union labor; made in america (also known as yankee workshop)

Around 3p this afternoon, at a homestead on a rocky Vermont ledge, father and daughter headed out to the heated workshoppe to begin a tussle with a newly-designed, double-door, vapor-lock cat entry/exit point for our house in Virginia. The design is meant to allow access through the house window for our two furballs, whilst keeping wind and weather-related gusts from either entering or leaving the house. Imagine, if you will, a door far too extravagant for simple suburbanites: carpeted, alternating door locations, ledges on both sides, and (probably) a hot tub.

As they ambled across the snow-dusted driveway to the shoppe there was nothing but intent in their strides: band-sawing, lumbering, measuring, shots of whiskey, dove joints, measuring (twice), re-cutting, and Holley double pumper carbs. After an eternity, or ten minutes, they return to the warmth of the main house declaring that a run to the lumberyard is necessary - as oft quoted, the plan did not meet the first obstacle well. Off they drive with dreams of plywood, 2 x 4s, joists, drywall nails, and sandblasters. As I'm holding down the house - cooking, as I do - I receive the dreaded call about an hour later. They've called to report that they've ended up at a local hangout and are having snacks and tea. Snacks and tea?

They return an hour later, alleged lumberyard items in the van, and enter the homestead to great cheers. Cheers of tea and snacks.

What more of life?