October 2003

October 1, 2003: It rained again this weekend, but it's okay, because we've discovered the secret of life.

Well, at least we discovered the secret of happiness when you're renovating an old house and it rains every weekend. The thing is, while you have an outside project going (in our case, of course, the siding replacement), you must also have an inside project puttering along to work on during inclement weather.

Now, we've known this, and we tried to implement the philosophy this Spring and Summer, but it kind of fell by the wayside when we were under pressure to get the pool deck done by the end of July. It didn't matter what we had going inside the house at that time, we were going to spend every dry period (even if they only came 15 minutes at a stretch) working on the pool deck.

Well... NO MORE. We've decided we're through fighting the weather, and so, when it rained this weekend, we cheerfully left the cart of siding replacement tools in the garage, and picked up the crowbars and hammers. The kitchen ceiling awaited. We hammered, and pried, and sawdust, plaster dust, and mouse droppings rained on our heads. If we end up with a bad case of Hanta Virus, it won't be any mystery where it came from. But we finished getting the ceiling down, and the mess cleaned up. When all was done, we'd gained a foot of height in our kitchen:

As part of the project, we took down the two flourescent shoplights and the ugly fixture over the kitchen table. Why, oh why, did 70's decorating style dictate that you put a fixture over the kitchen table that resembles nothing so more as an ailing jellyfish?

Anyway, we replaced Jellyfish and Friends with low-voltage halogen bars. Unfortunately, though, while the ceiling's restored to original height, it's still ugly. And the halogen bars haven't solved the kitchen lighting problem. They're an improvement, to be sure, but they don't provide near enough light. So it's back to the drawing board on the kitchen lighting issue, and it's going to be a while before the kitchen ceiling gets replastered. But hey, Rome wasn't built in a day, and Brickman House sure as hell wasn't renovated in a weekend. One step at a time...

And oh, by the way, thanks to all of you who have read this journal entry all the way through, and still had the grace to refrain from noting that our plan for the secret of life in old house renovations contains the same fatal flaw that our summer plan did. Yes, we secretly recognize that we're under the same pressure to get the exterior done as we were to get the pool deck done. For the pool deck, we had a family event scheduled that pressured us to get it done by a certain date. And for the exterior, well, winter's coming, and to go through a northeastern winter with giant holes in the side of our house is probably, ummm... a bad thing. But we're cheerfully ignoring that fact for the moment, so thanks to all who have let us live our momentary fantasy in peace.

October 6, 2003: It's funny how time goes.

We mark time on our office calendars, going from meetings to office conferences to trials, and on our home calendar, from camp carnivals to PTA meetings to play dates and dinner parties with friends. We see how time passes during the renovation from project to project-- painting and molding, clearing land, pool deck to siding replacement.

But the most striking changes on the calendar here at Brickman House always come with the seasons: Spring comes, with its riot of fresh-smelling green stuff growing everywhere, and then hot Summer, spent in bathing suits and shorts, lounging by the pool and cooking on the grill, laughing and drinking with our friends and family on the patio until all hours of the night. Fall arrives, and with it comes cool sunny days, crisp nights, and brightly colored leaves.

But then the days start getting as cold as the nights. And then the impending northeastern winter intrudes upon our Zen-like intent to become one with the vagaries of the weather...

The heating system in the house kicked on for the first time this season on Saturday morning, to warm the house after a chilly Fall night. It was nice to emerge from our cocoon of down comforters on a weekend morning, and be greeted by a blast of warm air from the heat registers to warm our toes, as we threw on some fuzzy sweatshirts to pad down to the kitchen to make coffee. But when we reached the coffee maker, the heat from the registers was completely negated by the cold blast of air coming through the plastic tacked over the hole in the wall where the window once was.

Of course, as luck would have it, the blast of cold air from the plastic was accompanied by the rat-a-tat-tat of rain, drumming against said plastic. Mother Nature be damned-- it was time to take action.

As you may recall from last month's entry, we knew that Bad Joey's questionable framing practices were going to make putting new windows in the space quite a challenge. But we bit the bullet, braved the rain, and opened up the siding and sheathing outside the window, all the way down to the mudsill to get the framing studs in. In the process, we ripped out a hodge-podge of what looked like laminate countertop scraps and old beadboard scabbed on to the frame for reasons we were unable to fathom (getting into Bad Joey's mind is a dark and dangerous path we dare not venture on). It took an entire day of painstaking, time consuming (and soggy) old house surgery, but we finally got the rough openings framed and the windows in:

Now Joey, honey? That's how you frame a window.

And just because we were so excited to actually have windows in our wall, we took a mood shot from outside:

No laughing allowed! When it's the first time we've actually had glass in a hole in our house in five months, we're allowed to get all proud and goofy about it.

Of course, when daylight broke, we realized that, while the windows looked great from the inside, we still had a lot of work to do to clean up the mess we'd made carving up the outside to get access to the framing. Another day's work on the outside, re-doing the sheathing and trimming out the windows, yielded this:

The windows look great, and it's wonderful to actually be able to see our pasture from the kitchen again. Of course, all that glass and perfectly straight, brand new trim only points up how godawful the siding still is, and how far we still have to go. But hey, there's always next weekend...

October 15, 2003: Time for a change of perspective. Tool Belt Babe has pretty accurately encapsulated the madness of the past several months, but let's not forget that when it comes time for the rubber to meet the road . . . Well, we are in this together, after all.

Finally, at long last, we enjoyed a weekend in which, believe it or not, there was no rain. Between the weather, and Tool Belt Babe's Mini-me (being our daughter, the pint-sized doppleganger of her mom) off to her grandmother's for the weekend, we had a clear run at making some serious headway on some too-long neglected projects.

We decided that the grubs who have, Lemming-like, kamikazied into our pool since mid-August, had really had quite enough fun for the year, and set about Saturday morning getting the pool prepped for closing. Most sane people, by mid-October, have probably already closed their pools. But, here in Margaritaville, with the Brains and Motivational Power Pack of this Union (being TBB) having spent the better part of the month galivanting around this Great Country of ours (I'm proud to be an . . .) to parts unknown (ask her about the Pueblos, go ahead), we've too often spent the precious time together in between her catching a plane or train or automobile reconnecting and attending to those domestic matters requiring a defter touch than can be obtained with your average reciprocating saw or 5 lb. baby sledgehammer.

So the pool, while it remained unswum (unswimmed?) (unswam?) (in) since the last, oh, pre-Scandinavian precipitation-free weekend (round about the time the last Ford Pinto rolled off the production line), at least looked pretty owing to Tool Belt Babe's fascination with borax, bleach and baking soda. And as long as you didn't mind a little shrinkage, it was swim-ready (swimmable?). Just ask the grubs.

Ah, the grubs. From whence they came (under the grass, duh) we know not. Nor can we explain their fascination with the pool. We never did see any crawling (grubbing?) across the pool deck. But somehow they managed to find their way into the pool in truly impressive numbers. If anyone can clue us in as to what this phenomenon means or how to prevent it, please let us know. The obvious answer is to nuke the yard with some chemical grubicide. But, we have a well. A shallow well. A really shallow well. Let's put it this way, at one of our parties this year, a beer (or two) was spilled on the lawn. We showered in Sam Adams the next morning. It's shallow. We have to be careful what we put on the yard. Of course, if TBB has her way and we get CHICKENS next year, well, that should solve the grub problem. Still, the Olympic grub high-diving team tryouts remain a bit perplexing to this kilted Homer.

After scrubbing the pool, scooping various accumulated vegetable and other matter, and setting Pablo (our automated pool cleaner, being the closest TBB figures she'll get to a chiseled pool boy, hence his soap opera worthy name) to work, we ventured around to the north wall (I think, heck, I didn't check the compass, TBB would tell you it's the exterior studio wall) to work on the clapboards.

Now, putting clapboards up is actually quite satisfying work. One gets a false sense of accomplishment when you can take a 14' length of board, even if it is less than a quarter of an inch thick, slap it onto a vertical surface, slap a level on the thing, slap a nail or too in place (without, preferably, slapping any minor appendages), take a step back and slap yourself on the back at seeing the expanse of plywood you've just made pretty (prettyfied?) (prettied?).

Now, two considerations of importance here for truly taking some satisfaction in one's work. First, it helps to have clapboards of the right width. If they're close, and you lose the receipt from the lumberyard so you can't return them, go ahead and put them up anyway-- no one will notice the difference in width. Heck, we sure didn't when we bought 'em. Second, it helps when your estimator gets the right board feet of clapboards to cover the bare spot(s). Of course, it also helps when your estimator gets the right width of clapboards. The two kinda sorta go hand in hand, much like TBB and me. We'll post photos of the finished north wall, after another run to the lumberyard this coming week...

Which brings me to the question of the proper pronunciation of "clapboard." Is it, as some contend, "clap-board"? Or is it, as those from the northern barbaric reaches of the Eastern Seaboard maintain against all reason, "clabbard"? Now, when I was in the USMC, I had a sword, and I kept that sword in a "scabbard." This was not, as some would have it, a "scapboard," with which I would not have known what to do. So it is that one of the hammer swingers around here tacks up "clabbards" to her (oops, I didn't mean to give it away) heart's content.

The northern wall of the studio being appropriately clad (at least until we ran out of materials), and a nice tidy pile of what would have been a full-bodied red Zinfandel sitting ready to be made into kindling, we moved our traveling comedy routine to the northwest... nope, we don't live in an octagon, must be the west wall (kitchen) to continue our clapboard rampage.

Which brings me to one of the most profound questions facing modern man, as first posed by Calvin to Hobbes: "How much board would the Mongols hoard, if the Mongol horde got bored?"

The kitchen wall having been cut into more times than a certain member of the Jackson 5's nose, and the remainder having been clabbarded with what appears to have been salvaged lumber, Eero Saarinen determined the only appropriate course of action was to remove all remaining siding so that we could properly re-side (hey, we already reside here) that facet of Brickman House. It's never that simple, though.

Because we couldn't just remove the siding. Salvaged though it may have been, the task if you choose to accept it (and you don't have a choice) is to save as many of those clabbards as possible, so remove them while doing as little violence as possible.

This is why I drink. I mean, write. When last I wrote one of our journal entries, it was after removing the asbestos siding. I hardly found it possible to imagine a more delightful experience than standing on a ladder stripping off cement siding. Try standing on a ladder, using a pry bar. Or two. And a hammer. And gently prying off 100 year old clapboards so as not to split them.

Oh, and the Pennsylvania Dutch Boy who installed them round about the time Teddy Roosevelt was taking San Juan Hill, he had no intention of those babies ever coming off. To make sure, he double-nailed them every sixteen inches or so. Don't ask me why. I think the former hardware store downtown had a sale on 8d nails. Who knows. One thing's certain, they were installed by a carpenter who took pride in his work and who made sure that absent the careful application of some serious elbow grease, those clabbards were going nowhere. This was tedious, time-consuming, patience trying, last nerve plucking work, occasionally resulting in an unrestrained primal urge to just do it, amidst much splintering of aged cedar. Most satisfying. But only possible when TBB was otherwise preoccupied (hopefully around the corner of the house), which casualty could then be explained away as "oh, it was split."

And then, the Tyvek. No, this is not an advertisement for better living through chemistry. Just the realization that while 1" thick tongue and groove sheathing is nice, the post-Civil War felt underlaying the clapboards had seen better days (around about the Coolidge administration) and it was time for an upgrade:

The rotator cuffs being done for the day, we wrapped up (literally, figuratively, metaphysically and everyotherly) and called it "a day." Until Sunday dawned bright and early, and also precipitation free.

We finished closing the pool:

. . . and then called it a half day to go have dinner with the 'rents who had traveled up from God's Country for a visit.

Columbus Day, our annual celebration of the American Spirit that immortalizes a man who didn't know where he was going, didn't know where he was when he got there, was credited with discovering a continent on which he never laid eyes or set foot, misnamed an entire people, and did it all on other people's money, found Tool Belt Babe on the roof of our neighbor artist's home, repairing shingles damaged during Hurricane Isabel. The artist-neighbor had been expecting me, and according to another neighbor, was looking forward to holding the stepladder again whilst I climbed onto the roof in my kilt. Instead, she got TBB in jeans and, after the frustration I experienced removing clapboards, probably a much neater job from The Babe. We got a bottle of wine in thanks, and it is much appreciated given our stocks are low in recognition of the necessity of purchasing more siding.

Enforced sobriety being the watchword of the week around here, we're amusing ourselves by contemplating the forecasted rainy weekend upcoming, and removal of the ceiling in the family room and the wall between the family room and the kitchen. Ah, you can tell it's fall when the air is filled with the sound of the Milwaukee Sawzall and the scent of sawdust and plaster. It warms the heart.

Absent fermented grapes with which to sate our thirst, we are also reduced to contemplating belly button lint such as the Shavian "ghoti," being his commentary on the idiosyncracies of the English language, inasmuch as "ghoti" spells "fish" when one considers the dipthonging alliteration of "tough," "women" and "nation."

As with the grubs in the pool, one can only shake one's head and mutter, "go figure." Until I'm allowed a crack at the keyboard again sometime in 2005, be well...

October 26, 2003: The tedious work of siding repair and replacement continues. We set out at the beginning of each weekend with lofty goals for the square footage we want to get done, and generally manage to accomplish about half of it.

In the last couple of weekends, though, we've managed to finish siding the north side of the studio:

And we finally finished the majority of the west side of the house:

We've still got some repairs to damaged clapboards in the upper third of that side, but at least we dont' see daylight shining through our kitchen walls anymore between the cracks of the sheathing.

After finishing up the west wall, we started back to work on the tower. What a total beast of a project. The method they used to side it is a trip, and as we promised last month, here's the story... The corner angles are, of course 22.5 degrees. But rather than using corner boards on the angles, and figuring out how to make them meet at a 22.5 degree angle, they mitred each individual clapboard at a 45 degree bevel, and wove the corners, alternately overlapping opposite clapboards:

It looks incredible, no doubt... one of those jaw-dropping examples of old-world craftsmanship that you just don't see very often these days. But it's become crystal clear that those old-world craftsmen were really, much smarter than we are. It took us half a day to figure out how they did it, and a ton of mis-cut clapboards before we got the hang of it on the mitre saw. Although the tower's clapboards are, comparatively speaking, in better shape than a lot of the other parts of the house, replacing those that are beyond help is an incredibly slow, painstaking process. Yes, even slower than replacing normal clapboards, if that's humanly possible. At this point, if we were any slower, we'd be grinding to a halt. But, at least we're making some progress:

We'll keep plugging away at it next weekend, and eventually we imagine we'll get it done. Either that, or we will discover the end of Pi, whichever comes first...

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