The Fixer Upper House and Garden

Everyday Matters

I'm looking forward to being reunited with my everyday china. It's an embossed, all-white Wedgewood pattern that I still love as much as Husband, chips and all.

It's early to be thinking about moving back and unpacking. M reminds me that I've been saying we'll be back "in three weeks" for the last six weeks. But even though the end date fluctuates with the weather, we can't help imagining where we're going to put the beds, and who is going to get which cubby in the mudroom, and where will the dog bowls go?

As wonderful as it is to think about living in The Fixer Upper House once it's all fixed up, these thoughts cause me some anxiety: I'm not sure what we'll find in the storage lockers that we stuffed after last summer's flood. I know the china survived, because the boxes it was stored in did not. Several hours after the flood, I unraveled every plate and saucer from mud-soaked wrappings, then I dried and repacked them snugly in brand-new boxes.

I suppose that's why I let myself think about the china: I know it won't be moldy. About everything else, I'm just not sure. We got rid of most of the books, linens, stuffed toys and clothing--every cloth or paper-thing that got wet, along with a lot of other stuff (as shown at left).  But given what zombies we were by the end of that day, I can't be sure that everything that went into storage was dry. In fact, I remember feeling queasy when I locked the last locker that night.  My thought? "Ew, mold."

If anything that went into storage was even just a tad muddy... Ew. I don't want to be there when the lockers are opened up. But I will be, of course, because I'm the shepherdess of the stuff.

I just hope the movers don't break my china.

Idle Time

Burglars and runaway teens could make a not-so-quick getaway from my neighborhood right now, due to the fact that a massive John Deere backhoe has been idling unattended in my backyard for several hours.

Although I've never been in or near the furnace of a cruise ship, I think I know what one sounds like.

Why is the backhoe idling rather than excavating? It's a reasonable question. In the photo below: See that garbage dumpster that's been in the driveway since an unexpected flash flood unloaded a foot of water into my basement exactly 3 weeks ago? The one filled with soggy books, toys, small appliances, files, branches, fast-food wrappers and a growing collection of dog feces? The dumpster is in the spot where Kevin The Excavator needs to put the soil that he digs out of the pit. He can't excavate until the dumpster is removed..and the dumpster can't be removed until the dumpster people get here. Don't ask me why the dumpster was not removed, oh, a week ago. And please don't ask why Kevin The Excavator can't turn off the engine. I have no idea. It's 97 degrees here.

Let us now be optimistic. Let us try. The dumpster people will arrive soon and the dumpster will be removed. The backhoe will be free to hoe the back pit. Tornado warnings will not flash across the TV screen during the Nightly News. The concrete guys will pour the rest of the footings tomorrow. I will come to a decision about soapstone counters. And Al Gore will not show up at my door to remind us about global warming.

At least I'm sure on that last point.

Best Of Times, Worst Of Times

Between the torrential rains, falling trees, tornadoes and bickering children, it's been quiet at The Fixer Upper House. The crew can't work in the pit because the clay is too wet and the threat of avalanche is too great. Since we started the demo and excavation, it's been the wettest August on record--about 110 years. Imagine the luck! On the plus side...we haven't had any more flooding in the basement because the pit is 12-feet deep. But the pounding rains keep swiping the pumps' electric cords into the water and blowing the circuits. Husband checks the pumps constantly (somehow I've escaped this chore).

The girls started school on Thursday (C had already left when this pic was taken). My. Oh. My how junior high has changed! M had to fill out a self-evaluation with questions that seemed more appropriate for an out-patient psych center than a public junior high school. She filled out the form on Friday after school when it was 95 degrees on the front lawn and 94 degrees in the front room.

"Mom, what do I do when nobody's looking?" she asked.

"How would I know--I'm not looking when you're doing it," I said.

"I'm going to put down 'I turn into Spider Man,' she said. Then she changed her mind because she doesn't know the teacher. "I'm going to put down 'biting my nails'."

"But you don't bite your nails," I said.  She put it down anyway.

Then she asked: "Mom, what was the best time of my life?"

I feared she would say "All the years we lived in New Jersey," but I didn't say that. I said "I don't know, was it camp?"

She said: "I have no idea. I'm putting down camp." Then she said: "What's the worst thing that ever happened to me?"

I feared she would say: "Leaving New Jersey." I said: "I don't know--was it when we lived in 'the cottage'?" (After we moved last year, we rented a dreary, miniscule ranch house that we called 'the cottage' to make it sound cozy.)

She said: "That's your worst time, Mom. I didnt mind 'the cottage'. I'm putting down 'when my cat died.'"

That was five years ago. At least she didn't say "Buying this house!"

Here are some photos of the past few days. This picture was taken on Aug. 20 ... nothing but rain and more rain has happened since: 

The living room resembles the basement of a used-furniture store. This is the perfect backdrop for fort building!

Milo is so nervous, he's hardly ever more than one inch away from me.

Spill Your Guts

I'm starting to get strange looks from people. Recently a neighbor asked: "Are you gutting the house?" I was taken aback. Gut is such a strong word. It's a very ugly word. Go ahead and say it out loud: "GUT."

I was a bit offended by the question. According to dictionary.com, the verb form of gut means to disembowel, destroy and plunder. Things don't get any prettier when gut is used as a noun: Guts can be bowels or entrails; a canal near the anus; intestinal tissue or fiber. You can lay the guts of a machine on the floor; you can take a gut course; you can cut to the gut issue; you can gut a dead animal. I want to spill my guts just thinking about it.

It's true we're planning a lot of nipping and tucking on The Fixer Upper House. But we're not gutting. Gutting is what a cosmetic surgeon does when she sucks the squishy stuff out of a fat person's belly. We're not performing liposuction on the house. We're enhancing it.

If the question of "gutting" comes up again, I'm going to think about the one synonym for the word that I do like. When informally used as a noun, gut can mean: Courage and fortitude; nerve; determination; stamina. As in: Taking on that renovation job takes a lot of guts.

Guts and something else!

I'm Sumped

At 5 a.m. the rain was coming down so hard it sounded like the old Kenmore dishwasher was rockin' in the middle of our bed. Always the gentleman, Husband squinted at me and said "Guess I better go check on things." It was a good thing he did, because turns out the sump pumps were not working. Within a half hour, water in the pit rose a foot. I took this picture at 5:30 a.m. while standing at the basement door and looking into the pit, which had been dry when we went to bed at 10 p.m.

When the basement flooded last week, the pit was only a few feet deep--that's why the rising water pushed the door open and rushed inside. Now the pit's--what? 11 feet?--and there's a concrete block in front of the door. The water will have to rise up very angrily indeed to burst through the door again. But still...those pumps should be working. I was starting to get a creepy avalanche-feeling as the water rose concurrent with our tempers ("Will you quit taking pictures!" Husband snapped at me). And the door should be locked: bolted in fact, rather than left ajar to accommodate extension cords for sump pumps that are either not working or not plugged in correctly. (Contractor later said one of the cords fell into the water and blew a circuit ... or two.)

But in the wee hours of the morning, Husband and I didn't know that. All we knew was that the sump pumps were not working and it had been raining hard for several hours. He drilled a hole so we could snake the extension cords through--and hence lock--the door. Then he reconnected some things, plugged a cord into a different outlet and got one of the pumps to work. At least we think it's working. After he plugged in the extension cord, one of the hoses started kicking like a small child being carried off to bed before the party's over.

OK: Since I'm trying to look on the bright side of things, here's this: I just noticed the basement door has a nice knob (you can see a bit of it in the picture at left). I wonder if I can retro-fit this door knob to a new exterior back door. Kent, the local Marvin distributor, said Marvin doors can only accommodate Marvin-sanctioned door knobs/handles. IE: you can't put an old knob on a new door. What's that all about? I don't like any of the Marvin door knobs/handles, because they look too new. They don't even try to make 'em look old or retro. I'll have to look for another door manufacturer. ... But first I need to get some sleep.

Dry Run

Though he was trying to be nice, the Sears appliance guy was nothing like the fictional Maytag repairman. The Maytag repairman is like a jolly bartender who wants to solve your problems and/or introduce you to his mother. The Sears guy is more like a waiter who just wants you to finish your dinner so he can get the tip and give your table to the next people.

It's true the Sears man was all business when he showed up at my house today. Clean, too...even eager. It's just that he showed up an hour early. I was told he'd arrive "between noon and 5 p.m.," so I had a million things packed into the morning. I was racing out the door at 11:00 when he called to say he was on the way.

"What? Why are you coming now?" I asked. I didn't mean to yell; I was just trying to be heard over the din of the excavator's back hoe.

"Because you're next on my list," the Sears man said.

"You're not supposed to get here till noon," I said.

"Well I'm either coming now, or I'm not coming at all," he said without emotion.

He had to come. I've been without a dryer since Tuesday and the laundry pile smells like...well...it smells like a wet basement. But C was desperate for me to drive her to her friend's house. I had to chose between my middle daughter or the dryer.

I delegated, putting M in charge of all appliances and repairmen. But before I left, I checked on the dryer to be sure it still was half-broken. The light worked and the drum got hot, but it still wouldn't spin around.

Ten minutes later when the Sears guy got here, the spinner was spinning just fine. He still charged me for the house call.

                                                   ....................

Here are a few pictures of "excavation day."

T watches the first few digs from the second-floor.

Lunch was a little bit surreal. (These are not my curtains btw; they came with the house)

 

Milo was on guard. Doesn't he look cute with his new haircut? (Again...not my curtains)

The excavator prepares the hole for "the dead man's wall." This wall, which will be poured tomorrow--weather-permitting-god-help-me---will connect the new foundation with the old. Fortunately, our house sits on hard-packed clay. This is good news for the house, bad news for the future garden.

Here's another picture of the girls and dog watching all the action.