Notes from Maine - 2025/11/02

November 2, 2025

I had popcorn last night while I watched Saturday Night Live. Miles Teller hosted and was versatile and funny. I usually watch SNL, but not always at the edge of my seat with the volume way up. Last night was special—I was waiting to hear my cousin’s voice. He’s a voice actor and he had a big role on one of the pre-tape sketches. I barely made it to the end of the sketch before texting him congratulations. What an amazing accomplishment to build a career like that. 

For me, it was nice to take a break with some levity. In our spare moments, Albert (dog) and I have been revisiting Downton Abbey. I first watched the show when I was desperately sick about fifteen years ago. I found solace in their strained formality. Over the years, I checked in occasionally when a new season was out, but I figured there was plenty I missed. So, I started from the beginning. 

Yesterday, while eating lunch we watched another episode before going to Home Depot. It was a particularly depressing storyline. The sweetest character on the show passed away and everyone wept. Even the under butler showed emotion (shocking!). Later, walking through Home Depot with a switch plate, a GFCI outlet, and some paint rollers, I couldn’t stop thinking about the Lady, thrashing and sweating before she was finally still.

“What are we working on today?” a cheery Home Depot employee asked.

I stopped in my tracks, blinking at her. The question seemed out of place and unanswerable. 

I stammered, shook my head, and finally said, “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

I wanted to tell this poor Home Depot person about the preciousness of life and the importance of being open and forgiving with the ones we love. I wanted to tell her how tragedy can strike at any time, so we have to live every moment being true to ourselves.

But she wasn’t asking about the dramatic lives of English Nobles from a hundred years ago. She was probably referring to the paint rollers—I was in the paint section. 

Somehow, I avoided breaking down in my time of grief, and managed a smile.

“I’m good, actually,” I said. She was still looking at me funny as I speed-walked for the registers.

Back at home, I left the TV off and put up new lights over the sink. I boxed in the space over the cabinets and then connected them over the sink so I could put three recessed lights up there pointing down. When I turned on the lights for the first time, I immediately realized the ramifications of what I had done. With all that extra light, every speck of dust, fingerprint, and un-scrubbed corner were glaringly obvious. 

I ran to the closet where I keep my cleaning supplies and pushed by them until I found what I needed—a dimmer switch. With the lights dimmed enough, I can go back to ignoring the untidiness. I have a theory that as age starts to take away our dexterity and enthusiasm for cleaning, the body compensates by diminishing our eyesight. If you can’t see the stain on a cabinet’s toe kick, you don’t have to worry about getting down on the floor to clean it. 

What do you call the space above cabinets? Talking to my sister one day, I struggled to come up with the word. Google suggested that I was boxing in the “soffits.” When I reminded Google that I was boxing in purely vertical spaces (no overhang—soffits require an overhang), it apologized and said that I was boxing in the “bulkheads.” I guess that’s correct? I wanted to enclose this space so I could hide the ductwork and low-voltage wiring for the under-cabinet lights. I also just like the way it looks. Previously, there was a dirty no-man’s land above the cabinets. Airborne grease and dust would mix to create a film up there. Sometimes, I would try to use that space for storage—always a mistake. Items up there would be forgotten until they became a part of the general clutter. I like to push things like that to the back of cabinets where I don’t have to look at them every day.

After the bulkheads are done (that word still doesn’t feel right), my brother says I should “box in the beams.” I’ll never do that. Fake beams around my real ones? What’s the point? Sure, the ones I have are crooked, uneven, checked, and full of holes, but they’re authentic. They were cut and pinned together by people before Robert Crawley was born and when Mr. Carson hadn’t even come to Downton Abbey yet. 

The beams will stay, the bulkheads will be boxed, and I’ll continue to clean with the lights as dim as they will go.