Thursday, September 11, 2014

A Little Break from Windows (literally)

Hi there! I disappeared for awhile, but now I'm back to check in.

Last time I wrote for the blog I published this post about the history of the house, and how "it felt like home, immediately. I felt like it needed me. I felt like I needed it."

All that airy-fairy spiritual gassing is well and good when poring over old photos, but the last two weeks has been where the rubber meets the road on this "need" stuff.

I've been scraping, sanding, painting, and glazing windows. It's been hot, tedious, sometimes frustrating work. Sometimes so much so that I haven't taken the time to take photos, or even very good ones:


It's the first window pane where the glazing looked like I might halfway know what I am doing (I ended up redoing that wavy/rough little bit on the vertical muntin). But it's the only photo documentation I have.

Bad blogger.

But just when I felt that I might be getting the hang of this job and making some progress, something else happened. I came home from work one day, and while still standing in the front foyer, heard a peculiar crackling sound, like the sound of plastic wrap on steroids. It was coming from the kitchen.

I was thinking fire, actually. Fire!

Noah and I ran into the kitchen and saw this:


That's the fixed panel of my sliding glass door. The only thing fortunate about this is no one was hurt. It's also two-layer thermal glass, and the outside panel of glass that broke.

But it's also a mystery. It's covered by yet another layer of storm glass on the screen porch side, and nothing struck the window. No one was in the room. I suspect torsion of the frame, or a flaw in the glass (it's a really low-quality door). But I don't know for sure.

I was so relieved it wasn't something far worse that I was curiously unmoved by the fact that this is going to be an expensive replacement job. I feel like the house pulled a bait-and-switch on me just to keep me from pitching a tantrum about the broken window. And really, it worked.

I have been dithering for well over a year between some work in the kitchen (replacing this door, the flooring, and the dishwasher) and some work in the basement, unable to really make up my mind between the two. I guess my mind got made up for me.

But colder weather is on its way too, and I'm pushing forward yet another weekend on the window glazing project.

I'll check back in soon. Back to work!

Monday, August 25, 2014

House History: A Gift from the Past


Houses, I've always believed, are more than brick and lumber, shingles and windows. They are also spiritual. Now, if you don't believe in ghosts or presences or in places having souls, that's perfectly okay with me. And while I can't say I've ever seen a ghost, I do believe that places have....I don't know what to call it. Something that goes beyond the mere substance of its physical existence. 

I feel that way about this house, and have from the day I walked in the front door. It felt like home, immediately. It felt like it needed me. I felt like I needed it. And those feelings were beyond the financial considerations, the practicalities, and the smell of the funky old carpet. It was some intangible truth, and it grabbed me by the arm and dragged me into the rooms that I now occupy. My house even has a name: I call it Ruth. It always seemed to fit it, somehow. 

One of my goals this year was to delve more into the past of my house. I'd gotten some hints by reading the deed to the property when I first purchased it, but it was a lengthy document; I had a lot going on when we moved in (and still do), so I only skimmed: 


I also found this, most likely the lumber delivery label, at the bottom of a drawer in the upstairs linen closet: 


There were also some inadvertent clues from the man who inspected the house before purchase, who said after looking in the attic: "This house was framed by one person, perhaps with a helper or two. But it was clear the carpentry was planned and executed by one person, and he really knew what he was doing." 

It turns out he was right. Meet the builder of my house, Hans J. Hansen: 


This photo was taken in 1961, when he was almost 90 years old, and came to me courtesy of my local historical society. 

He was a master carpenter of barns and homes in the area, and was active in the community from about 1899. He was a Danish immigrant, at one time returning to his native country to attend a folks school to learn carpentry; then he returned. Between 1899 and 1940, he built over 50 barns and homes that have been attributed to him, perhaps more that are unknown. 

I found it astonishing that some of the homes he built in my hometown are ones that I have admired for a long time. When I was a teenager attending middle school, I often walked home past this Dutch Colonial and daydreamed about living in it. Mr. Hansen built it. 


He also built one of my favorite houses in my current neighborhood, just down the street and around the corner from my own. (These photos are courtesy of the county tax assessor). 


My house, the smaller and more modest Cape Cod, was built in 1939. It is possibly the last house he built. But it is also special for more reasons than just that.

He built my house for his daughter. Her name? It was Ruth.

Ruth Hansen Boast was married in 1936. Where she lived before she came to this crisp and tidy new little house in 1939 is unknown, but it is entirely possible that it was a wedding present from father to daughter and new son-in-law.


Of course, I already knew that there were children involved, and now I know more details, like their names: Richard, Charles, and Thomas. It seems no mistake that I, a mother of four boys, ended up with a house built by a grandfather to shelter his three grandsons.

It turns out that Ruth's name was always there, buried in the details of the lengthy deed (her husband's name was the only one on the purchase/transfer of property entry, and my eyes must have glossed over the rest). Did I internalize it somehow at the time I bought the house and read the deed, and that unconscious knowledge surfaced when I started calling the house Ruth? Entirely possible. Either way, I don't think it was an accident.

In the last three years, I've considered this house a gift in many ways. It was a place to find a future after my marriage failed. Room to create a home for myself and my sons. A challenge to meet. A part of my community's history for which to take responsibility. It's been the gift of a friend, in that intangible way that I spoke about houses having souls-- Ruth. Knowing that it may very well have been a gift from the very beginning makes it even more so. I only hope I'm able to live up to the grace it's shown me.

Saturday, August 23, 2014

Exponential Tomatoes


It's late summer, which means tomatoes. I like how they start out small, like the two wee things above we "harvested" in late July.

Now this is our daily take, with more romas as the summer ripens into fall:


How's your garden this year?

Thursday, August 21, 2014

I Shutter To Think

Yes. I went there. I titled a blog post with an idiomatic phrase misspelling that drives me straight up the wall.

I'm annoyed enough as it is, so I might as well take it all the way.

In the previous seasons, you may have remembered that we found the old wood shutters for the house in the garage attic, scrubbed the wasp nests and bird poop off them, tightened them up a bit, sanded and painted them. While I didn't get them hung, I was loving the way they looked.


This year I got them out of their storage spot on the screen porch, ready to finally hang them, and get to work on another pair. But while I was at work for the week and before I could get the hardware to properly hang them, this happened.


I know. As the youngsters today say: I cannot even.

Dammit.

The exposure to a week's worth of sun, wind, and variables of moisture did this to the shutters. So obviously they weren't as tight as I thought. And all that time I spent cleaning them up? Poof. I try not to think about that part, or I swear a lot. A lot.

At this point I'm too emotionally fragile for ill-timed advice, so I have generously composed a list to choose from:

1. Here, have a glass of wine.
2. You look like you need a nap.
3. ((Hugs))
4. Who needs shutters anyway?
5. Here, have a glass of wine.

If there are clamps out there, or some neat trick, or oh, they're so worth the work to save those cool old shutters, I don't want to know, please, because right now it will be "blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah can't hear you."

I will apply rational thought later. Right now I'll be working on 1-5.