“Noland, I’ve got question for you.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll do my best. Where are you?”

“I’m over at the golf pro’s condo. I’m working on his bathroom and his fire alarm is beeping. He tells me It has been for ten days, and he doesn’t know why. Can you believe that? Anyway, I want to change the battery, but the alarm is hard wired. If I disconnect it, will it alert the fire station?”

“No. I don’t know why it’s hard wired but we’ve changed our battery without fire trucks showing up at the door.”

“That’s good, I didn’t think it was, but I wanted to be sure.”

“What are you going to do when I’m gone?”

“Gone? You’re not going anywhere.”

“Oh, I’m not huh? Well, that’s not the way things work. I’m getting to the end of this trip. Let me tell you something else. I talked to an old friend of mine in California. He had one of those mini-strokes. He’s three years younger than me. He says he’s tired all the time. I told him that’s the way it is with these things. It takes time to get better, but he can’t see it. I sat down and wrote him a four page letter. I gave him my thoughts… “

“I hope you made a copy of that letter for me. I know how hard it is for you to write these days. I’d love to have a copy.”

“Aaa, well, I put it in the mail yesterday.”

“What did it say.”

“I told him about the good lord’s plan for us and what happens afterward. Where we’re going. As I said it was four pages long.”

Sounds like you think it’s more that just the stroke that’s bothering him. He must be afraid of dying, no?”

“Death happens to all of us. You know what my father used to say? You’re not afraid to be born, why should you be afraid to die?’ “

I was aware that this could happen because ten years ago, while I was working in Kathy Solterís kitchen , an electrician told me a similar story. And, I write knowing that shinydome will be sitting at his computer, shaking his head.

A condo owner up the street asked me to install two bathroom fans. One with an attic above, the other without. I began with the easy fan, the one I could install from above. First, I flipped the fan switch on, listened to it whir, flipped it off, and heard it stop. I then climbed into the attic through the ceiling panel near the bathroom door. I located the fan and pried it off the ceiling joists. I tried to disconnect the electrical wire that powered the fan – except it wouldnít budge. So what, I thought, Iíll cut through the wires with my snips. Iíve done it before, and I had, after all, turned off the electricity.

Let me pause and say, even without shinydomeís admonitions, Iím careful doing any kind of work that might put me on the other side of the grass. I shiver when I flashback to the live wires I cut through last winter. Thatís why after I flip a switch or even a circuit breaker, Iíll strip the black and white wires separately and then touch them together. No white flash means Iím safe to work.

While Iím struggling with this wire, dust mask on, sweating in the hot attic, I hear the home owner walk up the steps, peer in the bathroom, and then retreat back down to his study. I assumed he was checking on my progress.

I pulled out my wire cutters and because Iím the nervous nelly I claim to be, I clamped down slowly on the wire. Probably nothing would have happened : had I not been holding onto the blue steel body of the fan; had my wire cutters not been bare metal; had the condo owner not flipped the light and fan switch on as he peered into the bathroom.

Chris Rad

Leon finished up the boys room today. It looks really great. He did a few “extras” for me. He decided that the sconce that was in there was not up to par, so he went out and bought and installed a very nice one. He changed all the switch plates. He took the piece of wood off from in front of the closet to find that the carpet stopped short of the wood. So he took the piece of wood home, cut it in half, painted it and reinstalled it. He took care of the springs in the light fixture..you don’t have to bother. The two whites he chose for the room look great. So other than hearing that my boys have too much “junk” it was all good.

Other “extras”: I couldn’t decide what the hell to do with the dining room, paint or paper. I had decided on paint, but I could tell Mark wasn’t crazy about the idea (he was quite content with what was there). So Leon said to me this morning, I have some paper at home left over from a job, let me go get it, see if you like it. He brought me two different kinds. One I loved so much I decided to have him put it in my bedroom (not sure how I’m going to tell Mark that one). The other isn’t something I would have picked out, but it was such a beautiful paper I couldn’t pass it up. That will go above the chair rail, and a light cranberry paint will go on the bottom of the wall. He is GIVING me 5 double rolls for both of the rooms. He called the place he buys his wallpaper from so he could let me know just exactly the bargain I was getting. It would have cost $112 per double roll. I feel like Christmas came early.

Then, in typical Leon fashion, he cannot sit still. Imagine my surprise when I went upstairs, and there was Leon bleaching my bathroom ceiling! “You gut mold, I’m getting rid of it for you”. Okay. He also attempted to tighten my kitchen faucet, but apparently only a plumber has the proper wrench (or perhaps you?).

I thanked him profusely for the wallpaper. He said he wouldn’t give it “to nobody else. You’re a nice lady, I’ll give it to you”.

The nice lady knows a good deal when she sees it. The cost to paper the two rooms is what it would have cost me to have him do the faux painting in the dining room.

What one has to endure with Leon are conversations such as the following:

Leon: I did work for a couple of fags on Union Ave
Me: Leon, that’s offensive, don’t say that.
Leon: You know, men who act like women
Me: Leon, I knew what you meant. Fag is degrading, please don’t use that word.

5 minutes later:

Leon: My son Joe, what a sweet kid, everyone loves him, his teachers can’t get over how polite my son is.
Me: That’s a nice thing Leon.
Leon: I hope he’s not a fag.

Leon is Chris’s painter. He’s Italian, not tall, but thick, with a barrel chest, and biceps I used to dream about. He’s also opinionated. “What’s that crap? “ He kicks at the wood nailed below the closet’s sliding doors. We’re in Chris’s son’s room and Leon is sizing it up, thinking about how much to charge.

“What’s what crap?” Chris asks.

I know what Leon is talking about because I had to remove that length of wood to fix those doors.

“What’s that crap?” he kicks it again. “That don’t need to be there. Take it off.”

“It traps the sliding doors so they don’t flop around,” I explain to Chris, “Russ is right, it doesn’t need to be there.”

“Go to Home Depot and buy a piece of plastic. That’s all you need.”

Maybe Leon is ham handed, but only if you take offense. After he leaves I tell Chris, “With Leon, what you see is what you get. You know he’s not holding anything back. You know there isn’t some little guy sitting in his head thinking something other than what you’re hearing.

We both like him and this is the third time I’ve bumped into Leon at Chris’s house. We met after I remodeled her kitchen, and he arrived in his white panel van, ready to paint. Leon is talkative; I like to talk, Leon’s personality overwhelms; I disappear in a room of three. Which is why I’m so attracted to him. I tell Leon that I hate to paint, but what I really hate is cleaning up. I buy cheap rollers and brushes, I use them a few times, and then I throw them into the garbage.

Leon listens to me prattle on about my cheap roller method. He gives me an I’m-not-amused look and drags me into Chris’s bathroom with his paint-filled roller. “It’s easy. Take the roller comb and … . “ After a few strokes under the faucet water he proudly holds the roller up – like a bunny’s butt the nap is all white and fluffy. I follow him back to the kitchen while he’s teaching me about good brushes. “Buy expensive brushes, “ but, he says, “The most important thing is to stick the paint brush back in its card board wrapper. The one it came with.” He looks around and can’t find the one for the brush in his hand.

I think to myself how as soon as I remove the brush from its package I throw that wrapper away. It’s suddenly clear how the cardboard retains the shape of the brush and protects the bristles.

Leon is peeved about losing his brush wrapper. He’s grumbles, unfolds his tarp, kicks his tool boxes, looks as if he’s going to kick me. His frenzy draws Chris’s attention. She’s sitting at her dinning room table shuffling through bills. “Wait a minute. Does it fold back on itself and tie with a string and a button?” Chris asks. “I think I know where it is.” Chris walks to the wastebasket and picks it out of the empty vanilla ice cream container. I’m thinking, uh oh, and I’m also thinking, I’m glad I didn’t throw it way.

Leon reaches out with his left hand for the brush cover, throws Chris an icy what-would-you-expect-from-a-woman look, and with a shooing motion of his right hand, he says, “ Go Cook.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tomorrow: My Week With Leon by Chris

When Matt was taking the MCAS tests last spring, he said they were so easy, he finished with hours to spare. Pencil down and up and out of the classroom. Diane and I looked at each other and back at Matt, and as fatherly as possible, I said, ìYou know, there is such a thing as checking your answers.î As he often does, he shrugged me off.

His test scores arrived today. The scores are ranked from Failing to Needs Improvement to Proficient to Advanced. He placed in the advanced category for both English Language Arts and Mathematics.

Poker at my house last night. Chris, have you played recently?

About a quarter of a mile from the Queijo’s house you’ll drive through a puddle. Mark includes that puddle when he gives out directions. Itís always there and it only varies in size. Stop at the puddle, look left and right, and youíll see vast stretches of water on either side of the road. If you put a canoe in the water there, and paddled down stream you’d eventually get to the hundred acre pond on which his house sits. Eventually I say, because you’d have to portage that canoe around the beaver dam.

The water that creates that puddle.
Mark is a doer. He never stops and probably canít. I could list all the things heís accomplished recently, like the construction of his deck, but I wonít. Because it doesnít matter. The point Iím making is that of all the building and chopping and creating he has done around his house, none of it impresses me as much as what he did near his house. He got rid of that puddle.

More Noland

“Today, they’d probably throw me in jail.”

Noland doesn’t add history to his stories. Or background. But I do know he used to drink, and I do know both of his wives were alcoholics.

“David’s mother, she put a burning cigarette in my face. One punch, and she went down.” He’s a large man, with large fists and he jabbed the air, once, stopping right where her face might have been. “She was out for five minutes.”

“My second wife, she threw a glass ashtray that hit me in the face. Cracked a bridge and split my lip. I hit her and she was out for half an hour. I thought I killed her.”

When Caera walked in and sat down on the piano bench with her Celtic Harp, I thought, Boy does she look Irish. Irish like Eileen Foley, with black hair and blues eyes. When she sang in Gaelic, I thought, I wonder how long she’s been in this country. After a song or two she talked about having just flown back from Ireland where she played in a village of Gaelic speakers. She wanted so badly to go back, she’d even written a sad song about her longings. I thought to myself, Why not just go home?

I was so enamored by this Irish musician – I guess I’d been traveling vicariously with Susan- that my brain almost seized when, about midway through her gig, she said, “My first trip to Ireland was five years ago after I began exploring my heritage. After all, three out of my four grandparents are Irish.”

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Flo told Caera about her own daughter’s fascination with Ireland (Diane chimed in with, “She too has three Irish grandparents”) and after the recital, Flo hurried up to her room, and returned to show Caera Susan’s printed itinerary.

Flo’s friend, Lois, enjoying the music, but secretly wishing Caera would sing in French.

“Photo of pas des deux is from Le Corsaire – Semyon Troyanoff with Anna Liudmilla, c1927, Paris, costumes by Georges de Pogedaieff. ”

Semyon Troyanoff is Steven’s father’s stage name.

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Steven Varga-Golovcsenko’s parents – Semyon and Margit Varga-Golovcsenko
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Rakkity sent me this link . It’s one friendly American’s view of Germany, or more specifically, the Germans. Insightful and amusing, and if you read only one of the four pages he’s written, I’d start with the last : Tuesday, September 21, 2004.

“…Germans (or maybe Europeans, I’m not sure everyone here is a German) are not the most outgoing people in the world. In the village, no one looks you in the eyes as you pass on the narrow path. There are no quick smiles from young girls on bicycles that stir an older man’s imagination. There are no cheerful ìGuten Morgens!î among strangers waiting at a bus stop. To have a conversation you almost have to be in a business transaction with someone. “