We finally got a new front door.  This is one more project in the exterior renovation that we’ve been chipping away at for over five years.  It’s taken us this long to re-sculpt the landscape and replace water gobbling citrus trees with natural desert plants; replace all the old single-pane windows with Energy Star, low-e, double-pane windows; tear down the ancient, storm-damaged fiberglass screened porch and erect a new Aluma-wood patio cover; and top the house with new, architectural-style, energy efficient roofing.  This latest project was to pave the way towards covering the old fiberboard siding with stucco and finally getting rid of the horrid jailhouse-like security door and the nondescript, flat slab of a front door.

The installation team showed early Monday morning to start work before the temperature climbed back into triple digits.  We’d cut our walk short in anticipation of their early arrival and to let Mom know what to expect.

“A new door?” she asked, squinting over her yogurt cup, across the room to the foyer.  “What’s wrong with the one we’ve got?”

“It’s not insulated as well as the new one, it leaks air, the deadbolt doesn’t line up, the lock sticks, the paint is peeling, and it’s really, really ugly,” I said as I walked into the kitchen.

“But it opens and closes just fine,” she said.  “I don’t know why we need a new one.”

“Because the new one will look great when we get the stucco,” I replied.

“What stucco?”

“The the stucco we’re getting on the house, remember?” I said, walking back into the room with a cup of coffee.

“Oh, that’s right.  You told me about it when we went to the doctor.  It’ll be very nice.”

“Yes it will.  And the new door will look very nice too,” I concluded, thinking that was the end of the discussion.  Silly me!

“Does it have glass?” she asked as I turned to go down the hall and back to the office.

“Yes, Mom, it has glass.”

“Well that’s not good,” she muttered.  “You’re putting the screen back aren’t you?”

“The security door?  No, we’re not covering the new door with that old, worn out, rusty, creaky security door.”

“Well if there’s glass people can see in,” she argued, alarm creeping into her voice.

“No, they can’t.  The glass is textured and there’s wrought iron scroll work in between the panes,” I explained, once again starting down the hall.

“So is it glass on both sides?”

I paused in mid-step, half way down the hall, then backed up to the foyer.  “On both sides?” I repeated, looking over at her.  “On both sides of what?  The door?”

“Yes, the window on the door,” she said.  “Is there glass on both sides?”

“Well, yes, Mom, there’s glass on both sides.  That’s why it’s called a window,” I said, restarting my trek to the office.  “Otherwise it would be called something else,” I replied loudly.

“Like what?” she called after me.

“I don’t know,” I yelled back.  “Like a mirror maybe.”

“Well that would be better than a window.  At least no one could see in.”


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