Who Needs A Summer House?

All summer long I've been asking the question, "who needs a summer house?" We've essentially been living on our porch for the better part the summer -- we eat breakfast out there, the kids eat lunch out there, we take dinner out there in the evenings and then hang out on the porch after the kids are in bed. We've spent a large part of our time this summer in the fresh air, in a relaxed setting, largely bug free (thanks to a new screen door). Spending as much time on the porch as we have this season we've come to feel like we're away when we're not. Score another one for the suburban casa.

Ingenuity Gone Wrong

To gain access to the attic of Quarter Acre we use fold-away stairs. I don't know how or when this stairway was developed, but it definitely strikes me as a bit of nifty American ingenuity. The door -- which is in the ceiling and faces the floor below is attached to the frame with some hinges so that it pivots up and down. On top of the door panel, inside of the attic, is a set of stairs, comprised of three parts, each attached to the other with hinges so that all pieces lie flush on top of one another and with the back of the door.

In this way about 7.5 feet of rise, and probably 9 feet of run fit into a footprint 4 feet long and 2 feet wide. The real business end of the stairs though is the pair of heavy springs and folding iron arms that run along the sides of the main stair section. The metal arms offer rigidity to the whole structure when it's opened. The springs, I learned this afternoon, actually keep the whole thing from falling open. I discovered this when one the springs wrenched the metal arm out of the frame, ripping one bolt completely out of the wood and bending the other.

One of the springs never laid flush with the back of the door, it always hung up over the top of the main portion of the stairs (it now strikes me that the stairway may not be plumb, and therefore was racking). I would move it off of the stair and align it -- no big deal, until this afternoon. The whole episode startled me and then freaked me out -- had the other bolt that holds the arm in place sheared out of the wood like its neighbor I might have been hit in the face with the whole apparatus.

I pulled the arm out of the frame and detached the spring. I left the door down -- because it would no longer stay up -- and cut two pieces of 1x3 that I screwed into the ceiling -- through the molding of the door into the frame -- with high quality screws securer the door. Now I, or Mrs. Agricola will begin calling around for prices on these doors and add another to-do to our list to replace our "bit of nifty of American ingenuity."

(Cigar) Smoke Gets In My Eyes

I smoked my last cigar probably ten years ago. This past weekend I smoked two.
On Friday night, Mrs. Agricola and I kicked off the summer in style and finally set up the porch and invited our neighbors over for a drink.

We were drinking Italian and French Roses when our neighbor pulled out a couple of cigars -- Cubana Julianas (I think) that we smoked without delay. My parents had stopped in, after an evening out, and it was a very convivial time. The company was great, the wine was flowing and the smoke was floating. As I worked my way through the cigar I remembered why cigar smoking is so pleasurable -- especially when smoking terrific cigars and drinking good wine while sitting on a porch on a warm, late-spring night with great company.

The second cigar, a Macanudo, was smoked yesterday afternoon at a boil that we did with the same neighbors (Boil, Boiled, Fed). It sparked the appetite between rounds one and two of the feed. While it was not as delicious as the Friday-cigar, it was still pretty good. A weekend of good smoke, good times, and good food make for a difficult Monday transition.

An Evening Out

The other night I took Child One and Two out for dinner. Mrs. Agricola attended a function in Harvard Sq. so I met her there after work and took the kiddies out for a burger. We ate at a little place that severs healthier fast food and had a hoot, toasting with lemonade, eating some baked-fries and burgers. We topped off the meal with milk shakes and a sit on a bench.

The night was mild, but cooling rapidly, as spring nights do, and we drove home with an open sunroof. The newly-leafed trees rustled above us as we drove, the Charles River glimmered in the dusk to our right, the Red Sox game played softly on the radio and my children slept in the back seat. A real feeling of peace and happiness descended over me.

Children, Spring, Home . . .

Small Signs

After our morning constitutional, during the cool down phase, we took a walk around the Quarter Acre. A week ago we got a solid, late-season dumping of snow that froze very hard. A couple of lovely spring days have melted it though, and the smells of thawing earth and melt-water once again fill the air.

Greening grass, emerges from beneath winter thatch. Tulips and daffodils, planted last fall (some partially sprouted during a weirdly warm December, and are now a bit burned) are sprouting in earnest; and, Tiger Lilies, that will not bloom until late June, have broken through the soil to begin their ascent. The sun shines brighter, longer, at a steeper angle each day, warming both earth and air.

Today, we sense a certain Spring-hopefulness. The Quarter Acre is shedding its drab winter garb and emerging from its latency. It is time we did the same, the signs are all around.

Why We Moved Back

Sunday, while outside with Child One, playing on the ice sheet that now covers the Quarter Acre we realized why it was we moved back. Watching Child One run, slide and sled on the ice was great. When Mrs. Agricola and Child Two came out we decided, on the fly, to head to a local golf course for some winter fun. We spent an hour or so walking around on our snow shoes -- the first time they've been used this season -- playing in the snow, exploring frozen sand traps and water hazards, collecting pine cones and enjoying the fresh, cold air. While we truly loved NYC and Brooklyn there was no way that we could have decided on the spur of the moment to go play outside and ended up in a wide-open, naturalistic place in less than 10 minutes. It was a wonderful Sunday and it helped to underscore the benefits of the choices that we made to return to Boston -- benefits that are not always readily apparent, but that exist none-the-less.

Save Us From Oursleves

Two thing caught our attention today. The first was that a proposed law in Bangor, ME became actual law. People smoking in cars with children under 18 years of age can be ticketed and fined $50. The state of California is mulling over an idea to ban spanking of children under four years of age.

We see people smoking in cars with kids and think it somewhat dumb -- though the research behind second hand smoke is shaky at best, and we don't smoke, why take a chance with your kids. Telling people they can't spank their kids is silly. How and when to discipline children is a parent's prerogative. Also, there are already rules that define abuse and prescribe punishments for it. Is this rule necessary? If someone spanks their child enough to warrant a trip to an ER they should be prosecuted under the existing rules.

We are not sure where stand on spanking. It has not yet been necessary on the Quarter Acre. We know that we received a couple of spankings in our youth. It was a painful, but effective way to make a point. We don't think that we suffered any long-lasting physical or psychological effects. We don't hate our parents, nor do we blame them for anything. How could the state have prevented the spanking? This measure is one of those typical, liberal moves meant to make the sponsoring legislator feel good about themselves and appear to be protecting the constituents of the home-district by imposing an unenforceable law on the populace.

It strikes us as a direct violation of privacy to say we can't spank a child or smoke in our cars with our children. When will they pass a law that says we can't smoke in a house with children under X-years of age? Where is the outcry? Why does such inanity not arouse the public. Most people we bet simply shrug, say "that seems silly, but they mean well, it's for the children after all," and move on. Never do we realize that one more regulation has been enacted that chips our rights, all in the interest of protecting us from ourselves.

The Real Estate Knockdown

Our town is filled with knockdowns -- those unfortunate, less-than-spectacular but solidly built mid-century American homes that don't meet Americans' current definitions of real estate grandeur, success and the good life. In place of the older, more modest homes, owners, builders and speculators build McMansions, replete with farmers' porches, multi-car garages, gas fireplaces and a total lack of consideration for lot size, landscaping and even coherent roof lines.

On the lot next to the Quarter Acre, a quarter acre lot itself, stands a large house. It's not a bad looking house, and the interior is actually fairly nice. However, not six feet from the back wall of the house stands a retaining wall that holds back a hill that was cut into to make room for the foundation. As a result, there is no real yard in which kids could play. Yards, apparently, are no longer part of the American Dream -- just really large houses.

On a lot down the street some neighbors tore down their modest Cape to build a new home. The exterior is basically complete -- walls, glazing, roofing and siding are in place. The interior work is about to commence and from what we see as we drive by the new place looks to be a nice house. A bit of interesting back-story shows how common the knockdown and rebuild is in our area. When the owner of the house was sharing the plans with neighbors at a cookout, a nine year old girl looked at the plans and said that the house looked big for the lot. She had a point.

Another bit of startling commentary on real estate came this fall, from Child One. She mentioned that if you build a house and don't like it, you can always knock it down and start again. On some level, houses have evolved into disposable assets, even in the mind of a toddler.

When we were children we never saw a blueprint in person, much less understood how to translate what was on it to real world space. We also certainly had no idea that you could knock down a house. Kids who can read a blueprint and understand houses to be impermanent objects demonstrate a tremendous change in perspective. Obviously, not everybody knocks down their solid little house to build a big dream house, but enough do that they have altered the next generation's understanding of "House" -- and possibly even "Home." This altered understanding will transform further the American suburb as this younger generation grows up and buys property.

Dark Lights (2) & Decorations

Our Brother has a theory about the intensity of the Dark Lights: being LEDs they have no white in them. Traditional lights have a filament that burns white and shines through either clear or colored glass. LEDs have no white to soften their glow and lend warmth to the night. We like this theory, but still think that the Dark Lights miss the point.

The NY Times has an amusing article about the blow-up Santas, polar bears and other "seasonal" characters who populate suburban lawns in ever-greater numbers. We are not sold on these decorations and think that they, like the Dark Lights, miss the point. While we prefer more traditional Christmas decorations, we do see some humor in these blow-up behemoths (there is one giant snow man snow globe, with swirling "snow" and a lit-and-star-bedecked-Christmas tree within the globe, that must be 12 feet tall not far from the Quarter Acre) and know that Child One takes tremendous delight in riding around to look at character strewn lawns this time of year.

Dark Lights

With the Christmas Season in full swing, and houses bedecked in their holiday finest, we've noticed many shrubs lit by super-bright LEDs. The intensity of these lights is startling. They burn like little suns but cast off little ambient light and accentuate the darkness rather than alleviate it.

This seems to miss the point of the Christmas light. Traditional Christmas lights cast a warm glow and brighten dark winter nights. They serve as beacons in the gloom to guide visitors to welcoming homes -- a fitting symbol of the season's true meaning.

Decorating Disaster

Last night, we decorated the Quarter Acre Christmas Tree. Child One unwrapped ornaments, commenting on the beauty of each, and hung them with glee, absolutely enjoying the moment. This is the the first year that she has been able to actively assist in the hanging of ornaments and it was one of the most enjoyable tree decorating events of our young family's history.

We decorated the tree twice last night. We also re-strung all of the lights.

While taking stock of the gift inventory in the basement, we heard the bouncing and popping of hard objects above our head. We ran upstairs to discover that the Quarter Acre Christmas Tree had toppled over, shattering many ornaments, spilling tree solution all over the rug, and generally creating holiday mayhem in the living room.

We are unsure of what made the tree topple, though we have a theory. We had placed some newspaper beneath the tree-stand to absorb any liquid that might spill during watering. Though the stand seemed stable it was obviously out of balance for when laden with lights and ornaments . . . It was ugly. Broken glass, pine needles and ornaments littered a soaked rug.

We picked up the broken glass, and tried as best we could to dry the rug. The physics of this event are intriguing to a non-scientist. Many of the balls on the sides of the tree landed on the floor but their hangers remained in place. The light strands dislodged from their original locations and clumped together in disheveled bands. Evidently, this fall generated a lot of force -- too much, at least, for tree lights and decorations. We lost some beautiful ornaments, one of which was a an antique purchased in Rhinebeck, NY several years ago. There is something extra-disappointing about breaking an ornament.

So, we restrung the lights -- they look better and are applied more rationally than before -- rehung the surviving ornaments, and went to bed when done at 1:30 AM. For the first time this year it finally felt like the holidays.

Christmas Tree Lighting

Everyone we know within our generation has a story of helping their father string lights around the tree and being told to "pass me the lights! Pay attention! Don't bump into the tree! Give me some slack!"

Now that we are a homeowner, responsible for purchasing and lighting our own tree, we laugh when thinking about our role as a lighting assistant, and understand completely why it was such a trying experience for our father. Because Child One and Child Two are too small to help, lighting the tree is a solitary endeavor with many spacing consultations and other internal reviews with Mrs. Agricola, and Child One.

From having rolled lights onto reels in the wrong direction at the end of last year (more on that in another post,) to seeking out the dead bulb that shorted half a string of lights, this year's Christmas tree lighting was an epic endeavor. What we had hoped would take only an hour ballooned into a three hour effort that pushed the decorating process into a multi-day affair. A tradition of sorts -- similar to being told to "pass me the lights!" -- has been born on the Quarter Acre. Someday, we're sure that we'll look back on it and laugh.

Encountering the Raptor

Despite living in NYC for the better part of a decade we never saw the famed nesting- pair of Red Tailed hawks that lived in Central Park; nor the Red Tails who were evicted and later reinstated at a tony address on 5th Avenue; nor the Peregrine Falcons who supposedly hunted at will throughout Midtown; nor the trained falcons used to control pigeons in Bryant Park. It took our move to Boston to start encountering urban raptors.

Just last week, while walking near my office a sudden movement high atop a bell tower caught my eye. The pigeons who roost up there suddenly took flight and started flying around the tower in large swooping arcs. Within moments a Peregrine Falcon coasted into view looking for lunch. The small bird peeled away and about three minutes later it reappeared, approaching the bell tower and potential lunch on a new vector.

At another job, in one of Boston's tallest buildings, we had the good fortune of sitting in a cube with a westward facing window -- looking out towards Fenway Park and Boston's western 'burbs. A Peregrine Falcon lived nearby for we saw it almost daily, hunting while riding the updrafts that scoured this structure. Our perch was high enough that at times we could see the falcon from above.

As much as we might have wanted to we did not see either of these falcons make a kill. We did witness a kill on the Quarter Acre in the spring of '05. One morning, while holding Child One by a window, watching birds on the feeder, all of the avian diners bolted in a panic. Within a moment a hawk dove past the feeder, talons out, and landed on the lawn. It came so close to the feeder that at first we thought it had picked off an unfortunate sparrow. However, as it flew away, after standing proudly in the middle of the lawn, most-definitely occupying the top of the food chain on the Quarter Acre, we saw that it had nailed a ground-feeding chipmunk.

This same hawk has flown by our porch -- at eye level, close enough to hear the air moving over its body -- and we frequently hear it while working in the yard, chirping and screeching from its nearby, but unseen nest. Last spring this raptor had a partner and we watched them soar high, high above us, nearly transparent in the sky, but highly audible as they screeched to one another while making lazy circles.

Spending as much time as we do commuting to our job we also notice many hawks perched above the highways and byways of the Commonwealth. Two hawks hunted from neighboring lampposts over I-95/128 in Woburn. One was struck by a car -- we saw its carcass by the side of the road in the late summer -- leaving only one hunter to scan the shoulders and median strips of that road. A giant hawk perches atop a lamp post along Soldiers' Field Road in Brighton, hunting along the obviously abundant banks of the Charles River.

The overt presence of these amazing predators is one more exhibit in a growing body of evidence that nature is adapting and growing ever more comfortable living in close proximity to humans. Many might argue that Man encroaches ever-more into nature, and forces this adaptation. Our neighborhood, however, was built in 1954, and is therefore, not a recent encroachment into some pristine wilderness area. Despite the seemingly settled nature of our man-made environment we are surrounded by the eternal struggle between hunter and hunted, entropy and stasis. It would not take much for our environment to revert to its original state as evidenced by the raptors that live comfortably in our midst.

Seasonal Opening

This past weekend,in addition to rekindling our love affair with the Martini we began the process of decorating the Quarter Acre for Christmas. Greenery was purchased for the outside of the house. Lights were placed in windows, and on Sunday a yard-tree was dressed in lights, a spotlight was placed in the lawn to shine on the front door and the Christmas season officially opened on the Quarter Acre.

Child One helped us with the window lighting which was very fun. The house is really coming to life, and assuming a magical air. This is one of our favorite times of year on the Quarter Acre. A week after putting the yard to rest until the spring, the focus shifts to the house, the home and the interior life of the Quarter Acre. We take comfort, and delight in this transition which is so fitting at this time of year.

Rekindling An Old Flame

This past weekend, in the midst of starting the Christmas Season by decorating the house with lights and greenery, we created and knocked back a couple of delicious Martinis. In the past this was the defacto, winter drink of choice on the Quarter Acre. However, due to unknown reasons the Martini has not been agreeing with us and has fallen out of favor. Perhaps our body is telling us that ingesting three shots of Gin, one shot of Dry Vermouth and olives is not a great idea because even one Martini would leave us feeling less than delightful the following day.

Despite all of this, we mixed up two Martinis this weekend -- one on Saturday, the other on Sunday. They definitely agreed with us this weekend; and, as the Christmas season truly gets under way, an old flame has been rekindled. The turning point in this relationship happened about two weeks ago. While out to dinner we ordered a Martini and received instead a glass of chilled gin containing some olives. This irked us. Recipes are written for a reason and are meant to be followed. If we wished to drink chilled gin and olives we would order that.

The abominable drink that we received motivated us to try out our tried and true recipe (Thanks to DrinkBoy for being our guide and our high priest of classic and classically prepared cocktails) and give our preferred winter beverage a new chance. The old flame is back and burning brightly. Just in time we say, as the world enters the darkest time of year.

Seasonal Closure

Rather than spend the weekend after Thanksgiving battling the masses for silly sale prices on silly things we don't need (at Christmas time or any other time of year for that matter) we spent the weekend around the Quarter Acre shutting down the yard for the season.

We've raked the yard a couple of times this year, mowed the lawn close, applied the winterizer and basically kept things looking sharp. This past weekend was the final push. At the back of the property is a hill that runs the entire the width of the plot. Atop this hill sit several oak trees that produce copious amounts of acorns that litter the lawn and leaves that blanket the hill.

The leaf-blanketed hill is messy-looking, and we spent 6 hours raking it, bagging the leaves and taking the refuse (23 thirty Gallon bags) to the giant leaf pile at the town dump. It was one of the best days yet on the Quarter Acre -- a crisp, beautiful, November, Saturday, outside, engaged in good honest hard work that added a blister to the inside of our thumb, and a new layer of dirt and scuffs to our boots. Additionally, we cut the dead Hostas, Astilbes and other perennials to the ground; raked out beds; mowed the lawn for the last time (mainly to pick up stray leaves); put away the gas grill and the Adirondack chairs and disposed of a completely rotten chimenia.

The yard is neat and trim and looks as spare as the leafless trees that surround it. There is a beauty now to the Quarter Acre that is both of and from the season that increasingly settles upon it. Stripped down, dormant and waiting, the yard is closed for the season, anticipating the Spring and the beginning of next year's ministrations.

Thanksgiving Eve

Today is Thanksgiving Eve, the true kickoff to the Holiday season. This is one of our favorite days of the year, and the start of one of the most enjoyable times on the Quarter Acre. There is much work to be, much to be prepared over the next month, but it is all fun and all driven by love and cheer. We love that the darkest, coldest time of year brings this period of heightened focus on family, home and charity -- the old boys who set up the Ecumenical calendar knew what they were doing all right. As we try to do each day, but particularly on Thanksgiving, it is fitting to give thanks for all that we have, especially:

Family
Friends
Job
Home
Food on the table
Our Armed Forces
Being an American

Happy Thanksgiving to all who may stumble upon the Quarter Acre.

Drinking at Home

There's been something missing from the whole urban-suburban-transition, and that's been drinking. Now we're not talking about blackout-retch-through-your-nose-suffer-immobilizing- hangover-drinking. Rather we're talking about the sociable-and-civilized-sit-around-the-living- room-and-nurse-a-cocktail-pre-dinner-followed-by-wine-at-dinner-and-some-sort-of-post-prandial-libation-to-top-it-all-off-drinking. It's a lacuna with multiple sources.

First, the first-string drinking buddy is on the "unable to perform" list for 40 weeks -- though she is expected to return in time for New Years.

Second, the 'burbs seem quite a bit less social than the city -- perhaps it's the distances between people and the fact that any drinking must be followed by driving.

Third, everybody has kids, and kids and alcohol are not a great combo.

In our relatively alcohol-limited suburban existence we have formulated a thesis about drinking and place: our sense of place is largely determined by where we drink. It is through drinking that we place a claim on a space and make it our own. Note the phenomenon of the local -- it's a pub identified by the possessive, "our" ("Our local"), that tends to be in a neighborhood, or other place of importance.

When we drink somewhere we come to a know a place, its inhabitants and customs. Drinking in a house serves the same purpose -- just in a more intimate way. Perhaps this says something negative about our drinking habits, but truly it is around the rituals associated with drinking that we lay claim to a place, establish customs, know the inhabitants and become more familiar with the place. By way of example, if you are a drinker then you go out for drinks when you come to a new town, or have a drink when you visit someone's home in order to break down those barriers that separate us from new places, situations and people.

Drinking has been largely absent from our transition and as a result where we live does not feel like home. The other night, while enjoying a truly glorious, late summer night, we got crazy and drank wine together -- despite the 40 week proscription -- and sat on the porch and talked about things, both consequential and inconsequential. In that session of talking, and drinking, did feelings of true ownership, and true comfort begin to emerge. We finally began to feel at home. The transition from our formerly convivial, tipple-happy home in Brooklyn to a relatively, and involuntarily, dry house outside of Boston became less alien with a bottle of South African Sauvignon Blanc.

Better Living Through Chemicals

One of the things that I never anticipated about suburban living was the chemicals in which I would find myself awash on a nearly weekly basis. See, I'm now a bit more than a recreational chemical user despite the fact that I primarily use only on the weekends.

Just this pass weekend, on the stretch of lawn between the sidewalk and the street,I sprayed copious amounts of crab grass killer. Earlier in the spring I bathed in Malthion while killing bugs on my roses. I used some other horrible sounding chemical to kill Winter Moths. I have spread in excess of 30 pounds of fertilizer and an additional 10 pounds of grub killer and 6 pounds of high test antifungal powder from my spreader. This is certainly not organic lawn care, that's to be sure, but the lawn looks lovely, I get plenty of positive comments about the health of the lawn, and I'm proud of the results. On the flipside though, if you add to this the copious quantities of H2O (read, money) that I've poured on the lawn in addition to the chemicals, it should look good.

See, when living in Brooklyn domestic, legal chemical use was limited to a can of roach spray, toilet bowl cleaner and bleach. Now I own a veritable garden supply store of chemicals. The suburban-moving-homesteader must become very comfortable, very quickly, with the handling, use, and even sometimes, disposal of serious chemicals. One must also tell the children to stay off the lawn for a few watering cycles. It's worth it though when you look out the windows of your home and see green lawn all the way to the sidewalk.