Taking it all in

Had a setback today with what should have been a reasonably simple repair to the house. The previous owner's installed a water heater that was bigger than the old one.... this had the unfortunate side effect of meaning that the vent hole that had been cut into the brick was below the heater's vent level. So the technical term for what we have is a "negative grade condition", i.e. the pipe points down toward the vent, and in the crook of the vent gas can build up and explode.

You would think the previous owner of the house would be responsible for this. They are after all responsible for ensuring that water heater is strapped into place so that a minor earthquake doesn't topple it, causing it to explode. But we are not so sure. The previous owners disclosed that the vent from the heater to the exterior of the house had become decoupled and that they weren't responsible for coupling it. It has since been coupled --by a nice guy that their real estate agent dispatched-- in a manner that could only be described as a code violation. Still, I can't be sure we're not going to have to take the hit here.

These sorts of things pile up after you move in. The rainy season comes along and the next thing you know there's an inch deep puddle just outside your front door. The brick at the bottom of the puddle, is thick with algae and getting thicker. The puddle is right where your doormat should go, only if you put it there, it gets soaked through and fools people into thinking they should use it.

Meanwhile the brick paths in the backyard are slowly being overtaken by weeds tall enough for the wind to blow them around. Where do these things come from? The plant beds in the back yard were covered in tarp, the tarp was covered over with bark and yet --no matter-- the weeds just keep coming. The problem implies a range of products that I am only dimly familair with, in an aisle of Home Depot that folks who shop at Farmer's Markets probably aren't supposed to venture down.

I am experiencing strange reactions to the weather. I know it takes wind to for a storm to move on, to clear out the clouds and fog. But a morning of 20 to 40 mph winds toppled my olive tree and prompted some sudden staking and lashing of a tree still very much in its' pot. Now we have more atypically warm sun, which makes A. and the cats much happier. But every time the sun comes out, more of the weeds appear.

Maybe the rain going away is a good thing after all though, because I've just noticed that rain water has taken to streaming into our basement. Confounding all expectations, the previous owner placed a drain right where the streaming happens. This is one of the few design considerations that seems to have held up to even the most casual of scrutiny.

The door from the kitchen to the backyard for instance has a threshold that is routinely below the waterline for for the doorway. It is constantly wet, and we've both nearly slipped on it numerous times. All of this does not deter the ants though, who have arrived and just keep on arriving despite daily mass executions. Despite the occasional rendering of their tribe into a kind of paste as we slip our way into the kitchen.

Most of the time I feel that the onus is on us to handle these things with aplomb, to not sweat the small stuff, and to not let the bastards get me down. In closing, I'd like to give a shout out to one such bastard. I don't know who he is but his tag is on the telephone pole outside our house, and also on our garage door:

I Have an Olive Tree

A couple of christmases ago we visited the Ridge winery on Lytton Springs Road. They had large olive bushes on a patio outside the tasting room, and I was hooked more or less immediately. When we entered escrow on the house, one of our first trips was to East Bay Nursery, where I lobbied for a couple olive trees in the backyard. I didn't have to lobby hard. The tree makes a pretty compelling case for itself, and there's an enormous one across the street from the house. Any olive trees of ours would have contextual relevance.

Still, I was thoroughly surprised to come home from work on the night of my birthday and find one in the backyard. I was, to be fair, more surprised to find stakes for it in the bathroom - my first thought was that they were giant rain sticks of some kind. As a friend of mine said,"Wow. What a f*cking thoughtful gift."

It's taken a few days for the weather to be dry enough for me to get out there and photograph it.

Lights out

We took our annual Christmas walk through the neighborhood the other night. We usually stick to our side of the lake, but this year we crossed over the 580 freeway and followed Trestle Glen Road for a few blocks before heading up into the hills between Grand Lake and Park Avenues. It's the sort of neighborhood that folks aspire to live in (whereas people describe our neighborhood as cool or nice). For instance, a guy pedaled up to our place a couple of weekends back sporting several hundreds dollars worth of bicycling footwear. It turned out that he lived on Trestle Glen and was considering buying a place in our neighborhood for his daughter.

It's difficult to describe this area without addressing the relative wealth that distinguishes it. An interesting and possibly telling point: of the 10 businesses Google Maps flag as local to or serving Trestle Glen none are actually on that road. Houses throughout the area are typically large, impressively appointed, and unusually well maintained. Along Trestle Glen in particular, a housing association maintains strict guidelines with regards to yard maintenance (I'm dimly recalling that there is a preferred yard services vendor for the association that is more exclusive than preferred) and appearance in general. In one 2 block stretch I counted 14 wreaths that looked haltingly similar. While this sort of thing is pretty common in subdivisions these days, it is also thoroughly contrary to most people's perceptions of Oakland.

Visiting wealthy neighborhoods to check out christmas lights brings its own set of expectations, and for the most part we were let down. A few houses really went the distance, but mostly we saw big Christmas trees in large street facing windows. Along the way we did notice some new types of christmas lights, including the large nested orb of light you see below.


A tree full of these is pretty impressive:

Light in December

Winter is gathering some momentum this week. We've made multiple braises, concocted multiple squash soups, and the days just keep getting shorter. I grabbed the shot at left after aelis pointed out the sunset, I think it was just after 4:30 in the afternoon. She finds the shorter days depressing, whereas I feel as if I have a special relationship to the accelerating darkness - my birthday falling on the winter solstice. We fall on either side of the question of rain as well.

The quality of light this time of year reminds me of a trip we'd taken to Ireland a few years ago. We arrived in late December and it felt as though there were only a handful of hours of full sun to be had. The photo below was also taken at about 4:30pm, just after we'd come back from an early dinner in Belfast.


Of course, this being California and us living in one large city and very near another, we have pollutants to help give our sunsets additional postmodern oomph:

Frustrated Freudian Flogs Mailboxes

Confession being my preferred rhetorical ploy for introducing guilty pleasures, I will confess to what I see as an entirely uncharacteristic fondness for Federalist-era mailboxes. In addition to the ornate stylings, the eagle motif is a dead give away where Federalist carbon-dating is concerned. Something very satisfying about all of that brass, though for reasons that I guess will only get funnier by the end of this post I'd prefer a black one.

Here's the paragraph of marketing copy that describes the mailbox:

Whether you look at the thickness of the brass, the innovative drain pipe surrounding the flag shaft or the powerful closure magnets on the mail door and locking access door . . . one conclusion is apparent . . . the Classic Mailbox Collection is the best quality money can buy.

You know they are targeting a discriminating audience when the words thickness, power, and shaft all wind up in the same sentence.

anyone wanna bough?

I should feel some twinge of remorse for having killed 25 cedar bushes. Instead, I marvel with a nearly paternal pride (look at that big boy!) at the mass of boughs that nearly fill the garage. Bigger than our car. Doesn't take too long for this pride to dissipate, as getting rid of the boughs turns out to be nearly as taxing and far more time-consuming. Not sure what to make of the hauling business: given the no-shows and unreturned calls, I get the feeling that perhaps haulers aren't doing so badly for themselves. My attempt at giving them away on craigslist as wreath material is an absolute failure. I had imagined some troop making a holiday project... I get several calls and emails from women (only women) interest in, variously, the wreaths, the christmas garlands, wreaths to put in storage for a "Christmas in July Wedding" (Hello? Department of Too Much Information? We have a situation here...), and some who genuinely understand the ad, but who are unable to fit in a bough pick up around their church-going schedule. It takes 4-5 calls to coordinate (one with a husband whose transparent "look, this is not my project"-out was "Can you call back? My hands are full of dirty diaper." No problem. Two days later, one woman comes by and picks out one bough.

Am ready to have a winter solstice bonfire at this point.

red letter day

The gray cat has brought a mouse over for a game of chase. This is the first mouse game in the new house. Curiously, he has brought over a long-unused mouse from the bottom of his toy box. Is this an acknowledgment on his part about the new space? New space, new toy? And if so, what am I to make of the fact that he eviscerates it in a record 3 volleys?

I Have a Vision, Part II

Took all the masking tape and protective tarps out of my study today. I'm pretty happy with the color, almost exactly what I had in mind.

The only gaffe was that the taped I'd masked the ceiling with, well, removed big strips of the ceiling as I removed it. This had me at pretty low ebb last night, more sanguine now though. Here's a shot...

Joining the Club

A couple of years ago we walked through the neighborhood to look at Christmas lights. Even though we rented in a nighborhood with many apartment buildings, students, and young professionals, it was only a two or three block walk from Haddon Hill. The hill is known for Italianate homes that might pass for mansions.

The idea of home ownership seemed like a fantasy, and the other-world-liness of a 3,000 square foot villa was reinforced in some way by all of the light displays. My favorite included giant christmas-light lit flamingoes. As this strains credulity, I'm happy to say I have evidence:



I also have a photo of the lights I put up on our front porch today. Need to get one of those flamingos.

day one in the front yard

It did not take us long to realize that home ownership is simply cleverly repackaged consumerism. In the first seven days of ownership, we made as many trips to our friendly Home Depot. We were both surprised to discover that Home Depot only carries one brand of pitchfork. After all, they do have an entire football-field length aisle devoted to garden tools. Unfortunately, I broke this pitchfork in under an hour of use, so we'll have to find some other purveyor of garden toys.

Luckily, the work gloves fared much better in their first day of hard labor.

"...doing God's work..."

Think we both felt a pang of remorse as we went after the juniper bushes. The junipers were alive after all, and we were about to lay slow and gradual waste to them with a single Fiskar's Pruning Saw. Several folks from the neighborhood went by yesterday without saying anything. I was worried that they thought we'd be paving the front yard. Putting in a nice patio, that kind of thing.

Today was better though. A woman jogged by and shouted that we were,"doing God's work". She also offered up that we should do that same at her house next. Another woman wanted to know what we would be doing with the space. After she left, we spent several minutes offering up other possible responses. I offered up that we were looking for WMDs.

Hypodermics and Hillsides

Began removing shrubs from the front of the house today. Not sure how long they've been there, but along the way I found the drug paraphenalia of at least two generations (hypodermic, aerosol cans), and one ominously heavy diaper.

For a while it was a joint effort. Share a pair of gloves, share a single pruning saw. Then: division of labor. As the sawing momentum picks up, you hit craigslist. Looking for someone to haul the shrubbery away. A surprising number of haulers have online estimating calculators that take into account things like gas from their location to yours.

2 gals with a truck will be here Tuesday morning. All in, looks like 200.00 to 300.00 to haul our shrubs away.

It was one of two major mysteries in our home buying experience, that the previous owners didn't remove these shrubs. The other is that they didn't remove the white and blue paint from the front of the house, but I'll probably have more to say about that after we figure out how to remove it.

It'll be a full weekend's effort to remove the shrubs. Sometime later we'll have to figure out whether the retaining walls stay or go. Then several weekends of soil maintenance and planting. Probably would have pushed the selling price of the house up over 600k.

Another neighbor introduced their self. Observed that she hadn't seen us move in, but knew that we were there. Also, that it took a long time for the house to sell.

I have a vision

Trying to not give much away about the shape of our plans for this place. This applies to my "study" in particular. I can only say the study will feature very dark walls. When I brought this up with some folks who work with me, they made a concerted effort to confirm that I was following at least one established best practice.

To no avail. The room is not particularly big and gets very little natural light during the course of the day. The first picture here was taken mid-morning pointing toward the sun.

We painted sample swatches of the color on a wall about a week ago. Some over primer some on the wall. Realized a couple of nights ago that the swatches made the wall look sort of haunted, and promptly shut the door. If this blog were a novel, The Navidson Record in House of Leaves comes to mind, you'd know that we were in trouble already. As book people ourselves even bringing up the convention seems risky.

But then, I have a vision...

the things they left behind

It doesn't take us long to discover that Mr. and Mrs. Previous Owner left us some welcome gifts.

Even for a word-whore like me, there are moments when the strength of the visual image incapacitates the use of words. Let us enjoy such a moment...

First Night In A Brick House

First night in the new home. our piano has made it down two flights of stairs at the old place and up two flights to our new place. Dozens of boxes of books have migrated, 3 lemon trees too, and it all ends in pizza and beer on the front patio as the sun goes down.

Later friends who helped with the move are long gone, there are good faith efforts to unpack a few boxes before finishing a bottle of Chambolle-Musigny and heading to bed. A cat is taking the move hard. Doesn't move, doesn't support any of his weight when you pick him up. We carry him upstairs to bed with us and pass out.

Until 3:00am. Cat is awake, meowing loudly. The meows echo in the mostly empty space. Take him down to the basement where we put the litterbox. Climb back into bed, and then a high pitched noise sounds. An alarm. As it sounds there are sirens and a helicopter overhead. Or is it just nearby? This is Oakland after all.

Downstairs, turning on lights as you go, you reach the control system for the alarm. The system panel has a yellow light next to the word "armed". Somethings going down in Zone 3, and Zone 4. Looks like that might just be you though as you take in the various sensors.

You hit some buttons and the alarm goes off, make it back up to bed and the alarm starts in again. A neighbor said there car was stolen the night before, that her sister's radio had been snagged recently. Are you really going to have to go down into the basement at 3:00am?

After some discussion, calls seem in order. 911 will send an officer over for a security check, though you have to mention sirens and helicopters before they commit. Then dial information for the number of the security company. The automated voice connects you to the wrong number, before you get through to the alarm company.

They diagnose the problem: the system realized the phone line was disconnected. The alarm company operator can't help without the previous owners' code for the alarm. They tell you that hitting the star key will temporarily disable the sound.

Everyone back to bed, until 4am. A knock at the door. A young police offer says that he is sorry to disturb, you there in your sweats and sweatshirt. A security check is this - they ask if everything is okay.

24hour recap

It is not only I who feel the alienating aura of a new space. The gray cat has completely shut down: his body is as heavy as a sack of wet rice, he cries in spurts. He doesn't even have the energy to raise his head; or he doesn't want to: when I offer him food and water, he gives me a brief hairy eyeball before the look-off. His anguish overwhelms me; I hover too much and walk him through the house so that his scent will leave a familiar route. By the 26th hour, his circadian rhythm has reset, and he weaves a cautious path among boxes and wires.


The old warrior siamese, on the other hand, has nosed his creaky body into every nook, inside and out. Terrorizing the shameless neighborhood cats who waltz into the backyard and open doors.

half the visual bulk

By noon on Sunday, all of the dishes had been unpacked. This was more difficult than it sounds, as nearly every container (cabinet, drawer, fridge, closet) is one-half the size of the equivalent at the old place. I try to contain my feelings of thwarted imperialist and consider tossing half of our condiments.

It's not a practical solution, so for the time being we'll just have to go to the market half as often.

The unpacking, or more accurately, shuffling boxes from room to room so we and the cats can move about, is less stressful than anticipated. In general, my compulsion to put things away is strong--so I'm contending with that as well as the more general visual confusion (boxes everywhere disgorging their guts) of things not just in the wrong place, but so out of place (toiletries in the kitchen, speakers on sofas, tools on the piano) as to make my vision buckle.

It is somewhat unsettling to see one's life amassed in boxes; less so the thought of so many boxes, more that it is so packageable. Stowing half the visual bulk in the basement minimizes this sensation, until I realize that half of the boxes take up most of the basement.

still life with furniture

Torn between the peaceful mien of empty bookshelves and useful spaces, I debate leaving my study in its unfinished state. Even more compelling is the thought of an entirely empty room, the four slate-colored walls surrounding a single work-table. This image doesn't square at all with my real-life career of erstwhile academic; the necessary props (books, paper, pens) singularly unsuited for laying about the room in aimless heaps.


Meanwhile, across the hall, a still-life unfolds while awaiting Mychal's paint...

heavy and fragile

Is it gratifying to drive an enormous truck? I realize, after hearing that it took all of Mychal's weight to depress the gas pedal, that I will never find out for myself. Similarly, I will never know the sense of accomplishment of heaving a 4-foot tall spinet down and then up two sets of stairs. On the other hand, as I sweat through two tee shirts and wonder where a pair of shorts might be, I discover the odd solitude of being the box bearer and that I have a preternatural skill of packing boxes both "heavy" and "fragile."

Shortly after noon, the troops show up. Moving becomes a team sport, the one-up-manship and heavy-lifting competition begins in earnest. Not enough coffee for this crowd, as the smack talk is limited to comments about the importance of tape and box bottoms.

Yes, well, at least we didn't move our chipped glass collection, as did some annonymous box-doner.

give moldings a fighting chance

It is a sobering realization to discover I lack the requisite patience to be a day laborer. There goes another future career option. What I appreciate about painting--the satisfying squeak of the paint adhering to the wall, the saturated distinction between the swath just painted and the uncovered expanse, the obedient paint bead along door jambs--does not compensate for the pain in my back, shoulders and hands.

As I paint, I discover that in this room as well Mr. and Mrs. Previous Owners have painted everything--walls, moldings, trim, ceiling, socket and switch covers--with the same color. I try to understand their choice--perhaps they were in a hurry, colorblind, or desperate for a sense of coherence, whatever the cost--but my frustration outpaces my tolerance, especially when I realize that the socket covers are permanently afixed to the walls.