I was driving my friend Les nuts with constant comments and questions while he artfully began Sunnybank’s extensive repairs resulting from the Big Bang. (Read my column from three weeks ago about that).
Since I couldn’t record my music, or plan my next book in peace and quiet in Traverse City, I flopped aimlessly around, and began to merge with the carpet.
Uh-oh.
Anyway I looked at it, I was definitely gonna be underfoot.
So-
I’ve temporarily relocated to our little farmhouse in Saginaw to do something useful. For years I’ve put off thoroughly cleaning the nice little 1,200 square foot home, built in the 1870s, where we’d raised our family. Here was the perfect project! I’d convert ennui to energy, and put things right.
I began making appointments with Saginaw businesses.
I booked Terminex, carpet installers, carpet cleaners, the Culligan water softener man, deck power-washers, and a jackhammer crew of five to rid me of three loathsome, unevenly curved, improperly poured steps leading to the front door. (Last year I’d rented a regular jackhammer. Other than dislodging a few cement chips it didn’t do spit. I needed HUGE.)
Just to keep it exciting, I booked all these people for the same day.
Here’s the step situation. Ten years ago I was dumb enough to hire a clueless contractor to pour three steps leading to the front door. They’d look like half of a three-layered cake. I supplied dimensions, even a clear photo. I drew guidelines. Didn’t matter. While I was away the skunk-drunk fellow made an awful, awful mess of it. (Turns out Clueless Clyde had never done it before.) By the time I drove down to view it a week later the damage was done. For ten years those sagging, uneven, embarrassing steps have made me wince.
Now, I’d terminate ‘em.
The house would be tossed, scoured, debugged, vacuumed-- thoroughly sorted. I grinned. Just the thing for an old duck to tackle.
First, the basement. (Always do the worst thing first thing.) I donned a mask for mice droppings, work gloves for brown recluse and black widow spiders, and clothes I didn’t care about ruining. A hard hat provided some insurance; bashing my head on low beams and ductwork was a constant problem. My short stature helped, though, in our five-and-a-half foot high basement.
Rule #1: If Joe and I popped off tomorrow would the things down there be interesting to anyone else?
99% of the time, that answer was- Nope!
Nope = Chuck it!!
Rule #2: NEVER compromise Rule #1.
Stuff went from bulging cupboards into giant 3 ml contractor’s bags- mummified mice, moth-eaten clothes, zillions of recycle-ready jars, magazines, papers, bags, boxes of every size, old canning stuff…all were removed.
The house windows rattled with our yells: “Dump that! Recycle this! Have mercy on the children!” while the Rolling Stones narked on about ‘Satisfaction,’ and some country singer howled “…’Ain’t dumpin’no munny on runny ole eggs from a frumpy ole chick like yooo…” Nibbled, ancient tax returns and receipts, big boxes of extinct office patient files (shifted here during Saginaw’s flood in ’86), decrepit letters, 30-year-old mouse-nibbled wallpaper, broken toys – heck, even the rusted metal file cabinets- went. A truck with a shredder machine came; it ate 15 big cardboard boxes of files, snicker-snack.
We gutted that basement. It echoes.
Joe brought in a big-as-me shop vac, and he hoovered it, from rafters to cement floor. He’s over six feet tall. It was a miserable task. For hours the aluminum beast shrieked happily as it sucked up every unmentionable thing.
Meanwhile, outside, the jackhammer guys were demolishing that awful porch landing and steps. Four shattering hours later they staggered off with the last chunk of cement. We stared into a gaping hole. (Now Joe and I just have to remember not to fall into the pit. We go around it, then hop onto the teeny tiny temporary steps, and stretch high to lock and unlock the front door. No problemo. ANYTHING is better than you-know-what...
I am a happy woman.
Les will build me a nice landing and stairs in spring. I can wait.
And upstairs, during all that--
-The carpet people ripped up 800 square feet of thirty-year-old carpet, hauled it out, swept the area, and installed a nice new mill-end piece that just fit.
-The Terminex man patiently poked through the house, setting traps.
-Two guys power-washed the big backyard deck clean of dirt and mold. (It was mid-December- the last day of 40s weather. That night it snowed for the first time! Howzat for perfect timing?)
-The Culligan man installed the tank. I now have wonderful water. No more chipping calcium deposits off of the furnace’s humidifier, no more chalky shower walls to scrub clean, no more faucets that squirt everywhere but down…Ahhh.
This place was a hurricane of activity. I loved it. Smash, rip, blast, whack!
One odd thing happened. Our ancient washer and dryer workhorses packed up. That day! What exquisite timing! We’d been operating the washer with pliers for years, and replacing stuff in the huffingpuffing dryer, and now they’d decided to die together. Huh.
I immediately rang the fix-it-up chappie at the scratch-and-dent store. He remembered me and offered a reconditioned Maytag washer/dryer- right then! Plus, he’d haul away the dead ones. Hooray!
(When we buy mechanical things we maintain them. Result: our machines- including cars- usually last a very long time. I can make a penny scream, by golly.)
I’m nearly done scrubbing kitchen cupboards, dusting every book in our library, patching wallpaper and hauling more nice stuff to Goodwill. Our little home sniffs of furniture polish, and Comet cleanser. I’ve ‘Dee-magnetised’ every flat surface. translation: No clutter.
I’ve even cleaned the lampshades and ceilings.
-In spring:
The brick man will shore up the exterior walls. We’re tired of herding terrified birds and bats outside.
I’ll rip out the old evergreens surrounding the house. They’ve grown 40 feet tall -no kidding- and are sniffing around the stone foundation. I’ll replant new, tame ones.
The exterior will be repainted. It’s been ages.
I’m tired, but content. I have the satisfaction of knowing my children, or a future buyer, won’t paw through our personal stuff, or face a mess. That used to haunt me.
Things are tapering off down here, and idle me might start ringing Les more. Uh-oh…
Idle people get fat.
Idle people shed brain cells.
Idle people drive me nuts.
I drive me nuts.
I need another project.
Hmmm….