Insulationing
Last winter when the floor boards had started to freeze up in the morning and we found ourselves having to put on fuzzy skates just to get to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee to start our day, Sweetie and I decided that instead of spending all that time with the laces we’d find somebody to put a little more insulation in the double wide. Since the doublewide doesn’t have a basement but a crawlspace, I have never taken it upon myself to wriggle under there due to late onset claustrophobia, discovered after getting stuck in a decking installation accident—trapped between the two-by-tens and dust for the better part of an hour after running out some forgotten Romex for an outdoor outlet.
We had up to that point, lived under the missinformative idea that while the insulation under the house was clearly not up to the task, there was some degree of insulation, no doubt old and weather-beaten, lodged between the floorboards of our new home. While Tacoma has never been known for its harsh winters, there has been at least one January since we moved here where the thermometer hovered in the 10 degree mark for the better part of a week and other years where winter storms blew the cold north wind through every crack and unsealed rivet of every trailer we’ve ever owned. Here surly in this five decade old rambler, which has seen its fair share of arctic winds and been buried under heavy snow, we would find between shredded vapor-barrier and the joists some remnant of insulation—no doubt pilfered from a cancelled military contract or diverted after the Top-Of-The-Ocean was torched from when the mob ruled Tacoma.
But I guess it just never happened. The contractor informed us that not only was there no insulation underneath our home tattered or otherwise, he was under the impression that there had never even been any.
Now I didn’t really know what to make of that news…of course the first thing it did was question my toughness, after all if I’d felt it necessary to complain about the drafty conditions and icy floorboards in what was no doubt a mild winter even by Washington standards then surely I must be made of weaker stuff than the previous owners of this double-wide. Am I not the great grandson of South Dakota pioneers--the grandson of Great Lakes bitter winds and 10 foot snow drifts? Was I not born in the Windy City where an icy wind howls from Thanksgiving through Easter?
At the time it made for a tough decision as only one that combines money alongside manhood can be. At times I would flash upon My Dinner With André where they talked about cars and air conditioning and wonder what would have been said about floorboards that felt too cool on my feet in the morning.
Andre: What does it do to us, Wally, living in an environment where something as massive as the seasons or winter or cold, don't in any way affect us? I mean, were animals after all. I mean... what does that mean? I think that means that instead of living under the sun and the moon and the sky and the stars, we're living in a fantasy world of our own making.
Wally: Yeah, but I mean, I would never give up my electric blanket, Andre. I mean, because New York is cold in the winter. I mean, our apartment is cold! It's a difficult environment. I mean, our life is tough enough as it is. I'm not looking for ways to get rid of a few things that provide relief and comfort. I mean, on the contrary, I'm looking for more comfort because the world is very abrasive. I mean, I'm trying to protect myself because, really, there's these abrasive beatings to be avoided everywhere you look!
Andre: But, Wally, don't you see that comfort can be dangerous? I mean, you like to be comfortable and I like to be comfortable too, but comfort can lull you into a dangerous tranquility.
That movie has been on my mind quite a bit lately—that, and whatever happened to the bright red snow suit I used to wear while climbing over snow-piled parking-lot hills on crisp zero-degree Grand Forks, North Dakota afternoons.
My mind wonders, but not my feet…my feet lounge about blissfully unaware of any unresolved environmental inner turmoil brought about by my Great Plains heritage. My feet, for once, feel content.
We had up to that point, lived under the missinformative idea that while the insulation under the house was clearly not up to the task, there was some degree of insulation, no doubt old and weather-beaten, lodged between the floorboards of our new home. While Tacoma has never been known for its harsh winters, there has been at least one January since we moved here where the thermometer hovered in the 10 degree mark for the better part of a week and other years where winter storms blew the cold north wind through every crack and unsealed rivet of every trailer we’ve ever owned. Here surly in this five decade old rambler, which has seen its fair share of arctic winds and been buried under heavy snow, we would find between shredded vapor-barrier and the joists some remnant of insulation—no doubt pilfered from a cancelled military contract or diverted after the Top-Of-The-Ocean was torched from when the mob ruled Tacoma.
But I guess it just never happened. The contractor informed us that not only was there no insulation underneath our home tattered or otherwise, he was under the impression that there had never even been any.
Now I didn’t really know what to make of that news…of course the first thing it did was question my toughness, after all if I’d felt it necessary to complain about the drafty conditions and icy floorboards in what was no doubt a mild winter even by Washington standards then surely I must be made of weaker stuff than the previous owners of this double-wide. Am I not the great grandson of South Dakota pioneers--the grandson of Great Lakes bitter winds and 10 foot snow drifts? Was I not born in the Windy City where an icy wind howls from Thanksgiving through Easter?
At the time it made for a tough decision as only one that combines money alongside manhood can be. At times I would flash upon My Dinner With André where they talked about cars and air conditioning and wonder what would have been said about floorboards that felt too cool on my feet in the morning.
Andre: What does it do to us, Wally, living in an environment where something as massive as the seasons or winter or cold, don't in any way affect us? I mean, were animals after all. I mean... what does that mean? I think that means that instead of living under the sun and the moon and the sky and the stars, we're living in a fantasy world of our own making.
Wally: Yeah, but I mean, I would never give up my electric blanket, Andre. I mean, because New York is cold in the winter. I mean, our apartment is cold! It's a difficult environment. I mean, our life is tough enough as it is. I'm not looking for ways to get rid of a few things that provide relief and comfort. I mean, on the contrary, I'm looking for more comfort because the world is very abrasive. I mean, I'm trying to protect myself because, really, there's these abrasive beatings to be avoided everywhere you look!
Andre: But, Wally, don't you see that comfort can be dangerous? I mean, you like to be comfortable and I like to be comfortable too, but comfort can lull you into a dangerous tranquility.
That movie has been on my mind quite a bit lately—that, and whatever happened to the bright red snow suit I used to wear while climbing over snow-piled parking-lot hills on crisp zero-degree Grand Forks, North Dakota afternoons.
My mind wonders, but not my feet…my feet lounge about blissfully unaware of any unresolved environmental inner turmoil brought about by my Great Plains heritage. My feet, for once, feel content.
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