MAY 22, 2024 – These days you have to ask yourself—what is America? A crazy place? A terribly bad place? A wonderfully good place? A country about to push itself over the edge of a precipice? The most resilient nation on earth, still destined to be . . . dare I say it . . . “great again”? In a land of over 330 million souls spread across a wide swath of an entire continent, there’s ample room and opportunity for the best and worst to thrive simultaneously.
But this just in: America has always been the land of everything good and bad, which is why in a survey of our history neither total praise nor total condemnation can be uniformly applied.
Since early January our home has been undergoing significant remodeling projects. My wife has taken the lead, which is the smartest approach—for the sake of the house as well as our marriage. Accordingly, she, not I, is the one who’s taken 5,000 trips to the local Menard’s and Home Depot outlets in search of the right color, the proper design, and the correct materials. My self-designated role has been strictly consultative. Since she has proven talents and experience in regard to home decor, I trust her tastes and choices implicitly, as I always have.
There’s a downside to the “always have” part. Self-deprived of the veto power for decades, any trace of it that I might’ve once had has long withered on the vine of time. Likewise, I seem to have lost all willingness and ability to take initiative when it comes to choosing color, design, or material. This deficiency proved to be particularly worrisome when Beth embarked on a three-week wonder-tour of Alaska with her good friend Sue. The bathroom remodeling phase of our home improvements had barely begun, and though Beth thought all necessary decisions had been made (color, design, material), this proved not to be the case.
Imagine my panic when the plumber informed me that the bathroom faucet Beth had purchased was a “three-hole” fixture that wouldn’t work for our new, custom-cut “one-hole” bathroom counter. I texted Beth and miraculously, she responded immediately—from the fair town of Fairbanks, where she and Sue were about to board a prop-job flight to Fort Yukon (which straddles the Arctic Circle). “Whatever you get, make sure it fits . . .” she texted. “The space behind the sink is limited; also, make sure it matches the shower fixtures, which are brushed nickel.”
I punted. “I’ll wait until you get back,” I texted my reply. “Have a nice flight; take lots of pics from the air.”
But then I had a thought. If I wasn’t afraid of the dark while Beth was gone for so long; if I hadn’t screwed up the fancy thermostat or short circuited the microwave, why should I be afraid of making the wrong selection among bathroom faucets? With this modicum of confidence, I jumped online and searched “bathroom faucets” on the websites of Menard’s and Home Depot—the two stores where I knew Beth had selected everything except tiles and countertops. Confronted by 15,000 choices, I narrowed my search to “one-hole” faucets. Good. Now I had to sift through only 1,000. By restricting the search to “burnished nickel,” I cut the field by half.
Great.
Well, actually, not so great. Beth is always in search of a bargain at the same time she detests going “cheap,” when quality makes a difference in durability and appearance. Should I start low and work my way up or look high and buy lower? And what about size? What would fit, what wouldn’t—both physically and aesthetically?
After blowing 90 minutes on this search and concluding it with inconclusive results, I recalled what Beth does in such circumstances: she goes to the stores and surveys the tangible merchandise and is never bashful about locating and interrogating a knowledgeable staff member.
Inspired by her time-honored example I got in my car and chased down to the local Menard’s. But I did one better, encouraged in part by bolder (but essential) initiative the previous week when our contractor informed me that the $800-tempered glass shower doors Beth had ordered from Menard’s wouldn’t fit by a very long shot and couldn’t be cut. With the contractor guiding me as I’d searched online and providing his stamp of approval, I’d selected a replacement set, which the contractor picked up forthwith and installed. The $800 doors remained in our garage, however, since the contractor couldn’t fit them in his van. I was thus determined to arrange for them to be picked up by Menard’s before Beth’s return from Alaska. No muss, no fuss. (This detail will play out later in this post.)
As I drove to the store, I remembered that I needed to pick up some hardware for the posts and railing I’ve designed for the steps to the dock up at the lake. I could now kill three birds with one stone.
Minutes later I was entering the store just as thousands of other people (Beth among them) do routinely every day. I fully expected to head first to the hardware section and there gather the nuts, bolts and washers I needed. I’d then go to the pickup/delivery area at the back of the store and make arrangements for the pickup of the shower doors. Last, I’d go upstairs and search through all the bathroom faucets to see firsthand exactly what qualified choices were available. If the remodeling gods favored me, I’d find something, proceed to the checkout area, and be on my way.
All that happened to my considerable satisfaction, but something far bigger occurred; something I hadn’t expected; something that put me in a great mood for the rest of the day and the day following: I met America, and it was good. Read all about it in tomorrow’s post. (Cont.)
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
