; it was the smell of a rock concert (or so I am told).  I wondered if botanically speaking, basil is related to cannabis?  You know, mary jane and her wacky weed.

It was time to serve the grilled herb pork chops, and so I brought them in and set on the table between to two of us.  I helped myself to the first moist and tenderly grilled entree.  Sue took the remaining chop and asked with an eyebrow raised, "Humm, what did you put on the meat?"  I replied casually, "cannabis".  She said, it sure smells like it.

It was already half-past seven o'clock, but I am sure dinner is being served at 4:20 somewhere.