Dear Cyndy,

You may already have read this column in the N Y Times.
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/12/22/opinion/22dowd.html?_r=1&ref=maureendowd
It's as intelligent a commentary on Christmas as I've read in a long time.

The trip to Nantucket three days ago was exhilarating as always.  For many
years, expeditions to go hiking or cross-country skiing have turned into
festivals on the calendar of the spirit, occasions that make life lucid
and meaningful. Now, when Margaret and I are physically no longer capable
of such extravagances, their place has been taken by less conspicuous but
economically more rewarding efforts, such as a year ago, clearing
Margrit's apartment, the regular sallies to Konnarock, and not least,
the demanding and perhaps ultimately very effective day trips to
Nantucket which, for the forseeable future, I would like to repeat at
intervals of two, three or four times a month.

The weather was not as adverse as one might have feared. After slithering
out of our snowy driveway at 6 a.m., the wheels made firm traction all
81 miles to Hyannis. The highways were wet but not icy, and a heavy
overcast masked the glare of the rising sun which would have posed a far
greater driving hazard than the few snowflakes that melted as soon as they
struck the windshield. On Nantucket light rain was falling, and the roads
were clear to within 600 feet of our house. There the taxi driver, a middle
aged woman, proposed to deposit Margaret and me, my heavy packframe and
Margaret's knapsack onto the deep slush. She agreed, however, to wait until
I had retrieved my rusted 1995 Dodge that was parked next to the house.
I had no difficulty steering it through the drifted snow. The various tools
I had brought to thaw a frozen lock proved unnecessary. The key turned
freely in the lock.  Margaret and I had no difficulty opening the
door.  We warmed ourselves in the glow of two radiant heaters. The air
temperature which initially registered 36 F ultimately rose to 52. For
lunch we had several glasses of Ginger Ale as well as a box of chocolate
(devil's food) doughnuts, which I had bought at the Cumberland Farms store
in Hyannis at the time that I filled tank of the car with gas.

The plumber arrived as he had promised, promptly at 12:30.
A genial, tall, burly man, round faced, almost bald, but with a
crown of blond curly hair. Attached to each ear lobe, a small pearl,
of such metal as befits a master plumber: brass. Margaret tells me
his nose was simiarly adorned. I did not look, probably because I
avoided eye contact. When I later described his appearance to
Klemens, with a comment about its not fitting into the the social
landscape of Nantucket, Klemens clarified the plumber's apparition
with a single word. All he said was "Queequeg".

So I showed my plumbing instllation to Queequeg, and as I had expected,
he found the PVC plumbing not compliant with the code. I thought it
interesting however that his criticism diverged from that of Mr. Liffey, 
who had rejected my plumbing the previous week. Mr. Liffey had found
the appearances of the glued PVC joints objectionable; he had stated that
allegedly blackened copper pipes showed that in the process of soldering,
they had been overheated, that the clean-outs were in the wrong position.
Queequeg on the other hand declared that copper supply plumbing was o.k.,
but that the two inch traps under the shower stalls, though sold here by
Home Depot, were not legal in Massachusetts, that the clean-outs were
appropriately placed, but improperly oriented. Queequeg said it would
be cheaper to pull out the PVC drain and vent plumbing that I had installed,
rather than to bring it up to code, defect by defect. I apologized profusely
for my incompetence, promised never to do it again. Queequeg in turn agreed
to send me a written proposal. Given that it's the holiday season,
I don't expect a letter from him for at least a week. Mr. David Kinney,
the plumber who had promised to come at 2:30, did not appear. 

At 3:15, I telephoned for a taxi, which for which Margaret and I waited
in my old blue car by the side of the road at the local landmark,
Massasoit Bridge. By 3:40, the taxi had come, I had parked my car at the
house and walked back to the taxi.  The large clock in the Steamship
Authority ticket office showed 4:00 p.m.  when Margaret and I sat down
to wait. The ferry arrived on schedule at five, and half an hour later
we were on our way to Hyannis. The trip back was uneventful. By
9:45 p.m. we had arrived in Belmont and I was unloading the car.

Another occasion to reflect on my staircase wit (Treppenwitz). I had made
it a point not to dispute the plumbers' arguments. In retrospect, I 
conclude that for both of them the plumbing code is an undefined lattice
onto which they project their preferences and habits. "The way I practice
plumbing is the way that plumbing should be practiced." As in the coming
weeks and months, I interview as many plumbers as will talk to me, I should
get a clearer idea of their beliefs concerning correct plumbing. To what
extent these notions converge onto a parochial, local Nantucket plumbing
tradition, remains to be seen. I suspect however that such a tradition,
if it exists, will have only a remote resemblance to the plumbing code.
My next project is another careful scrutiny of the plumbing code to try
to find the definitions of the various errors on the pretext of which
the plumbers are trying to scare up business for themselves. On January 5,
Margaret and I are planning another trip, provided I can persuade one or
more plumbers to give me an estimate for "bringing my plumbing up to code."

In the next 24 hours we expect between one and two feet of heavy snow.
Klemens just telephoned to tell me that he and the children would shovel
our driveway. I hope that in this respect you and Ned also have all the
help you need. Stay well.

Jochen