The Extreme Sport of Winter Construction

Between decorating decisions, connecting with family, doom-scrolling eye-popping headlines, and temperatures that make you seriously question past life choices, this month’s update qualifies as a modest triumph: I’m here, the house still exists, and progress—while slow—is real. A major shout-out to Dan the Man, who has once again earned the nickname Dad. At this point it feels less like a nickname and more like an inherited title.

Just for fun: 

What do you call a dad with three children?
(drum roll please .....) 
Outnumbered   (Ka-boom!)

I haven’t posted much because it’s been that kind of quiet—the kind caused by weather so cold it shuts down both construction and conversation. We’ve had a brutal cold snap, ridiculous snow, and evening temperatures hovering below 0°F for much of the last two weeks. Very cold indeed. ICE'd out, too.

 Or, as a 17th-century Yorkshire expression puts it: colder than a witch’s teat. A phrase best left unexplored in polite company, but briefly mentioned here because I know Yorkshire, history is dark, witches have been treated badly, and women seem to get blamed for things unfairly. Moving on, quickly.

The cold has made life especially challenging for our contractor and crew—not just because winter construction is already an extreme sport, but because parking has become a full-scale drama. Our house sits on a narrow one-way road—formerly a horse track—wedged between the lake and the house. There is no parking on the lake side (despite no tourists and half the neighborhood being in Florida). This was tested. The police arrived promptly.

There has been an empty driveway close to us since work began. This, too, was tested—someone arrived unexpectedly and photographed the contractor’s license plate as if it was a true-crime documentary. The message was clear: never park there again.

So the crew has been parking blocks away each day, walking to the site in freezing temperatures, looping endlessly to load tools, unload tools, and quietly reconsider their career choices. You get the picture.

And then—because this is New Hampshire—genius struck.

Today, Dan the Man and one of his carpenter buddies, Zack, arrived by ski-mobile, roaring across the frozen lake, popping wheelies, and pulling up to our dock like they’d wandered in from a winter action film. Apparently our contractor has quite an Evel Knievel streak that gets feistier below zero. They parked just off our dock, swaggered across the snow-packed ice, and solved the parking problem in one glorious, slightly unhinged move.

 

They found us outside the house, agape, standing in the cold, debating paint colors—because of course they did. By the way, thank you to everyone who voted in the color poll. Pink-and-green came in first, a close cousin of pink-and-green came in third, and blue-and-green took second. After reviewing many sensible options, my husband and I realized something important: pink has been part of this house’s identity for over 25 years. Who are we to stage a breakup now? We can surely avoid a Barbie Dreamhouse. (No offense, Ken.) So yes—we’re staying pink, but calm and very much in the spirit of the existing house. More on that soon.

 

What we do have is progress. They are nearing closing up the roof. Windows and doors go in next week. Interior finishes are coming into my psyche. Plumbing and electrical rough-ins are on the horizon. And I danced a little happy dance today because our good neighbors who live behind us thought they were going to lose their view of the lake. And in fact, it appears they will not. This photo shows their original view. That's a win for everyone!

Next month—when the snow melts, turns everything into mud, then freezes again, snows on top of the ice and starts to melt again — I may take another trip.  The house, the ice, and the laws of physics will all still be here when I get back. Until next time.