Remodeling, Procrastination, and Moving

Seven years. That’s how long we looked at the old bookcases. The previous owners made them partially out of decking. The top had pulled out of the ceiling, exposing a row of screws. We rationalized. We needed to put in laminate flooring first. We needed to make the cabin into a functional guesthouse (or rental). We needed to remodel the bathroom.

Now we’re moving and getting ready to sell the house. As of this afternoon, the new built-in bookcases are done. Our books are packed and taped up. We’ll never put them here.

Ironic? Folks tell me that’s what selling a house is all about. You fix the things that bugged you, and never get to enjoy them.

Scenes from a Subaru: One Pony on the Roof, One Middle Finger Raised

One

The pony is strapped to the roof. It’s big. It was free, a Hedstrom Bouncy Horse that TJ found on cragislist. The girls, buckled into their car seats, chant, “Pony! Pony!” We wonder if its bouncing as we drive

Two skateboarding boys stop, hold their boards on their hips and stare. A girl on her bike yells to a friend, “What the heck is on that car.” We are an attraction.

A Carlisle trucker, on his way into the gas station to get a Slim Jim, stops and cracks, “Got some extra horse power. Nyuk. Nyuk!” as TJ gasses up.

From in the car nothing seems different. There is no pony. We are in the car. It is just the car. We forget we are an attraction.

Further on, a friend pulling out of Gulliver’s Books notices us and flashes a double thumbs up and a big smile. I ask TJ, “Hey, what’s up with her?” He says, “I don’t know.” Then we remember we have a pony on the roof.

As we unload the girls in front of the restaurant, the leader of a pack of adolescent boys riding bicycles menacingly asks TJ, “Can I ride your pony?” They all laugh.

A woman pulls up, rolls down her window, and says, “When you’re ready for a full-sized pony, let me know.” She raises horses. She tells me our car was obscured by a snowbank and all she saw was the pony bouncing along, high above the road, alone.

In the restaurant, Coral points out the window and shouts “Pony!” Cedar tells the waitress, “We have a pony on the roof.”

On our way home, we pass that house on the Steese Expressway. The one just before the Chena Hot Springs Road exit. They have a big fire pit and a tall stack of pallets. Once a month they prop a big sign against a birch tree near the expressway. It says “Bonfire 7:00.” Once a month, there’s a huge fire and folks standing around with beers. Cedar comments, “They’re having a bond-fire.” Coral shouts, “Fire!” I think, “Why don’t we go sometime?” Tonight, the bonfire goers turn their heads, lower their beers, and watch us speed by.

“Did you wave to them,” TJ asks. “No,” I say. “They all looked at us.” We sit puzzled.

We have forgotten again.

Then we both say, “We have a pony on the roof.”

Two

Cedar, Coral, and I are on the Steese, going uphill after turning off the Johansen. We’re coming back from an afternoon party. It’s warm finally, fifty degrees, and slanting fingers of water grasp for the low side of the road.

I don’t notice the truck behind me until it’s about three feet from my rear bumper. It’s big, white, menacing in a Moby Dick sort of way. I don’t see any old harpoons or Ahab’s skeleton, but I feel its rage. There are four lights mounted on the grill. They look like teeth. They fill my rearview mirror.

I’m in the left lane. The right lane is crowded. I could duck in behind a Scooby-Dooish beater van, but I know the minute the van hits the hill, it will slow down.

Besides, I’m going 65. How fast can this truck want to go?

I decide I’ll move into the right lane when I can get ahead of Shaggy’s van. I step on the gas. I’m going 70. The white truck is still three feet from my bumper. I am uncomfortable and decide I’m not going to let this truck make me go 75.

In the mirror, I see the four lights turn on. They glare at me. I flop the mirror down, so I don’t have to look directly at the angry lights. Now I’m looking at the girls. They’re happy after eating cake at the party. They want to go home and ride the bouncy horse. The four lights reflect in the image of their faces.

I hold at 65.

I think about giving the finger when the truck passes me. I think about slamming on my brakes. I think about the hill and how short it really is. Will it be over one minute? Two minutes? I decide just to get out of the way.

Finally, Shaggy shows up in my passenger side mirror and I signal a lane change.

Even before I’m over all the way the white truck blasts past. It is so much bigger than my car I have to look up. A fortyish man with gray hair holds his fist over his empty passenger seat, his right middle finger extended. He holds it, looks at me, makes sure I see.

I see.

I wonder if this man is someone’s father. In my world, fortyish men don’t do things like this. I wonder what it is like in his world.

At about 80 miles per hour, he veers right onto the Chena Hot Springs exit.

I wish I still had a pony on the roof.

Review: Brunch at Pike’s Landing in Fairbanks, Alaska

Pike’s Landing, 1850 Hoselton Rd., Fairbanks, Alaska, 479-6500

Even though it’s April and we’re still mired in snow, Mother’s Day is coming. The calendar will march on with or without spring. Holidays don’t care if they wake up in the morning to an unseasonable 5 degrees. It’s time to start planning, folks. If spring never comes, Mama is really going to need a treat on her special day.

Last year, due largely to bad planning on my own part, I had the worst Mother’s Day ever. I’m determined to have a good one this year. On the occasions when we’re feeling gluttonous before two p.m. on a Sunday, we usually hit the brunch over at the Pump House. Just in case I was missing out, I thought we should try brunch over at Pike’s Landing. That way I’d know which one to call for reservations for the biggest brunch day of the year. Last Sunday, we headed to Pike’s.

The service was good, and Pike’s has plenty of nice high chairs to go around. Of course, a brunch buffet is a great choice if you have little kids because there’s no wait time. Within minutes of entering the restaurant, your child is occupied with a plate of food. Best of all the little ones eat free, but Pike’s has major drawbacks.

Coral has entered the phase of potty training when she cries, “Potty! Potty!” in any public place just because she knows I’ll drop everything and take her. Actually using the potty once she gets into the bathroom is not high on her list of priorities. Instead, she’s happy to enjoy a few moments of diaperlessness before attempting to run a way with a bare butt and touch every surface in the bathroom. She also enjoys peeking under the stalls at her fellow potty goers. The bathroom at Pike’s was adequate for her purposes, and clean enough that I didn’t feel like I had to powerwash her when she was through.

But the lack of a changing table presented a major problem. The only flat surface in the bathroom useful for a diaper change is a narrow tiled ledge in front of a bank of mirrors. It’s the kind of ledge upon which one might place a giant can of Aqua Net, or if the lighting was worse, it was 1985, and one was hanging out with the cast of St. Elmo’s Fire, the ledge might be something off which one might snort a line of cocaine. It’s no place to change a baby. That said, the ledge is exactly where I put Coral when I had to change her diaper. If she was a floppy little newborn, I wouldn’t have known where to put her. If Pike’s really wants to vie for the big business of celebrating mothers at brunch, they need to install a changing table.

Although the buffet did include toddler-friendly chicken nuggets and “waffle stix” (as listed on the menu), the food at Pike’s was as disappointing as the changing table. The choice of “waffle stix” should have been a sign. No food that ends in a cutsie “X” should be served at an upscale brunch.

There was a variety of fresh fruit for the girls. Cedar enjoyed the watermelon, and Coral ate her body weight in strawberries. Despite the thrifty pleasure of bringing a “kids-eat-free” toddler to a buffet of expensive fruit, I was a little cranky after looking at the fruit options. Canned pineapple is fine for a snack at home, but at a Sunday brunch, the pineapple should be fresh.

Missing completely from the offerings was bacon. Bacon, so tasty, but so messy and unpleasant to cook. At home, it leaves the whole house stinking for hours, but at brunch it’s the crisp accompaniment to your eggs Benedict. Brunch without bacon just didn’t seem right.

The desserts, as they always are at brunch, were sized for kids. The chocolate mousse was tasty, and Cedar and Coral had fun eating out of the tiny glasses. I was happy to find creme brulee, but I was surprised when TJ stopped mid-bite and asked, “Is this creme brulee?” The one I had picked up tasted fine, but his must have come from a different batch. It was lumpy—more like tapioca brulee.

When it comes down to the battle of the brunch, there’s no comparison. Pike’s is a poser. Its buffet seems like the free continental breakfast at a hotel trying hard to be something other than what it is. The Pump House is the real thing—with a real stuffed grizzly and a real changing table. If you’re looking for us on Mother’s Day, you’ll find us at our old standby.

April is the Cruellest, Especially in Fairbanks

April Showers? No. Instead I found myself digging the car out from under five inches of snow this morning. This is what April looks like at our house.

There is an up side. April is tasty.

And you can share it with someone else.