FoxCraft

A Green Christmas

Buying Christmas gifts for out-of-town family members means shopping, wrapping, packing, and shipping. What's the biggest obstacle in this whole process?

Not deciding what to get for people, though admittedly that has its challenges. At least it can be done while seated comfortably in my chair with a notebook and a pen.

Not even the actual shopping, even though I tend to panic in crowds, I hate spending money, and I run out of patience and energy after about 30 minutes in the average mall. As long as I have a plan and a list, I can manage the shopping if I limit myself to short expeditions, remember to breathe, and eat enough chocolate.

Not the wrapping, either. Wrapping gifts after the shopping is finished is a little like cleaning pheasants after a successful hunt. It's kind of messy, and the process itself isn't a lot of fun, but there's the satisfaction of seeing the spoils of the hunt collected in one place.

Come to think of it, "spoils" isn't a bad description of the results of my gift wrapping. In part it seems silly to spend a lot of time and energy creating beautiful packages just so people can rip them open. In part I'm simply elegance-challenged. People who love me have learned by now that the odd lumpy packages with the torn corners and the crooked tape are from me. People who love me seem to open those packages with enthusiasm anyway.

The biggest challenge in getting gifts ready to ship is finding cardboard boxes. Even if you save boxes over the year just for this purpose, and even if you can remember where you stored them, they aren't going to be the right size.

Solving this problem means a trip to the park. Rapid City has a recycling pickup point there, where we take our glass, plastic, metal, newspapers, and cardboard. My primary source for shipping boxes is the big container for the cardboard. It's about the size of a medium truck box. A series of openings, about two feet wide by three feet high, line the top half of the container on either side.

If you're lucky, the container is more than half empty when you're taking boxes to recycle and more than half full when you're looking for boxes to recycle. Yesterday, I wasn't lucky. Reaching any boxes was going to involve leaning into the container at a dangerous angle, reaching as far as possible, being grateful to have gorilla arms, and hoping not to fall in.

Another woman had opened an access panel on her side of the container just as I looked in on my side. I asked her, "What size boxes do you have?" Unfortunately, hers were long and skinny, not at all what I needed.

I went back to leaning and reaching. She grinned at me. "Go ahead, hop in," she said. "Do you need some help?"

About that time, I was able to get my fingers on the corner of a box that looked about the right size. Under it was another one that would also do. So I didn't need her help, which may have been just as well. Relying on the kindness of a stranger to get out of a steel recycling container might not have been wise.

But I thanked her anyway, truly grateful both for her offer and for the fact that I didn't need it. We went our separate ways, having each done our small parts in the great circle of recycling and added to the holiday spirit by wishing each other Merry Christmas.

There's nothing like a little dumpster-diving to put the "green" in the Christmas season.

Slamming the Door on an Era

The fishing fly was startling to strangers.

It had spent years hooked into the front screen door in a strategic spot, looking like a fuzzy insect a bit the worse for wear which had happened to land there just in time to look you in the eye as you stepped up to the door. It served as a conversation starter for numerous political campaigners, missionaries, door-to-door solicitors, and first-time visitors.

The screen door was so old it was made entirely out of wood. It was so old it could be slammed instead of shutting with the dignified whoosh of modern doors equipped with hydraulic closers. It was also old enough so that replacing the torn screen would have been a project. Old enough so that wrapping the screen with plastic wasn't enough to keep out winter drafts.

Old enough, finally, to need replaced. We went and bought a shiny new combination screen and storm door with insulation, thermal window panes, and the latest and greatest thing—a "disappearing screen" that rolls up into the top.

A door that, supposedly, would be easy to hang. Just line it up, drill a few holes, put in a few screws, install the latch and closer, and adjust the handy little extender at the bottom to make it fit well. The step-by-step directions, complete with drawings, were in real English and quite clear.

Even the part in the beginning that read, "The door opening must be perfectly square."

This house was built in the 1950's. It was moved to this site after Rapid City's disastrous flood in 1970. It was well-built to begin with, but at this stage in its life, nothing about it is perfectly square. The door was surprisingly close, actually, with only about a quarter of an inch difference from the top to the bottom. Then there was the small matter of the top of the door frame being out of plumb, as if it were leaning back slightly toward the inside of the house. Probably to keep warm, since the screen door wasn't doing much to keep out the drafts.

Still, all those little imprecisions didn't seem to be that big a problem. We forged ahead in blissful ignorance.

Even with a scientist partner who is the kind of person who measures twice and cuts once, hanging the door turned into more of a project than either the salesman or the instructions had implied. Directions were read and reread. Holes were drilled. Shims were used. Adjustments were made.

We started early in the afternoon. By the time darkness fell, the door was hung, all right. Think "horse thief" rather than "construction" and you'd get the general idea. It wasn't straight from top to bottom. It didn't line up from side to side. It didn't align against the frame. These minor details were discouraging. The $100 the store would have charged for installation was starting to seem like a bargain.

On the positive side, however, no swearing or throwing of tools had taken place. And I had discovered my true talent when it comes to carpentry—holding the flashlight.

The next step was not printed in the directions, but it was clear nevertheless. Obviously, the only thing to do was temporarily abandon the project and go have dinner.

The next day, we consulted a friend who has tools, skills, and genuine carpentry experience. He looked at our handiwork. He very courteously made no disparaging comments. He analyzed. He made suggestions. He adjusted here. He shimmed there.

And now we have a fully installed new storm door. It has a latch. It has a closer. It lines up quite nicely. It keeps out the drafts.

The only thing missing is the fly. You just can't leave a fuzzy object an inch long hooked to a disappearing screen.

The missionaries and solicitors are going to be so disappointed.