Anyone who wanted to visit Hell's Kitchen didn't have to go to midtown Manhattan to get there. All you had to do was come to our house recently.
A week ago this past Monday, I came home and barely had my foot over the kitchen threshold when I was met by my scowling wife.
Uh-oh.
I know that look.
"There's no air conditioning in this house," she said testily.
The house did seem a little sticky, now that she mentioned it.
As temperatures were in the lower to mid-90s that day, I thought perhaps the warm weather was pushing our central air to the limit.
While the outside unit was humming along, I went downstairs to check the furnace, which was silent.
I went over to the furnace and flipped the switch on the side to OFF. Then I flipped it back on. A loud snap and half the lights in the house went dark.
I went to the fusebox and hunted for the pesky breaker, snapping it back on as Margie came to the basement door to question this next round of malady.
I tried a couple other things...definite electrical problem.
My dad agreed to come out the following day. He took off the control panel and was greeted by a torrent of water. He concluded that the IC board drowned in a backed-up drain that carried water removed from the air to an evaporator unit.
That meant a call to the Rheem guy. After speaking with the former owner of my house, I called the same people who installed the furnace and maintained it since. They came out the next morning...about 20 minutes after I placed the call.
They confirmed my dad's suspicions. They got the system working temporarily until they were able to come out the following day. They replaced a completely-clogged drain trap and the IC board.
Between the AC issues, our daughter's birthday, and her birthday party to be held later in the week, it made for a very stressful week.
"We need a do-over," Margie said.
But it's times like that that make that glass of wine taste that much better.
NEXT WEEK: I Need Backup!
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
The Swing Era
No, I'm not reminiscing about the years of "Frankie Boy" and the decades that preceded Rock and Roll.
Maybe another time.
My daughter turned two this past week. We celebrated by giving her probably her most expensive birthday gift ever.
We found a super-colossal swing set made of cedar, with three different swings, a rock-climb ladder, overhead bars and of course a slide.
Here's the problem...we received the slide on Thursday and had until Savannah's birthday party yesterday to put this monstrosity together.
We had ordered it late last week, but were fighting with the shipping agent over delivery times, which delayed in our receiving it.
We enlisted the help of my younger brother Heath in getting this put together, as there was nowhere near enough time to get this put together on my own.
This turned out to be more involved than I ever imagined.
Add temperatures hovering close to 100 into the mix.
Now add hardware issues...too much of one screw, not enough of one bolt, and hoping Heath had enough spare hardware to get us by.
Savannah's party was at 4pm. And the clock was ticking.
At 3:30, when it finally appeared done, I asked Heath if we could call this project done. He said yes.
I took a quick shower, got dressed, shaved and was ready to welcome our guests.
And then...
"Honey, are those clamps staying at the bottom of the swings?"
Oops.
I rushed outside and found that my brother still had the drill out. I found the hardware I needed and quickly drilled the holes for the bottom support beam for the swing half of the set...right as my brother-in-law and his brood showed up.
Aside from the tiedown stakes, I called it done. As long as no one got too crazy on it, the stakes could wait a day or two.
And as it turned out, the fun on the swing lasted about five minutes, if that, before the kids tired of the Death Valley-grade heat and sought shelter in our air-conditioned house.
Even Savannah tired of it rather quickly.
She would have much rather spent time getting a bath than be out there.
And she did just that after company left...with her new bath toys.
NEXT WEEK: AC...ACK!!!
Maybe another time.
My daughter turned two this past week. We celebrated by giving her probably her most expensive birthday gift ever.
We found a super-colossal swing set made of cedar, with three different swings, a rock-climb ladder, overhead bars and of course a slide.
Here's the problem...we received the slide on Thursday and had until Savannah's birthday party yesterday to put this monstrosity together.
We had ordered it late last week, but were fighting with the shipping agent over delivery times, which delayed in our receiving it.
We enlisted the help of my younger brother Heath in getting this put together, as there was nowhere near enough time to get this put together on my own.
This turned out to be more involved than I ever imagined.
Add temperatures hovering close to 100 into the mix.
Now add hardware issues...too much of one screw, not enough of one bolt, and hoping Heath had enough spare hardware to get us by.
Savannah's party was at 4pm. And the clock was ticking.
At 3:30, when it finally appeared done, I asked Heath if we could call this project done. He said yes.
I took a quick shower, got dressed, shaved and was ready to welcome our guests.
And then...
"Honey, are those clamps staying at the bottom of the swings?"
Oops.
I rushed outside and found that my brother still had the drill out. I found the hardware I needed and quickly drilled the holes for the bottom support beam for the swing half of the set...right as my brother-in-law and his brood showed up.
Aside from the tiedown stakes, I called it done. As long as no one got too crazy on it, the stakes could wait a day or two.
And as it turned out, the fun on the swing lasted about five minutes, if that, before the kids tired of the Death Valley-grade heat and sought shelter in our air-conditioned house.
Even Savannah tired of it rather quickly.
She would have much rather spent time getting a bath than be out there.
And she did just that after company left...with her new bath toys.
NEXT WEEK: AC...ACK!!!
Sunday, July 17, 2011
There's No Business Like Shoe Business
For my regular readers who give me a few minutes of their time Sundays to spout off on anything and everything, this goes hand-in-hand with last week's column, "The Second Time Around".
Almost every town had a neighborhood cobbler. Or a shoe repair shop, plying their trade with posters of 'Give us three minutes, we'll give you new heels', or pictures of new shoes with high price tags, with the caption at the bottom that said 'See Me Instead'.
And it was always busy.
When you walked in, the place reeked of shoe polish and Lysol disinfectant.
But for very little money, those old shoes could shine like new yet retain the 'broken in' feel that often takes months, if not years, to accomplish.
I had purchased my first pair of all-leather dress shoes with my own money in 1984, when I was 15. Size 10 1/2 Stuart Holmes Presidents, which were moc-toe loafers sold by Kinney Shoes.
At the then-princely sum of $48, I was determined to properly care for them, and did so for about four years, and then about freaked out when I saw a seam bursting near the vamp.
By this time I was in college. The last thing I had money for was for new dress shoes. As I was pondering this on one sunny day, I walked past the neighborhood cobbler.
Wonder if he can help, I thought. I brought the shoe in the next day.
And the shop was busy. A woman in her 30s with big hair and a gray business suit with a poofy bowtie was ahead of me.
"Three minutes?" is what she asked the cobbler. "I'm on my lunch break."
"Five today," the cobbler replied. "I'm a little busy today. It shouldn't be more than ten."
The woman nodded approvingly. "Fine." She briskly removed the gray slingbacks she was wearing, handed them to the cobbler, and settled into a chair in her stocking feet and buried her face in a magazine.
He handed the gray heels off to his waiting assistant, then turned to me. I handed him the shoe. He checked it over, and said he could have them ready first thing in the morning. Shouldn't be more than five bucks.
I agreed and filled out a claim slip. Then out came the assistant, holding the woman's slingbacks.
Elapsed time: Four minutes...tops. She probably didn't finish the article she was reading.
"Ma'am, you're all set," he said. "Eight dollars."
"Already?" she said. "I love coming here. You guys work fast."
She handed the assistant a $10 bill and refused her change, jamming her feet into the shoes while walking out the door, obviously in a hurry.
By this time I was sold.
The Stuarts lasted until 1991, when the fourth round of soles finally outlasted the uppers. And perhaps could have lasted longer had I given them the same attention I did as a teenager. But once I got into the working world, free time became a sort of luxury.
Phil Donahue once bragged on his talk show in the mid-80s that his own black loafers he wore almost exclusively on the set were purchased in 1957 and that he regularly had them professionally shined and resoled throughout the years.
President John F. Kennedy was another. For someone coming from so much wealth, this was especially comforting to know.
Unfortunately, the cobbling business is fast becoming a lost art.
Many of the shoe repair shops I know of have either gone out of business or the owner has retired. Other than Gene Montemurro of New Kensington, I don't know of any other shoe repair shops in the area. No apprentices are being trained in this profession.
Think of how many shoes end up in landfills today. More than that, think about how much you spend on shoes nowadays.
Maybe you should "see him instead".
If you can find one, that is.
NEXT WEEK: Swing Shift
Almost every town had a neighborhood cobbler. Or a shoe repair shop, plying their trade with posters of 'Give us three minutes, we'll give you new heels', or pictures of new shoes with high price tags, with the caption at the bottom that said 'See Me Instead'.
And it was always busy.
When you walked in, the place reeked of shoe polish and Lysol disinfectant.
But for very little money, those old shoes could shine like new yet retain the 'broken in' feel that often takes months, if not years, to accomplish.
I had purchased my first pair of all-leather dress shoes with my own money in 1984, when I was 15. Size 10 1/2 Stuart Holmes Presidents, which were moc-toe loafers sold by Kinney Shoes.
At the then-princely sum of $48, I was determined to properly care for them, and did so for about four years, and then about freaked out when I saw a seam bursting near the vamp.
By this time I was in college. The last thing I had money for was for new dress shoes. As I was pondering this on one sunny day, I walked past the neighborhood cobbler.
Wonder if he can help, I thought. I brought the shoe in the next day.
And the shop was busy. A woman in her 30s with big hair and a gray business suit with a poofy bowtie was ahead of me.
"Three minutes?" is what she asked the cobbler. "I'm on my lunch break."
"Five today," the cobbler replied. "I'm a little busy today. It shouldn't be more than ten."
The woman nodded approvingly. "Fine." She briskly removed the gray slingbacks she was wearing, handed them to the cobbler, and settled into a chair in her stocking feet and buried her face in a magazine.
He handed the gray heels off to his waiting assistant, then turned to me. I handed him the shoe. He checked it over, and said he could have them ready first thing in the morning. Shouldn't be more than five bucks.
I agreed and filled out a claim slip. Then out came the assistant, holding the woman's slingbacks.
Elapsed time: Four minutes...tops. She probably didn't finish the article she was reading.
"Ma'am, you're all set," he said. "Eight dollars."
"Already?" she said. "I love coming here. You guys work fast."
She handed the assistant a $10 bill and refused her change, jamming her feet into the shoes while walking out the door, obviously in a hurry.
By this time I was sold.
The Stuarts lasted until 1991, when the fourth round of soles finally outlasted the uppers. And perhaps could have lasted longer had I given them the same attention I did as a teenager. But once I got into the working world, free time became a sort of luxury.
Phil Donahue once bragged on his talk show in the mid-80s that his own black loafers he wore almost exclusively on the set were purchased in 1957 and that he regularly had them professionally shined and resoled throughout the years.
President John F. Kennedy was another. For someone coming from so much wealth, this was especially comforting to know.
Unfortunately, the cobbling business is fast becoming a lost art.
Many of the shoe repair shops I know of have either gone out of business or the owner has retired. Other than Gene Montemurro of New Kensington, I don't know of any other shoe repair shops in the area. No apprentices are being trained in this profession.
Think of how many shoes end up in landfills today. More than that, think about how much you spend on shoes nowadays.
Maybe you should "see him instead".
If you can find one, that is.
NEXT WEEK: Swing Shift
Sunday, July 10, 2011
The Second Time Around
I buy lots of things secondhand...you know, homes, cars, even music and DVDs.
I just can't justify spending money on something new when good pre-owned or gently-used can do the job just fine.
My late great paternal grandfather was a perfect example of this.
Like many of his generation, which history would come to remember as 'the greatest generation', he came out of the Great Depression. And times were anything but great.
One of seven children in his home, he was expected to help contribute to the family income, being the son of Polish and Russian immigrants. He began working in the coal mines at the age of 11, and ended his formal schooling in eighth grade. And when his prematurely aged back could no longer withstand the rigors of coal mining, he took a job as a crane operator for Allegheny Ludlum and worked in this same capacity until taking an early retirement in 1972.
He also had a family to support, made up of a stay-at-home mom, four sons and a daughter.
So for extra income, he often worked as a neighborhood handyman, fixing things as they became broken...for far less than a house call would charge. To help his neighbors even further, he stripped discarded appliances and automobiles of any salvageable parts.
He kept these parts in what he called 'shanties' on the two-acre plot he owned where his house still sits. The house had been a former gas and service station that he completely renovated himself.
The parts were often kept in buckets or boxes, most often labeled with the contents.
"I NEVER throw anything away!" I remember hearing him say.
He sure didn't.
Car radios and tape decks. Gas and radiator caps. Ignition switches. Electric motors, timers and capacitors from washers and dryers. Vacuum cleaners. TV channel tuners. Car batteries, starters and alternators. Wheels. Drive belts. Appliance and extension cords. Even rusted out hand tools and cord-worn power tools were worth a little elbow grease and some time before they were made like new again.
Fortunately, they had a house and yard big enough to hold these things...because, as my grandfather would proudly attest, you never knew when you were going to need something.
And he believed that things made long ago were better than the present model, and if he had the parts to fix something, why not?
If there was any legacy he left to my family, it was never to waste anything. Three of his sons, including my dad, followed suit.
Anytime I need to fix anything, I usually call my dad. Nine chances out of ten, he'll have the part or the know-how to fix it.
Or at least the confidence to try.
That's something I'm still working on.
And hopefully it'll get done in this lifetime.
Because there is no 'second time around'.
NEXT WEEK: Shoe Business
I just can't justify spending money on something new when good pre-owned or gently-used can do the job just fine.
My late great paternal grandfather was a perfect example of this.
Like many of his generation, which history would come to remember as 'the greatest generation', he came out of the Great Depression. And times were anything but great.
One of seven children in his home, he was expected to help contribute to the family income, being the son of Polish and Russian immigrants. He began working in the coal mines at the age of 11, and ended his formal schooling in eighth grade. And when his prematurely aged back could no longer withstand the rigors of coal mining, he took a job as a crane operator for Allegheny Ludlum and worked in this same capacity until taking an early retirement in 1972.
He also had a family to support, made up of a stay-at-home mom, four sons and a daughter.
So for extra income, he often worked as a neighborhood handyman, fixing things as they became broken...for far less than a house call would charge. To help his neighbors even further, he stripped discarded appliances and automobiles of any salvageable parts.
He kept these parts in what he called 'shanties' on the two-acre plot he owned where his house still sits. The house had been a former gas and service station that he completely renovated himself.
The parts were often kept in buckets or boxes, most often labeled with the contents.
"I NEVER throw anything away!" I remember hearing him say.
He sure didn't.
Car radios and tape decks. Gas and radiator caps. Ignition switches. Electric motors, timers and capacitors from washers and dryers. Vacuum cleaners. TV channel tuners. Car batteries, starters and alternators. Wheels. Drive belts. Appliance and extension cords. Even rusted out hand tools and cord-worn power tools were worth a little elbow grease and some time before they were made like new again.
Fortunately, they had a house and yard big enough to hold these things...because, as my grandfather would proudly attest, you never knew when you were going to need something.
And he believed that things made long ago were better than the present model, and if he had the parts to fix something, why not?
If there was any legacy he left to my family, it was never to waste anything. Three of his sons, including my dad, followed suit.
Anytime I need to fix anything, I usually call my dad. Nine chances out of ten, he'll have the part or the know-how to fix it.
Or at least the confidence to try.
That's something I'm still working on.
And hopefully it'll get done in this lifetime.
Because there is no 'second time around'.
NEXT WEEK: Shoe Business
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