Maine House Renovation

“Really? The house is still standing?” John asked into the phone with me hanging on his shoulder listening.

“Ok, we’ll be up on Saturday morning.” He hung up the phone.

We both sat with a thump. Shaking out heads in disbelief, we kept murmuring, I can’t believe the house didn’t fall.

Finally I grasped that our entire porch, the porch that wrapped around two full sides of our house fell to the ground.

“The porch is what sold me on the house.” I said as if it mattered.

Ice built on the roof, slipping between the porch and the house, finally tearing the porch from the house. I just couldn’t believe ice could take down a porch large enough to simultaneously hang a hammock on, host a dinner party on, and cultivate a flower pot garden on.

I underestimated the ferocity of a Maine winter. By the time my blood thickened to ice-crystals and snow covered my first floor windows, I had learned my lesson well.

Unearthing the house from the collapsed porch was worse than the fact that it fell. We didn’t need more work!

In our early days of home repair, we hadn’t learned the trick, “If something is destroyed, cover it and begin again.” No, we stripped the house naked, redressing her in lovely layers of new. We left nothing of her old self except her bones.

Aviation cable pulled the second floor peak to a semi-straight tilt. We jacked first floor beams to an almostbutnotevenclose to level. We replaced windows. We removed ceilings and let Hedgehog nests rain on our heads. Neighbor’s cheered when the old chimney fell. We pulled up two hundred years of cat-pee soaked flooring. Our hands filled until nails, insulation, and siding ran into the street.

One long evening, my cousin and I sat on the second story floor playing cards while we waited for John to return with building supplies. The entire front of the house was removed. From our interior post on the floor, we talked to people in the street passing by.

Nothing halted our determination. Not even hunger, although I consistently begged for lunch breaks. For the longest time we had no water in the house. We took no showers over the weekend. We worked. We caught rain water to brush our teeth. We trudged through miles of muddy field, cutting through a patch of woods to use a port-a-potty at the baseball field. We worked, always holding the hope that one day we would rebuild the porch to its original ~~shabbiness~~ grandness.

I regret we never did.

We did build a little half porch/stoop in the front of the house. I obsessed over every floorboard we cut and nailed. I wanted to seal the wood in a clear water sealant, so we could enjoy the pureness of a porch. John and I even worked in socks to keep a mud-free porch-ette.

Mud is a season in Maine. When the snows melt, you’re up to your armpits in mud. Maine mud can consume cars, small children, and possibly pets. It’s not to be taken lightly. Mud season found us laying a porch.

Every board was perfect, clean, and waiting sealer when an old woman and her dog rounded the corner, heading right for our house. We put down our hammers and nails, ready for a break and friendly chat.

I stood regally as a dirty, smelly woman could stand, waiting to receive visitors, but before I could yell GETYOURMUDDYBEASTAWAYFROMMYPORCH!!!, her devil dog jumped, planting all four muddy paws on my sacred floorboards. Clear became opaque as mud splattered my socks and sent my nerves into an IwannakillsomeoneNOW frenzy.

“You may as well go back to where you came from.” The voice of the devil dog’s mother said. “You won’t like it here anyway.”

Her disturbing words broke my death gaze from her dog. An old woman stood before me adorned in at least ninety years of meanness.

I only had one other conversation with her. She and her devil broke loose when I was planting flowers on the hill just below my once grand porch. She stopped long enough to frown at my dirt covered front and say, “You must like to be dirty. I hate dirt under my fingernails.”

The walking piece of unlovable female history and her devil were known far and wide in our region. Not long after our second collision of personaltities, she was found alone in death. Rotting too long in her home before someone finally found her.

Till today I regret my short encounters with this old woman. Although mean as a nest of scorpions, she was alone in life and death.

March 14, 2011 by: The Domestic Fringe

It’s not only the Moose watching…Part 4

I am convinced if it were not for the young and verifiably insane, we would accomplish little in our world; however, if it were not for the wisdom of the mature, the young wouldn’t live long enough to enjoy the reward of their zeal.

A long, long time ago when inspiration struck, I began a series titled “My Dream House.” Many of you probably thought my dream ended when a rambunctious realtor encouraged my husband and I to dance around the closing table naked; however, I continued to dream. In fact, my dream blossomed when warmed with the sweat of hard work and watered with the tears of frustration.

Today, as hearts are breaking and a country is grieving, I will continue to share my dream. My soul is heavy with thoughts and prayers for the people of Japan. I want to share in their sorrow and one day rejoice with them as they rebuild their lives.

Hope lives.

But for today, I’ll travel back to my early days of marriage – days consumed with our dream.

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Because someone had to finance our dream house, my husband and I worked as many hours overtime as possible. John did electrical work that took him all over Westchester County, NYC, and Connecticut. I worked at a nuclear power plant. We were workhorses until Friday night when we became racehorses, speeding our way up to Maine, only to return dirty and tired Sunday night.

Our neighbors kept watch over our house by night. By day every person living within a five mile radius knew exactly what was going on in and out of our house. News in our town traveled faster than CNN correspondents. By the time we went from the closing table to the front door, our neighbors already knew our basic life history, family tree, and probably our social security numbers.

Sadly I now realize they also identify my birthmark. You see, I thought our house was in the wilderness. Compared to the city, it was; however, we did have a neighbor directly across the street and one at either end of our field. My city naiveté convinced me that no-one really lived in those houses buried under more snow than they have in the North Pole, not in the winter anyway.

So I hopped into the back seat and changed out of my house buying clothes and into my work clothes. Our new house was so filthy, I didn’t want to mess up my nice clothes. Unfortunately I was under the watchful gaze of one moose and at least two neighbors, Mrs. Cravitz included.

About ninety seconds into our home renovation, Mrs. Cravitz poked her head in the front door and said to my husband, “So I hear your dad was a dairy farmer?”

John and I were in two different room, but our eyes quickly found each other. Till today he can still hear the thinking look in my eyes, “How did she know that!”

During those early days of dreaming and working, I learned a lot about small town life in a America.

I learned you leave your doors open and people may snoop, but they won’t touch.

I learned the UPS man will leave your package on the kitchen table when you’re not home.

I learned there are no secrets in life.

I learned a small town will sometimes watch you, often laugh at you, but will always come to pull your rusty clunk of a car out of a snow drift.

I learned that chickens sense property lines.

I learned that people were born in my house, died in my house, and loved it long before I was born.

I learned to respect history and to avoid family feuds.

I learned life does have a slow pace.

And one dark night after a long day of work, John and I learned that neighbors look out for you. After each putting in several hours of overtime, we met somewhere for dinner and headed home to relax in the last few minutes of the day. We didn’t expect a phone call from Maine.

In the days before voicemail, I rarely checked my answering machine. John checks. He’s always waiting for news, wanting to know what he missed.

After the beep, a heavily accented New England voice tore into our New York apartment.

“Uhm, Hi John and Trish. I’m calling because, well, something happened to your house. Call me.”

Click.

Silence stretched to Maine and back.

We sank to floor, afraid to hear.

…………………………………………………………………………….to be continued.

February 5, 2010 by: The Domestic Fringe

Closing – Part 3

I ran the three steps it took to get around in our tiny New York apartment, throwing clothes and toiletries into a bag as I went. With nervous energy bubbling from my lips like the foam atop a cream soda, I allowed thoughts of our first home to cloud my mind and judgement. Suddenly I doubted my style sense, not knowing what would be fashionably appropriate for a home closing in Maine. I settled on a pair of black slacks and a green silk sweater leftover from the days when I could use my brother’s employee discount at the GAP. I decided on business casual.

Looking to FringeMan’s pile of jeans and t-shirts, I inquisitively asked what he’d be wearing to closing. After all, we were purchasing a semi-condemned house without any hope of running water or electricity. We must look good, so as not to offend the four sellers who were about to hold our mortgage for next four years, while we toiled and teared to rebuild. We had exactly forty-eight months to make our new home bank-worthy, but until then, we were fully prepared to write four separate monthly checks to cover our owner-financed money-pit. With the wiles of a new wife, I redressed FringeMan in an outfit that reflected pride in our New England Cape and a hope for a fully sheet-rocked future.

Stepping into the title company’s office, four sets of seller’s eyes greeted us – three elderly and one not. Then there were the spouses, the ninety year-old lawyer, their realtor, our realtor, and the title company’s presiding man of the hour. Plaid flannel was the choice of the table and the only other person who had dressed for the occasion was the deaf and partially blind lawyer who went to school prior to the Great Depression. Grandpa made our ‘business casual’ outfits look like outdated office wear. His bow tie, extra-large glasses, and brown plaid three-piece suit in a nylon/poly blend brought the crowd’s fashion to new and uncharted territories.

Conversation buzzed around the table and had little to do with money or legalities. I learned that one owner was born in our soon to be bathroom; however, at that time they used outdoor facilities. Another owner, the youngest, lived in a blue tarp and wood scrap shack in the woods. They still visited the outdoors when their bladder spoke and cooked on a wood stove. Grandpa lawyer was simply along for show…just in-case we city-slickers tried to pull a fast one. He smiled crookedly in a corner; the proceedings commenced.

While we were signing no less than four thousand papers, the seller’s realtor lead a side-show that caused a wild distraction. We could have unknowingly agreed to hand over our future firstborn as collateral. It is with great sadness that I hesitate to mention her name, because perhaps in knowing her name, you might also capture a glimpse of the person within. She would have made an excellent gypsy or circus owned fortune-teller. Before the ink on our last signature could dry, she exploded from her chair looking to FringeMan and I.

“Now you must dance around the table naked.” She insisted

I feared for the lawyer’s heart and the loss of my previously modest lifestyle. As graciously as possible, given the situation, we declined the dance until the last board of sheet-rock was hung and all the siding was repaired. On a cold winter’s day in Maine, nakedness bowed to production.

In the bizarre hours around the closing table, our dreams became reality and we embraced the challenge of demolition. We prayed the naked dance would be far in our future and we gained unexpected family in the sellers.

June 24, 2009 by: The Domestic Fringe

My Dream House, Part 2

My Dream House is part 2 in a series. Please, follow the link below and read part 1 first.