Is it just me, or does this airport security business get more and more ridiculous every day? I can remember leaving for the airport only 30 minutes before my plane departed. After a 15-minute drive, I still arrived in plenty of time to catch my flight. Of course, this was back in the day when catching the flight meant spending several hours crammed into a seat designed for pygmies, sandwiched between a decidedly unpygmy-sized woman with a decidedly unpygmy-sized, decidedly unhappy “lap baby,” and her decidedly unpygmy-sized, cigar-smoking husband; because the non-smoking section (a distant two rows back) was full, as was the entire plane. Okay, that was just the one time, but the memory lingers.
Today I am advised to arrive at the airport at least two hours before departure. Now that my 15-minute trip takes up to an hour, depending on the ridiculous traffic (don’t get me started), I have to be up by 3:00am if I want to catch an early flight. I can stretch it to 3:30am if I skip the three S’s and plan on getting my coffee at the airport; but, of course, the coffee shop won’t be open because it’s still the middle of the night. It doesn’t really matter, because I won’t have time for coffee in any case. I’ll have a considerable wait in line at the ticket counter because, even though I have tickets, I missed my 90-minute window of opportunity to check in on-line. My carry-on bag will undoubtedly be over-size and my check-in bag will undoubtedly be over-weight: problems that could easily be solved if my only remaining credit card wasn’t also over the credit limit (but that’s another story).
Having completed my initial check-in, I’ll have an additional wait in line at the bag check-in because bags can no longer be checked in at the check-in counter. It’s okay because it gives me a little time to prepare for the next event in my “check-in pentathlon,” the security station. Here is where the real waiting begins because, even though the airport has dozens of ticket and check-in counters, there is only one security station. It is staffed by several dozen security officers, so you might think they could man (sorry, I mean person) another station, but you would be wrong. I guess it takes dozens of highly trained officers to be absolutely sure that no one gets on an airplane with a pair of nail clippers or an inordinate amount of liquid. Okay, they are also looking for real weapons and possible explosives, but does it really need to take so long and involve so many people? We have the x-ray to detect bad things in the carry-on, the metal detector to detect bad things on the carry-on carrier, and now even the full-body scanner to detect bad things in the carry-on carrier. Even with two officers per detector device, there are still several left over. I guess they are there to personally search those 80-year-old women in wheelchairs who have been profiled as likely terrorists (I’m sorry Nana, it wasn’t my fault).
Speaking of full-body scanners, I understand that they are being redesigned to alter the way genitals appear on the screen of the scanner. Rather than depict actual genitals, that portion of the scan is overlaid with an image of an average sized genital for what, I assume, is the appropriate gender of the scanee. I can only imagine what the reasoning must be. Someone must have decided that while most travelers were not concerned about having their private areas on display, they were very concerned that the truth about the size of those private areas (at least in the diminutive) might be somewhat embarrassing. The overlay should work because no one, diminutive or otherwise, would ever think to hide explosives or other bad stuff in or under their private areas.
Of course, after finally maneuvering the main security check, there’s still the individual gate security check-in (it’s true, our airport even has a big handwritten sign that reads “YES AGAIN!”) and the final check in at the gate itself. The good news is that just a couple hours after arriving at the airport, if you have been successful completing the check-in pentathlon, you may be allowed to board your flight: that is, of course, if it hasn’t been delayed or cancelled, which all too often, it has.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Building Houses, Part 3
After 23 years of designing and building houses, usually for clients, usually couples, usually wealthy and always fussy; I’m proud to say I’ve learned a few things: quite a few, in fact, about the designing and building; very few, unfortunately, about the clients. After 23 years and several dozen sets of clients I can honestly say that I don’t have a clue why clients, or people in general for that matter, want what they want or do what they do.
Case in point. Many of my clients were retired or nearing retirement. The kids were grown and had moved away (this was back in the day when kids actually moved away, but that’s another story), and it was time to build “a smaller house just for the two of us.” The larger house they were leaving was, more often than not, a three-bedroom, two-bath house (often with finished-off basement or attic) that sat on a small lot in a large subdivision. The smaller house we were designing and building was, more often than not, a four-bedroom, four-bath (or three-bath plus a powder room) house to sit on a ten-acre lot in the middle of nowhere.
The reasoning (I use the term loosely) was interesting. The conversation usually went something like this: “We just need the basics: a living room, a dining room, a kitchen and a couple bedrooms. Of course we need a family room because the formal living room will just be for company. Both the living and family room should have the view. The formal dining room will just be for company, so we need a large breakfast nook in the kitchen, preferably with the view. Bill (occasionally his real name) needs an office (I thought Bill was retiring, but what do I know), and I (occasionally Alice) need a study where I can get some peace and quiet to read my books. It would be nice if they both had the view.”
“The master bedroom must be comfortable (meaning really big) and must have the view. We’ll need two walk-in closets, but Bill’s doesn’t have to be very big (meaning mine needs to be really big). We’ll need a large walk-in shower, and maybe an outside shower for summer, and a Jacuzzi tub, because now and again I just need a good soak. The two guestrooms don’t need to be too big, but need private baths so guests don’t need to walk down the hall to use the bathroom. It’s not absolutely necessary, but it would be nice if they had the view. We need one other bedroom, which will double as my sewing (or painting, or hobby, or yoga) room. It doesn’t need its own bath, but should be near the powder room, and have the view and/or the north light. Really, that’s about all we need. Just include a three-car garage, a large pantry, a laundry room, an entry, my workout room and Bill’s shop, and we’re done. And except for my workout room, none of them really needs the view.”
In fairness, not all the houses I designed and built were so expansive. Some were, in fact, modest retirement homes, usually very well built and elaborately furnished, but not overly large. One “retirement home,” however, holds the record for both for number of rooms and redundant (same show, different venue) rooms. Granted, the family was, if not large, larger than just one retired or retiring couple. This house needed to accommodate mom, dad, grandma, and three kids. None-the-less did it really need, in addition to all the usual utilitarian rooms, a fully finished-of basement, two garages (one for two cars, one for six), six bedrooms, five full baths (the powder room evidently needed a small shower), a dining room, two breakfast rooms (one just for the kids), a living room, two family rooms (one just for the kids), a playroom (I guess the kids weren’t allowed to play in their family room), and a fully-enclosed sun room (that’s right, five living rooms).
Case in point. Many of my clients were retired or nearing retirement. The kids were grown and had moved away (this was back in the day when kids actually moved away, but that’s another story), and it was time to build “a smaller house just for the two of us.” The larger house they were leaving was, more often than not, a three-bedroom, two-bath house (often with finished-off basement or attic) that sat on a small lot in a large subdivision. The smaller house we were designing and building was, more often than not, a four-bedroom, four-bath (or three-bath plus a powder room) house to sit on a ten-acre lot in the middle of nowhere.
The reasoning (I use the term loosely) was interesting. The conversation usually went something like this: “We just need the basics: a living room, a dining room, a kitchen and a couple bedrooms. Of course we need a family room because the formal living room will just be for company. Both the living and family room should have the view. The formal dining room will just be for company, so we need a large breakfast nook in the kitchen, preferably with the view. Bill (occasionally his real name) needs an office (I thought Bill was retiring, but what do I know), and I (occasionally Alice) need a study where I can get some peace and quiet to read my books. It would be nice if they both had the view.”
“The master bedroom must be comfortable (meaning really big) and must have the view. We’ll need two walk-in closets, but Bill’s doesn’t have to be very big (meaning mine needs to be really big). We’ll need a large walk-in shower, and maybe an outside shower for summer, and a Jacuzzi tub, because now and again I just need a good soak. The two guestrooms don’t need to be too big, but need private baths so guests don’t need to walk down the hall to use the bathroom. It’s not absolutely necessary, but it would be nice if they had the view. We need one other bedroom, which will double as my sewing (or painting, or hobby, or yoga) room. It doesn’t need its own bath, but should be near the powder room, and have the view and/or the north light. Really, that’s about all we need. Just include a three-car garage, a large pantry, a laundry room, an entry, my workout room and Bill’s shop, and we’re done. And except for my workout room, none of them really needs the view.”
In fairness, not all the houses I designed and built were so expansive. Some were, in fact, modest retirement homes, usually very well built and elaborately furnished, but not overly large. One “retirement home,” however, holds the record for both for number of rooms and redundant (same show, different venue) rooms. Granted, the family was, if not large, larger than just one retired or retiring couple. This house needed to accommodate mom, dad, grandma, and three kids. None-the-less did it really need, in addition to all the usual utilitarian rooms, a fully finished-of basement, two garages (one for two cars, one for six), six bedrooms, five full baths (the powder room evidently needed a small shower), a dining room, two breakfast rooms (one just for the kids), a living room, two family rooms (one just for the kids), a playroom (I guess the kids weren’t allowed to play in their family room), and a fully-enclosed sun room (that’s right, five living rooms).
Building Houses, Part 2
Speaking of building houses, which I do on occasion since I designed and built them for many years, brings back memories. One: somewhat bizarre and very sad. A few: somewhat less bizarre and not so sad.
I had been building houses for about five years when I met Ed and Cindy (not their real names). Ed worked in middle management for a large IT company, and Cindy was his brand-new bride. It was his third brand-new bride, as it turned out, but I’m not judgmental and the budget was very generous. The house, completed on schedule if a bit over budget, was several miles from where Ed worked, so he drove the Interstate, to and from, every day. It was one such day that a drunken driver jumped the median and killed Ed instantly. Soon thereafter, Cindy sold the home she couldn’t bear to live in alone. About one year later, the buyer of the home, a single man whose name escapes me, committed suicide on the outside deck after sipping champagne and watching the sunset. About two years after that, the husband, of a couple whose names I never knew, was found murdered in the master bedroom. I don’t know if the house has been occupied since.
I remember the very first house I built. It was for a young couple, Dale and Alice, who had been trying for years to have a baby. Their attempt to conceive a child was bearing no fruit of the womb (pardon the pun), so they conceived instead of the idea to put the fruit bearing on hold and build a house. The designing went well and the construction went equally well, if rather slowly. All-consuming, the project involved many hours and long meetings that often went into the wee hours. Over time we became good friends; you might even say close friends, very close friends. Of course, a few months into the project, Alice discovered she was, at last, with fruit. After a candid discussion of the events leading up to the discovery, it was concluded that I was responsible (figuratively, not literally: we weren’t that close).
As you might expect, things can get interesting when the building project changes after the design is complete and the construction is well under way. Believe me, they get far more interesting when the project stays the same but the client changes after the design is complete and the construction is well underway. Phil (his real name) contracted me to design and build a house in the style of a old Vermont barn, a popular style at the time. I did him one better and found an actual old Vermont barn that was about to be demolished. We carefully deconstructed it, cataloguing every hand-hewn post and beam, and moved it to his site. We reconstructed the shell and created a truly unique, if rustic, bachelor pad inside. The house was nearing completion when Phil became engaged to be married. Needless to say, Janet (not her real name: I’ve forced it from my memory) did not care for Phil’s bachelor barn. I knew the project was going south when Janet announced that “there was no way she was going to live in a barn.” I don’t know if the house was ever completed; after a few weeks, we all agreed that I was no longer “right for the project.”
Several years after I had completed a lovely house on a lovely, if very severe, building lot, I learned the story of “The Vanishing Ring.” You need to understand that in Vermont most houses have basements. Sometimes people live in those basements and never build the rest of the house (but that’s another story). Sometimes the geography doesn’t allow a full basement, and the house may have a full or partial crawl space. Usually unfinished and un-floored, they can make nice root cellars (look it up), or nice wine cellars, or nice, if somewhat damp, storage spaces. This house had just such a crawl space, but the lady of the house found it ugly, useless and somewhat frightening. For this reason, and as a surprise, her husband arranged to have a concrete floor poured in the space while they were vacationing in Aruba.
Returning from vacation, the wife was pleased at first then appalled when she remembered that she had buried her mother’s wedding ring in the crawl space dirt. She thought she knew exactly where it was. It turned out she didn’t. A week later the crawl space was dirt once again and the front yard featured a lovely pile of concrete rubble. A week after that the concrete contractor, returning from his vacation and hearing the story, related that he had found a jar of unknown contents buried in the crawl space dirt and had carefully tucked it in the floor supports above where he found it: where they found it soon after.
I had been building houses for about five years when I met Ed and Cindy (not their real names). Ed worked in middle management for a large IT company, and Cindy was his brand-new bride. It was his third brand-new bride, as it turned out, but I’m not judgmental and the budget was very generous. The house, completed on schedule if a bit over budget, was several miles from where Ed worked, so he drove the Interstate, to and from, every day. It was one such day that a drunken driver jumped the median and killed Ed instantly. Soon thereafter, Cindy sold the home she couldn’t bear to live in alone. About one year later, the buyer of the home, a single man whose name escapes me, committed suicide on the outside deck after sipping champagne and watching the sunset. About two years after that, the husband, of a couple whose names I never knew, was found murdered in the master bedroom. I don’t know if the house has been occupied since.
I remember the very first house I built. It was for a young couple, Dale and Alice, who had been trying for years to have a baby. Their attempt to conceive a child was bearing no fruit of the womb (pardon the pun), so they conceived instead of the idea to put the fruit bearing on hold and build a house. The designing went well and the construction went equally well, if rather slowly. All-consuming, the project involved many hours and long meetings that often went into the wee hours. Over time we became good friends; you might even say close friends, very close friends. Of course, a few months into the project, Alice discovered she was, at last, with fruit. After a candid discussion of the events leading up to the discovery, it was concluded that I was responsible (figuratively, not literally: we weren’t that close).
As you might expect, things can get interesting when the building project changes after the design is complete and the construction is well under way. Believe me, they get far more interesting when the project stays the same but the client changes after the design is complete and the construction is well underway. Phil (his real name) contracted me to design and build a house in the style of a old Vermont barn, a popular style at the time. I did him one better and found an actual old Vermont barn that was about to be demolished. We carefully deconstructed it, cataloguing every hand-hewn post and beam, and moved it to his site. We reconstructed the shell and created a truly unique, if rustic, bachelor pad inside. The house was nearing completion when Phil became engaged to be married. Needless to say, Janet (not her real name: I’ve forced it from my memory) did not care for Phil’s bachelor barn. I knew the project was going south when Janet announced that “there was no way she was going to live in a barn.” I don’t know if the house was ever completed; after a few weeks, we all agreed that I was no longer “right for the project.”
Several years after I had completed a lovely house on a lovely, if very severe, building lot, I learned the story of “The Vanishing Ring.” You need to understand that in Vermont most houses have basements. Sometimes people live in those basements and never build the rest of the house (but that’s another story). Sometimes the geography doesn’t allow a full basement, and the house may have a full or partial crawl space. Usually unfinished and un-floored, they can make nice root cellars (look it up), or nice wine cellars, or nice, if somewhat damp, storage spaces. This house had just such a crawl space, but the lady of the house found it ugly, useless and somewhat frightening. For this reason, and as a surprise, her husband arranged to have a concrete floor poured in the space while they were vacationing in Aruba.
Returning from vacation, the wife was pleased at first then appalled when she remembered that she had buried her mother’s wedding ring in the crawl space dirt. She thought she knew exactly where it was. It turned out she didn’t. A week later the crawl space was dirt once again and the front yard featured a lovely pile of concrete rubble. A week after that the concrete contractor, returning from his vacation and hearing the story, related that he had found a jar of unknown contents buried in the crawl space dirt and had carefully tucked it in the floor supports above where he found it: where they found it soon after.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Building Houses
For many years, many years ago, I attempted to make my living as an architect and builder. I say attempted because, even though there were occasional moments of affluence, there were far more of mere subsistence. I chose (I have no idea what possessed me) to design and build houses. Not wanting to speculate on eventual sale, I chose to work for clients, usually husbands and wives, who were usually building their first or last home. First homes were challenging, the clients knew little or nothing about building houses but everything about their needs. Unfortunately his needs seldom bore any resemblance to her needs, which meant design meetings often bore a remarkable resemblance to couples counseling. Last homes were more challenging; the clients were always determined “to get it right this time.” I once made the mistake of asking what went wrong the last time. The answer lasted hours and included several references to the “inadequacies of the architect and builder.” I should have realized then, that the chances of my being adequate were slim at best.
Don’t get me wrong: designing houses was occasionally fun. With the occasionally sane clients, the always-creative process was occasionally enjoyable. Even building houses with said sane clients was occasionally rewarding, if not financially (an ever elusive pursuit), at least emotionally. It was always bittersweet, however, when the day came to turn the house over to the owners. “My house” was suddenly “their house,” and I had to surrender the keys and thereafter knock on the door and wait to be admitted. I often wondered if “my house” would still be in good hands when those hands were no longer mine.
Usually the answer to my question was “yes.” I would return to the house in the following weeks and months, usually to remedy some real or imagined problem, and find things much as I delivered them: neat, clean and appropriately occupied. Occasionally (you can’t have too much of a good word) the answer was “no.” On one occasion (okay, maybe you can), I returned to the house, this one only a shell due to the client running out of money; to find the family of eight living in the basement, sharing a makeshift bathroom enclosed by 4 sheets. The outside of the two-story house was completed and weather tight, you understand, but the owners evidently decided that the two above-ground floors were better suited to the raising of chickens and other assorted livestock. The first floor “chicken coop” was not only spacious, but featured an oak hardwood floor, nicely textured with a dark patina of chicken poop.
Speaking of livestock, in another instance (as opposed to occasion) I visited a very big, very expensive house that I had completed about a year earlier, to discover that the attached (make note), finished-off, and heated three-car garage had become the winter quarters for a dozen sheep. No one in the house desiring, I assume, the chore of cleaning up the sheep droppings, the solution was to throw hay on the garage floor now and then (as opposed to on occasion). When I visited, the hay layer was about two feet thick (really, I’m not exaggerating), and the aroma (I’m being polite) throughout the house was, shall we say, imposing. The owner, interestingly enough, was the State’s Agriculture Commissioner. I suppose he could have been doing research on the tolerance of humans to imposing aromas.
I am no longer an architect and builder. I retired from those pursuits years ago. Not retired per se, I still attempt to make a living in other pursuits. I am occasionally (cut me some slack, I skipped a whole paragraph) asked if I learned anything about designing and building houses in all those years. I believe I’ve learned a little about the houses; about the people who live in them, not so much.
Don’t get me wrong: designing houses was occasionally fun. With the occasionally sane clients, the always-creative process was occasionally enjoyable. Even building houses with said sane clients was occasionally rewarding, if not financially (an ever elusive pursuit), at least emotionally. It was always bittersweet, however, when the day came to turn the house over to the owners. “My house” was suddenly “their house,” and I had to surrender the keys and thereafter knock on the door and wait to be admitted. I often wondered if “my house” would still be in good hands when those hands were no longer mine.
Usually the answer to my question was “yes.” I would return to the house in the following weeks and months, usually to remedy some real or imagined problem, and find things much as I delivered them: neat, clean and appropriately occupied. Occasionally (you can’t have too much of a good word) the answer was “no.” On one occasion (okay, maybe you can), I returned to the house, this one only a shell due to the client running out of money; to find the family of eight living in the basement, sharing a makeshift bathroom enclosed by 4 sheets. The outside of the two-story house was completed and weather tight, you understand, but the owners evidently decided that the two above-ground floors were better suited to the raising of chickens and other assorted livestock. The first floor “chicken coop” was not only spacious, but featured an oak hardwood floor, nicely textured with a dark patina of chicken poop.
Speaking of livestock, in another instance (as opposed to occasion) I visited a very big, very expensive house that I had completed about a year earlier, to discover that the attached (make note), finished-off, and heated three-car garage had become the winter quarters for a dozen sheep. No one in the house desiring, I assume, the chore of cleaning up the sheep droppings, the solution was to throw hay on the garage floor now and then (as opposed to on occasion). When I visited, the hay layer was about two feet thick (really, I’m not exaggerating), and the aroma (I’m being polite) throughout the house was, shall we say, imposing. The owner, interestingly enough, was the State’s Agriculture Commissioner. I suppose he could have been doing research on the tolerance of humans to imposing aromas.
I am no longer an architect and builder. I retired from those pursuits years ago. Not retired per se, I still attempt to make a living in other pursuits. I am occasionally (cut me some slack, I skipped a whole paragraph) asked if I learned anything about designing and building houses in all those years. I believe I’ve learned a little about the houses; about the people who live in them, not so much.
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