As I explained before, Bob had now been in his Fiberglass Tuxedo for what seemed like an eternity. The time had ALMOST FINALLY come to remove the damn thing forever! Although the “tuxedo” did manage to keep him quite slim (like living in a sauna) it was cumbersome and very difficult for him to transfer, lean etc., and as I said “We were ready for a vacation”.
The decision was made to celebrate the end of the “Tuxedo phase” by going to Winter Harbor, Maine where the gravel pit down back seemed the perfect place to “Shoot the crap out of the thing” the very day he could remove it. We could stay a month and enjoy fog-laden mornings, 15 minutes of warmth in the afternoon and then bone chilling cold for the rest of the time.
We crammed all of the necessary gear into and on top of the car, found a place to “creatively-cram the suitcase and off we went!!
We had already missed the one-day of summer (August 23 rd), but decided that we could get up early one morning and experience fall colors then the next day smell the wonderful earthy scents of falling leaves. Then several days after that, Bob dreamed of polishing his snow mobile!
I know, I exaggerate- a little….
I had previously tried to explain to Bob that Winter Harbor was the most aptly named town in the US. We had fires going on the fourth of July to stay warm. Needless to say, Bob was sure that I was exaggerating. Little did he know?
Winter Harbor is a small fishing village that surrounds Henry’s Cove, and boasts a lovely harbor where most of the fishing boats are moored. Old Victorian homes line the street down to the town dock. There was one gas station, one grocery store that at one time was also the post office, and soda fountain and general gathering place. Times changed, however, and a new post office was built a bit further out of town and a restaurant or two sprang up.
Chases became the restaurant of choice and the Fisherman’s Inn was considered “dress-up” (if you could catch the chef sober enough to cook). Down on the “Cove side” of the street and built precariously close to the water, was the Donuthole. There was a bit of a gully between the street and the entrance that had to be traversed by a plank to get inside. The molasses donuts were worth the trouble, except the plank was not quite wide enough for the wheelchair to say nothing of the too-narrow door. Needless to say, Bob never got to go inside. This was a good thing because without the fiberglass tuxedo, Bob would have definitely managed to gain weight. The donuthole might have produced all the evidence required of the tasty offerings.
I digress. We did manage to arrive in the dooryard of Mom and Dad’s before sundown and was enthusiastically greeted by Mom and Dad. Dad had built a ramp to the front door, but it was so beautiful outside, we decided to have a “cold adult beverage” first. (I believe this was to bolster courage enough to tackle the ramp. It was a bit steep).
Bear in mind this home was almost 300 years old. The ADA wasn’t even a twinkle in Congress’ mind and most important, if you ended up in a wheelchair when this house was built, you basically kept it in park and got watered and fed-that was it! They didn’t need wide doors.
Well, we got Bob up the ramp (with a bit of “oomph”) but before we could celebrate, we noticed Bob was not going anywhere. “Why not” you ask.
Well, fortunately the door was wide enough, unfortunately, the foyer was not! Once Bob got into the house, he couldn’t move. There was not enough room for him to turn the chair.
We had to back him down the ramp (backwards).
My dad, ever ready to jerry-rig anything, went to the barn and triumphantly returned with a crowbar and a pair of hinges.
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There always was something ominous afoot when Dad had a crowbar in his hand. At the very least, it was scary and the big smile on his face let us all know,” he had a plan”. Dad smiled. We trembled.
Dad opened the front door and with a mighty “OOOMPH” we heard the ripping of wood. Poor Mom was hiding her eyes. We knew what she was thinking, “IT is an antique house, and he’s killing it!”.
Dad had attacked the “formal staircase” with the crowbar and unceremoniously pried the tread of its riser.
Again, we knew what Mom was thinking, “it was the ONLY thing sacred enough to escape Grand pa’s paint brush!” That staircase had remained pristine, highly varnished and polished through two generations of Cole’s and Conway’s and Dad just attacked it with a crowbar!
Dad, still smiling, went back to the barn and returned with a screwdriver. In order to fit in the foyer, dad closed the door. All we could hear (and we were very quiet) was drilling and grunting.
The triumphant yell came about 15 minutes later. Dad emerged from the house with the biggest grin on his face! He had conquered!
Dad grabbed the back of Bob’s chair, pushed him up the ramp and into the foyer. Then we distinctly heard “I’ll be damned” from Bob. “Yup it works, clever you! “ Mom was almost afraid to look. But I must say, it was a “jury-rigging feat befitting Ben Franklin. Dad had removed the tread, added hidden hinges, and then replaced it. You couldn’t tell that the step flipped up out of the way. It was a “Master-stroke” of genius! (Even Mom had to admit it was great).
Unfortunately there were no other “easy solutions to a make an inaccessible home, accessible, so for Bob to get to the living room we had to “pop the tread” then if he wanted to get back to the kitchen, we “popped it “ again. You have to very careful to replace the tread; otherwise you booby-trapped anyone that happened to be upstairs. Then there was the bathroom…
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