Flip (off) This House

Remodelling is in my blood. It is an inescapable aspect of my upbringing; it is a critical part of my formative experiences; it is my curse. Where others see a new house, a nice townhome, or even a well appointed loft as the ideal way to venture into adulthood, I had to pick a diamond in the rough. A gem of a home just waiting to be polished. Nearly four years later I'm still buffing.

I grew up in my family's home improvement business. As a child I viewed my grandparent's store as a vast playland, full of raw materials for my amusement. I ran and jumped across rolls of carpeting; I made beautiful creations of wallpaper and picture matting. As a teenager I made this venture my work. I peddled every conceivable project to the public and helped turn their decorating dreams into realities. When I was 11 my parents bought a fixer-upper and the rest of my home-years were spent in unyielding renovation. Then there were the rentals and vacation properties. Each required nothing more than my mother's imagination, a lot of scrubbing, and all the Benjamin Moore that could be procured. So when it came time to buy a house, I didn't survey an old, run-down house; I envisioned a masterpiece in the making. Torn screen: done. Old paint: covered. Ugly carpet: gone. Hideous wallpaper: scraped off. Nothing would stand between me and my modern art.

Four years and thousands of dollars have done their best to stand between me and my art. At writing I've just completed reconstructing walls on my main floor. The new walls are far more virtuous than their forebears. These allow a larger bathroom and dining area, a much larger shower, a functional closet, and the satisfaction of ushering out the old.

I often find myself lamenting the tasks before me--as though I haven't freely chosen to take them on--and think back to the many customers who's caution I had to overcome to make the sale. Yes, in the end I am happier with each completed project. There is a distinct satisfaction that comes with living in and enjoying a space of one's own molding. A unique atmosphere that transends the stale real-estate beige (as we once called the fail-safe carpet color) of new construction. That construction on winding boulevards of cookie cutter mini-estates. Those subdivision dwellers who could navigate their neighbors' homes in the dark because they share a common floorplan. No thanks, I will stumble into my own walls, which just last week were in a different place, and each time pay tribute to those who taught me to match shades, keep things fresh, and when in doubt to go with Linen White.

Reasons to Winter in ND III

I didn't intend the "Reasons to Winter" series, but I have found yet another reason. Unlike the last, which were perhaps neither particularly serious nor particularly alluring, the latest I feel compelled to comment on out of sheer admiration. Last Saturday, Feb. 17th, the citizens of my adopted hometown had the chance to help set a Guinness World Record. Local organizers were seeking to reclaim the title of "Most Snow Angels," which was held by Michigan Technilogical University.

On a crisp and sunny Saturday morning, people began to show up at the State Capitol grounds in Bismarck. When all was said and done they came in their thousands to be part of a silly, but somehow profound community event. Without controversy regarding the religious overtones of angels on the Capitol lawn or the cross formed by church members who dressed in orange to form a large cross in the crowd. Without discrimination, and without the selfishness that might keep them at home. These people came to help put their community in the record books.

In the process they reminded me of why I DO winter in ND. The number to beat was 3,784. When the flakes settled, fully 8,912 of my neighbors had flapped their arms in a tremendous tribute to community. That is probably about 10% of the city. One woman celebrated her 99th birthday by making an angel! In a time where everything seems to divide us, how wonderful to see something that can so unite us. I was not there. I was on my way to my real hometown. Glendive will never hold the record, there aren't 8,912 souls there. Congratulations Bismarck!

As an aside, Glendive experienced its first combat death in Iraq in February. The hundreds of citizens of my hometown who lined a miles-long funeral procession route in temperatures well below zero, flags of all sizes unfurled, saluting, standing, just being, renew my faith in so much. I am truly sad to have missed both of these solemn occasions.

Reasons to Winter in ND II

The conversation on my drive to work yesterday was a local radio version of Myth Busters. Apparently there was some doubt as to whether or not it is true that bubbles, when blown outdoors at temperatures of -30 degrees or less, will not break. The bubbles in question are the ordinary sort of bubbles that children used to blow through little plastic rings that they would dip in small jars of bubble solution.

As an aside, I say "used to" because the last foray I had into bubble creation involved a collection of high-tech gadgets which blow bubbles by the hundreds through the use of assorted pumps, hoses, fans, and other pneumatic innovations. Q could be proud of some of these. I take from this experience that today's children wouldn't know how to blow their own bubble if they needed to.

Which brings me back to our myth. The notion is that bubbles blown at extremely cold temperatures don't break, as per usual bubble behavior, but rather hold their shape. By the time I arrived at the office, several hardy North Dakotans had dug through their summer lake kits and trudged outside (wind chill -49 degrees), bubble makers in hand, to test the hypothesis. And what do you know? The bubbles floated timidly to the earth and just sat there like so many crystal balls. Considering that all atomic motion ceases somewhere near yesterday's temperatures, I suppose this isn't all that suprising to physicists, but it provided a morning of entertainment to we hardy souls in the nation's icebox. You just don't get that in Florida.