observations

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Periscope Home front
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periscope
Home front

My little house in Saratoga is 150 years old and getting older. In my book, “homey” means decrepit and off-kilter. True, it also means an endless series of home-repair skirmishes. But like Leo Hoge, the maintenance magus of Skidmore’s old campus, or today’s staff trying to keep Scribner Village intact just a little longer, I’m a veteran, inured to battle.

The day I moved into my humble old pile, I discovered a leak in the bathroom: The areas of the sink bowl that the previous owners had cunningly painted white were porous with rust. Luckily I was able to flag down a passing plumber, who put in a porcelain sink and also helped me level my washing machine—no mean feat, given the slope of the bathroom floor. (In fact, the bathroom architecture presents a different challenge to each sex. The sagging floor makes the toilet list hard to starboard, so women must plant their right foot solidly. But men approaching the toilet immediately notice the ceiling, which slopes out sharply to meet them—smack in the forehead. They usually sidle and limbo-dance awhile until, manfully accepting defeat, they turn and sit.)

Also on move-in day I perceived the full horror of the kitchen carpet, a grease-soaked indoor-outdoor that was distinctly squidgy underfoot. And the stove, a grimy relic of the ’70s, was topped by a defunct range hood that was vented directly into the cupboard above—whose main feature, other than the vent hole, was a liberal scattering of mouse droppings. Undaunted, I promptly tore out the rug, applied vinyl floor tiles, bought a new range, and swabbed and spackled the cupboards.

A little later the intense, ineradicable perfume in the half-bath began to give way…to a growing stench of stale urine. I called my trusty plumber to pull up the toilet and found that the crumbly seal had long been leaking under the linoleum and into the hardwood floor beneath. While the toilet lay on its side in my porch—quite an unsettling spectacle—a carpenter replaced the fuggy floor and mildewed walls. Then it only took the plumber three trips to reset the toilet, replace the punky water-supply pipe, and cut away more and more pipe until he could find a sound portion to attach to.

Then one day a torrential rainstorm hit. I came home from work, headed upstairs, and there it was, right out of a Fellini movie: the Miracle Mammary. Under the skylight, the wall by the stairs had sprouted a bulging breast: hanging in a thin membrane of stretchy latex paint, like a sagging wineskin, was at least a pint of water. I recoiled from the prospect of popping it like a huge blister; instead, I sat on the steps with my head in my hands, unable to cry, laugh, or cope. An hour later the swelling resorbed into the plaster of the wall, leaving only a parabola of fine wrinkles. Of course all that was needed was one more repair call, one more dab of putty.

The mice, the fleas, the sump pump from hell…I think I’ve slain most of my house dragons at last. But when new ones rise up, I’ll be ready, Terminator-like, brandishing a 30-aught-6 caulk gun. —SR