You know how cats like to wend their way in and out of your legs, then lean-slide themselves against the nearest solid object, be it a wall or table leg or your computer, which happens to be sitting on the floor? Simon, our fat tabby, kept doing this under my desk. As he passed, he’d get caught on one of my USB cords and yank it out of the computer port. That cord was attached to my external hard drive. I had been working fast and furiously on a revision of a book and everything was on the external hard drive, which I considered my safest medium. I hadn’t backed it up. My fault.

Simon kept pulling out the USB cord when I wasn’t looking. He did it five times in two days. I got pissed off and yelled at him. “Can’t you see I’m working here?” Every time he yanked out the USB cord, my computer screen showed the external hard drive rebooting. I had saved everything—nothing was simply sitting in RAM (random access memory is the computer’s temporary memory, which empties each time you turn it off). But I checked just to make sure. Enough of this, I said to myself, you’d better back up onto other drives.

But I was too late. Apparently, the computer doesn’t save everything when it says it has. Sometimes it waits until you’re about to exit, then it will make a fast save. Also, if you keep disconnecting its communication with an external device, it gets confused and loses track of what belongs where. So I lost everything I had been working on — three weeks of work.

I was depressed for a few days. And angry at Simon. But Simon was just doing what cats do. It could have been worse. You’ve heard the stories. Thackery lost one of his books when his maid threw it into the fire, thinking it was tinder. When writers lose work like this, they believe that they’ll never get back the magic they created in that first go-round. But it’s possible too that, if they have to write it again, they may do better. Mind you, I do have the first draft, just not the revision (which I thought very good).

We who have spent half our lives without computers remember how it was before — how much safer it was. Slower too. Although I am thoroughly technologized, I am not convinced that computers have been as much a help as a hindrance. I know, we can’t live without them. And, yeah, I’d be the first to admit that they do really cool things. Still, I spend an ungodly amount of time upgrading, converting, scanning, and de-bugging,

The scam of the computer industry is the perennial outdating/upgrading of software. I was perfectly happy with Word Perfect – which I think was perfect five years ago – but I succumbed finally to the tyranny of Microsoft Word because it seemed more convenient. And now my machines are always prompting me: “automatic updates available, ready to upload?” or, worse, “automatic updates installed — restart computer now or later?” There’s no choice. Sure, I can turn off the updates but I’m only stalling; they will not be denied.

Now it looks like I’ll have to upgrade from Word 2003 to 2007. I see nothing worthier about 2007, but it will get to the point when nobody will read Word 2003 any more. I’m still hanging onto my XP operating system. Microsoft’s Vista won’t be good for another three years, I figure. What I have to do is convert to Mac. But I have so many files in so many places, it would take me a few months to make all the necessary conversions, crossovers, and double-checks. And all the while I’ll be thinking, what good work could I be doing right now instead of this?

Related posts

• No related posts.

This morning, while the hopeful were crowding onto the D.C. mall in anticipation of Obama’s inauguration, Will and I were standing in line outside the Maryland University Dental Clinic in downtown Baltimore. Will’s broken molar had to come out—he was frequently light headed, had a persistently foul taste in his mouth, and suffered recurring headaches. The molar had been broken for five years.

Last week we had arrived at the clinic just before seven, as we were instructed, only to learn that, actually, patients arrive as early as six – and the clinic takes only the first fifteen. This time we were third in line. A 6:15 we were told a security guard would come by to open the doors by 6:30. It was cold out. Yesterday we had our first serious snow. I should have worn a hoodie or ear muffs. At 6:55 the missing security guard showed up, apologizing. “Sorry ‘bout that,” she said. Apparently she overslept.

Once we were admitted to the clinic, we had a two-hour wait ahead of us. The dental students wouldn’t arrive until nine. Will kept shaking his head in worry. “I don’t like this,” he said. “I’m scared.” He hadn’t been to a dentist since he was in kindergarten. He’d never had Novocain. I told him it wasn’t nearly as scary as what he’d done yesterday. Before coming over to our house to do some work yesterday, Will stopped at the blood bank to donate a pint for twenty bucks. He’s been unemployed for over a month. I’ve been giving him one day of work each week. Our friend Vanessa has been doing the same. It’s not easy keeping an unemployed man off the streets. Multiply this times many millions. Our new president has a huge task ahead of him. We all do.

The dental students, all of them in their twenties, have been instructed to be personable, apparently. After the student calls up his/her patience, the student extends a hand and introduces herself. All of them did this – except Will’s dentist. He was a young man who looked like the kid who always got picked last for the playground team. He was so uncomfortable with himself, he couldn’t look his patient in the eye, much less shake his hand. I hoped he was a good dentist.

Will was in twice as long as anyone else. I worried that they’d botch the job or put him off. But then, when he sauntered out finally, I saw that his right cheek was packed. He half-smiled. “You did it,” I said. “Congratulations.”

“They were digging at it,” he said, “digging and digging but I couldn’t feel a thing.”

Jill and I bought him an armload of canned soup, instructed him on warm salt-water mouth washes to speed healing, then took him home. We reminded him that he couldn’t smoke for three days. “I’m not gonna mes it up,” he promised.

We got home in time for the inauguration. Watching the million on the mall brought to mind the first landing on the moon. I recall being on vacation with my family that historic summer, in 1969. It was a clear, muggy July afternoon and the moon was waxing, a white thumbprint low in the sky. I stared at it in disbelief and thought. Man in the moon – we are there. Right now. We are there. So I thought something similar today as Obama took his oath amid a sea of hope. We are there. Holy cow.

Related posts

• No related posts.

Just before seven A.M. yesterday, Jill drop me and Will off at the Maryland University dental school so that we could get Will’s cracked tooth pulled. The dental school sponsors a low-cost emergency clinic, the oldest in the nation. The only stipulation is that patient has to be in pain. Also you have to be willing to let eager students do the work – which may mean your visit will take twice as long as it might in the hands of seasoned professionals. The teachers supervise, of course. On the way over, Will said, “To be honest, Mister Ron, I’m terrified.” He hadn’t been to the dentist since he was in kindergarten. I told him what to expect. A little pinch of Novocain and it’d be over. As we pulled up to the clinic, he said, “This is what it feels like to turn yourself in after jumping bail.”

The dental school website tells all prospective patients to show up “before seven o’clock.” There must have been fifty patients waiting when Will and I walked into the glass and marble lobby. At seven-ten, a big guy in orderly’s scrubs sauntered out with the sign-up sheet and told us that he’d take only the first fifteen who agreed to stay. None of the first fifteen declined the invitation. All asserted that they were in dire need of care. The rest of us watched the lucky ones escorted through the big double doors. We who were left behind could go elsewhere in the city, another assistant informed us. Why isn’t the dental school website more specific about this?

Twenty minutes later, Jill was driving us to the Druid Hill health clinic, run by the city. A large brick building that could have been a decommissioned school, it’s in West Baltimore, which is battered down and burned up. The clinic was supposed to open at nine, but the dentists and staff didn’t show up until nine-thirty. Will said, “I just couldn’t do this alone, you know – I’m shy, is the thing. Sometimes I’m on the bus and I won’t press the stop button because I don’t want everybody to stare at me.” I said, “You’ve got to press the stop button, Will. You can be sneaky about it, if you have to. But you’ve got to press the button.” Then I told him about a woman I used to know who was terrified of checking her mail because she had no money to pay the bills. For weeks at a time she wouldn’t open the mailbox.

The big guy behind us was telling his neighbor how he gave $400 to a man who promised to get the big guy’s river’s license reinstated at a fraction of the state’s cost. “He took that money and didn’t do a damn thing,” the man announced, shaking his head in dismay. “Oh, I learned my lesson. But I’m behind. I’m way behind now.”

A while later, the receptionist — a large weary middle-aged woman who wore a perpetually skeptical expression and seemed to have seen it all — informed Will that he needed proof of employment before he could get a discounted rate. I told her I was his employer. She said, “You have a tax form or some other documentation?” I shook my head no, then said, “It’s not like that. He’s actually unemployed.” Will had applied for unemployment the day before. But it’s hard to predict when he’d receive any official paperwork. “You can try another clinic,” the woman offered, though she couldn’t say what their policies might be. As it was, his check-up would cost four times the discounted rate. I said, “Fine, let’s do it. We need to know what we’re dealing with.” Secretly I just wanted to get this over because I knew it was taking its toll on Will and he might not have the nerve to come a second time. So we sat and waited.

An hour later, they called Will in. He was back in only twenty minutes. “They say it’s got to be surgically removed,” he said. “Got a wisdom tooth lying on top of the cracked tooth. That explains the pain I felt for the longest time – the wisdom tooth kicked out the other” He showed me the x-ray. It doesn’t look good. “They said it’d take too long to do it here,” he continued. “They say I got infected gums. Gave me prescriptions for it.” He flagged the paper in one hand. I nodded my understanding. “Looks like we’ll have to return to the dental clinic,” I said. “We’ll have to get there at six next time.”

“I can do six,” he said. Will is always game.

“But we’ll have to wait till next week.”

He smiled. “You know, I can wait.”

Related posts

• No related posts.

Jill and I made the mistake of visiting the Sears scratch-and-dent store last week. We were looking for a new stove. Our old one was an okay but it couldn’t keep up with all we wanted it to do. Its broiler hadn’t been operational for six of the last eight years. We had our eye on a modest upscale unit by Maytag. It’d give us two ovens that we’d put to plenty of use (e.g., pizza parties). But then, as I said, we walked into the Sears outlet store. And there we saw a crowd of professional-grade ranges. For half price. Since when has Sears carried high-grade stuff like DCS, Bertazonni, and Fisher-Paykel?

We cook a lot. Every night, in fact. We’re ideal candidates for a good stove. But we hadn’t considered something as big and fancy as an Italian sports car. It gave us lots to think about. Too much to think about, really. After seeing those fancy stoves, everything else we looked at just didn’t seem good enough. But things got complicated very quickly. If we bought the monster Fisher-Paykel, we’d have to cut out more space in our kitchen.

We know a great mason, Phil – a distant relative of Babe Ruth – and were sure he could knock a foot out of our hearth. I phoned him and he surprised me 1) by answering the phone and 2) coming over immediately (it was Sunday). He said business was bad everywhere and he was grateful to be working. A cup of coffee in hand, he sized up our hearth and said, sure, he could knock a foot out of it and make it look good. So we bought the big range the next day.

The range has a six-burner gas top and electric ovens. Called “dual fuel,” this is the latest thing in kitchen technology, apparently. The electric ovens, with convection and six settings, give you the most accurate baking. I was skeptical but willing to take the risk. Half price, remember? The plug on for the thing is as big as a fist and needs a 50-amp outlet. I didn’t have a 50-amp fuse in my electrical panel. Our friend Tim, who used to be a contractor, said I’d be wise to let a pro install the 50-amp outlet. “If you do it yourself,” he cautioned, “and later burn down your house, the insurance investigator’s gonna find out you put in the electrical outlet yourself and – poof – there goes your coverage.”

All right. I started calling around for electricians. They’re not easy to find. Not the ones who call back, come on time, and do the job right. But I found one (on Craig’s list). He was prompt and reasonable. When he looked at my electrical panel in the basement, he said, “Man, what a mess.” I told him we’d talk about that later. Tim had advised me to get the panel cleaned up if I found a good electrician. With 40 circuits, our panel looks big enough to power an aircraft carrier. But it was crammed with a spaghetti of wires – you couldn’t tell what went where. Mind you, it looked 100% better than it had when I first saw it. And I had done away with the screwy wiring jobs the fraternity boys had finagled. Still, the electrician was right: it was a mess.

So, I had him re-wire the entire panel and put in a second panel so that I could add more circuits as needed. See how it goes? All I wanted to do was plug in the range. But, since I had a good electrician in the house and wasn’t sure I’d ever get him back, I kept him on for this much-needed work, which I thought I wouldn’t get to for years.

The stove plugged in at last, we fired it up and made pizza. Oh my god. This thing cooks even and hot and fast. And yet, as hot as it gets inside, it stays cool outside. Not one inch of exterior surface gets warm. The thing has a cooling fan. Like a high performance car. God forgive us for this indulgence.

The next day I tried to hook up the gas. The gas line didn’t reach because the stove is very wide. The always-unfriendly clerk at the pro plumbing store shook his head at me: “Don’t make flex-tube gas lines longer than five feet. It’s against code, buddy. See ya!” That means I have to get a plumber to run a new gas line to the other side of the hearth.

Because the hearth is being expanded, thus eliminating the flue space below the hearth, it means I can’t run the water heater exhaust pipe through the chimney any more and have to re-route it out the basement window. Which means I have to fabricate a custom vent for the window. Also, since we now have a 6-burner cook-top that, at full power, generates 76,000 BTUs, we now have an industrial-grade ventilation problem. An online ventilation expert, who sounded like a Brit, informed me that we need a ventilator that clears 760 cubic feet a minute. The fan in your bathroom, if it’s really powerful, clears about 20 cubic feet a minute. Think about that. The ventilation expert said, “You’ll want a muffler with that.” I swallowed hard. “You mean the ventilator makes a little noise?” He chuckled: “Oh yeah, it’s a big fan.”

That’s not all. He said I should line my chimney to keep the moisture from degrading the masonry. Also I’ll need a transformer to regulate the fan speed. And a filter system “otherwise you’ll muck up the fan blades.” “Holy cow,” I exclaimed, “how did I manage with that little fan I had over my old stove?” He chuckled again: “You didn’t, mate. From what you’ve describe, that fan wasn’t doing anything at all. It was no match for the air pressure in your forty-foot chimney.”

It’s all going to be grand. But right now, Phil the mason is tearing at the bricks, a plumber is scheduled to run a new gas line Thursday, I’m re-wiring the hearth and re-routing the water heater and sizing up industrial grade ventilators, and Jill is baking every day.

Related posts

• No related posts.

Our friend Scott, who collects antique Christmas ornaments, invited us to the annual Christmas Lights Tour. We’d heard about it for years. It’s a private tour for collectors of antique holiday ornaments. The collectors take a day to visit each other’s decorated houses. Oh my god, this is stunning stuff – hundred-year-old die-cut paper ornaments, tissue-thin glass ornaments of fruits and figures, clay-faced hand-painted Saint Nicks, lights topped with rotating paper shades, strings of glass beads the size of peppercorns. We’re talking serious collections, the likes of which you seldom see outside a museum.

Stand among the collectors and you’ll hear a lot of shop talk about 1) the state of online auctions (e.g., the market is flooded with ornaments that used to be difficult and expensive to obtain – which is good for new collectors but bad for the experts who are trying to unload their less desirable stuff); 2) war stories of hunting down rare items (e.g., recently Scott tracked down an early twentieth-century electric Santa tree topper at the house of a woman who lived with twenty-some dogs in rural Pennsylvania – Jill happened to be with him: she said she’d never been in a house so thick with animal hair. “It was like walking on mohair sweaters.”); 3) speculation about and lusting after the new acquisitions displayed by fellow collectors, like the table-top rotating tree that Ward was showing off — it was in such pristine condition, it looked new, though Ward insists it’s from the 1950s or earlier; none of the other collectors had seen one like it.

At the last house on the tour, George and Kathy, the hosts, crowded their dining room table with a buffet supper. Jill and I gawked and gaped at their place, which is a bit larger and more finely appointed than ours. They live on Eutaw Street, which has some of Baltimore’s finest row houses Originally, Eutaw was Baltimore’s elite Jewish neighborhood, home to many of the city’s most successful entrepreneurs in the late 1800s, department store owners especially. George and Kathy have been in the neighborhood for 30 years. Pioneers, we call them.

Jill is taking down our holiday ornaments today. I like getting the house back in order but don’t like seeing the end of the festivities, the house no longer dressed up like a prom queen. The regret some experience at the close of the holidays may explain why we see holiday lights still up at Easter. Some folks just can’t bring themselves to put an end to it. That and the fact that it’s not nearly as much fun taking down decorations as it is putting them up. Speaking of the house, our This Old House article is still up on the TOH website and we’re still getting online comments about it. Like this: “Congratulations on all your hard work and I’m glad the relationship survived …” Yeah, we are too. Stay tuned for a report about our new kitchen range. Oh, man. It’s turned us upside down because, as with all rehab decisions, one thing has led to another: electricity, brickwork, ventilation, whew.

May the new year bring you love and happiness.

Related posts

• No related posts.