Lunch on the Porch

I had errands in town today and brought home the makings of sandwiches for lunch;

a roast chicken from the deli, a loaf of French bread, lettuce, tomatoes.

The men have worked during the past week to complete the porches which flank the sun room.

Jim moved chairs and a small table out to the finished east porch while I put sandwiches together.

There was a light breeze and a spill of sunshine.

The cats wandered out to join us, a bit wary of this new space.

The posts and rails are fashioned of tulip polar, harvested here on the property.

Jim shaping the ends of the posts with a grinding wheel

Howard used a draw shave to peel the bark and has also done much of the scribing and fitting of the posts.

With the upper porches finished, the lower porch area can now be tided, the soffit put up, and eventually a clothesline. 

A view of the south-east porch.

The piles of peeled bark represent hours of work to prepare the posts and railings.

One can buy posts and railings premade from the lumber supply--wrought iron, composite wood, pressure treated wood already formed into the components to create a deck or porch.

We knew we preferred the handmade rustic effect, and there is a certain satisfaction in using materials harvested on our own land.

We lingered over this first simple meal on the porch.

I moved my rocker into the rectangle of sun by the corner railing, cherished my mug of honey-sweetened tea.

We had to remind ourselves that there was much left to do and it was time to get back to work!

April: A New Month

The buds of  'Jane' magnolia showed their first hint of color on March 18.

I've seen similar small shrubby trees in yards around town since moving to Kentucky, but in ignorance of their identity referred to them as 'tulip trees' referencing the shape of the opening blooms. Blog friend, Mundi, recognized the variety when I posted a photo of a late blossom or two soon after we purchased our property.

The tree is sited near the original house here which burned to the ground [mysteriously] during the tenancy of former owners.

'Jane' is a bit lop-sided due to fire-damaged branches which Howard pruned for me in the autumn.

The flowers continued to open during the breezy blue-sky days of mid-March.

'Jane's petals strewed on the ground after a night of wind and chilly rain.

March was ushered toward her end on Saturday evening when driving rain blew in.

Thunder rumbled, branches tossed.  It wasn't a threatening wind, but the sound kept me awake for more than an hour, yet when I woke toward morning a few stars rode the night sky.

One of the comforts of having 'my own room' is my choice to keep the curtains open at night.

During the nights when the super moon was waxing toward fullness I found joy in waking to a spill of moonlight across my pillows.

Jim prefers the curtains closed, and usually he wants 'lights out' an hour or more before I'm inclined toward bedtime.

Our arrangement of adjoining bedrooms is working well--and the cats are pleased to have a choice between two occupied beds.

I continue to unpack and attempt to organize household goods, although at a much slower pace than I anticipated. 

I've spent [wasted] hours rummaging in the depths of the storage trailer--usually on a 'mission' for a particular wanted item.

I have shoved at pieces of furniture, heaved boxes and bins  about, much to my detriment.

I have lugged up armloads of belongings from the camper trailer adding them to small desolate heaps of items which haven't yet found a place.

Until the lower level rooms are finished, there is a sense of temporary arrangement.

Eventually, I suspect we will have an excess of furniture to give away.

Yesterday afternoon I persevered and sorted three boxes of toiletries and such that had been 'dumped' in the bathroom.

At the farmhouse I kept two bathrooms fully stocked with toiletries, towels, an extra hair dryer. 

There is now a surplus of all such things awaiting the second bath in the lower level.

Extra sheets, blankets and quilts are stacked on closet shelves or still folded away in rubbermade bins.

Going through my collection of quilts it has occurred to me that I need to use and enjoy them!

Accordingly I spread my bed with a fresh quilt in springtime colors. 

This is what happens to quilts in this house.

The flip side of enjoying my quilts is recognizing they must be frequently laundered--and thus will 'wear out!'

Our neighbor/renter when we owned the Amish farm is a skilled plantsman.

He summers amaryllis bulbs in his garden in rich compost, brings them inside in the fall.

Most of them rebloom.

This lovely amaryllis was a gift from Dawn two Christmases ago.

Thanks to Fred's nurturing I can enjoy it again.

It is living in the sunroom which has been cool enough to prolong the bloom.

The men are concentrating on finishing the porches which flank the sunroom.

Soffit has been stained and put in place, discouraging the wrens who were planning to nest in the eaves.

Today in the trees visible from the porch--and through the great room windows--we have watched a pileated woodpecker going about his business.

I've encountered a pair of bluebirds flitting about as I walked up the lane to the mailbox.

The support posts and railings are being fashioned from trees cut on the property.

The bark is laboriously removed with a draw-shave, then the timbers are shaped to fit.

It is a pleasure to be in the new house.

I have to remind myself that the hours of each day--to say nothing of my stamina--are not sufficient for me to do all that I see needing done to make the settling in process complete.

I've unearthed some favorite books [in the last box I heaved out of the stack!]

and I'm allowing myself some [nearly] guilt-free time to collapse into a rocking chair, with books, mug of tea and whatever cat wishes to keep me company.

Eventually the work will all get done--or I will decide some of the tasks aren't really necessary.

In The Midst of Moving

A windy sunrise this morning [Thursday--although my camera never immediately updates.]

It hasn't been helpful to have the time change occur in the middle [muddle!] of shuffling from one abode to the other.

We have been sleeping in the house for a week, although the electricity wasn't turned on until Tuesday. At present there are several lights not 'on' which the electrician has agreed to fix.

The kitchen is installed.  SIL Matt has ordered the materials for the counter-tops which he will make at his work place.

One corner cupboard didn't meet my expectations, but our innovative family carpenters made it work.

I have been shuntering between the camper and the house, lugging boxes, baskets and such, clearing the fridge in the camper. 

We are still using the clothes dryer in its temporary location in the shed. After many trips up and down the lane I succumbed to using the car to convey laundry and other loads.

We have become weary, snappish.

Our sleeping habits have evolved to a point where we keep each other awake more often than not when we share a bedroom.  The solution has been to plan 'side-by-side' rooms--close enough for 'companionship' but giving each of us the space to be more comfortable.

When I don't sleep [happens frequently] I can turn a light on to read without waking Jim.

The cats are delighted with the arrangement!  They can prowl from one bed to the other.

The cats are still feeling the strangeness of the new house.

Boxes have come in from the storage trailer all needing to be sorted.

Some items will no longer be useful in our more compact space.

I am rather over-whelmed with the need to sort and designate locations for everything.

Howard, who has betaken himself home for a few hopefully restful days, has reminded me that wearing ourselves out and becoming 'ugly' serves no good purpose!

Rather than reviewing the lengthy 'to be done' list, we need to concentrate on 'one day at a time!'

I'm coming to grips with the fact that it might take a month or more to have the house in good order.

[The ground floor living space won't be finished immediately, so there is that to consider.]

I placed Grampa Mac's rocking chair by the west bedroom window.

For a few days I have enjoyed the effect of minimal furnishings: bed, chair, night stand.

Today we have shuffled those to make room for my large double dresser. 

If I can accomplish sorting clothes into the drawers and the shelves of my ample closet that may be sufficient accomplishment for the day.

Jim is outside, roaring about on his backhoe.

The wind is blowing like mad.

The wicker bench much loved by the outside cats has been conveyed to the sheltered lower porch of the house.

Willis, sensible cat that he is, immediately took up residence there.

Sally-the Troll-Cat is being recalcitrant.

Bobby /Robert napping on Jim's bed.

The empty cupboard in the living area provides a place of retreat.

I am off with a load of 'stuff' to sort into the house.

I must practice the recommended mantra:" It will get done when it gets done!"

More of the Same

 On a [rare] warm day last week J and H finished the installation of the septic line.

Even with the backhoe for the heavy digging, it was a long day with transit, shovels, lengths of pipe.

Willis, the feline overseer, was disgruntled by the rumbling presence of the backhoe, the upheavals of earth, changes in his familiar landscape, The cats who usually spend much of the day outside were intimidated and huddled in the camper.

Weather deteriorated through the week, again becoming damp and cold.

Wild daffodils ['March lilies' in local parlance] have bloomed along the roadsides and pasture slopes.

Jim slowed the car so that I could aim the camera at swaths of them nodding in the fine drizzle of rain.  So much trash litters the roadsides that it was difficult to compose a shot that didn't include sodden take-away food containers, drink cans, crumpled plastic carrier bags.

 Sunday morning the rain thickened to a sleety consistency.

Sitting at my tiny improvised desk, a flash of movement caught my eye. Gathering my camera I quietly approached the window and watched as a grey squirrel skittered about in the tangle of fallen branches, eventually uncovering a coveted acorn.

We worked at the house through the afternoon, Jim nailing wainscoat in the sun room, I applying poly to Howard's beautifully crafted bathroom shelves,

We walked back to the camper in a colorless dusk speckled by flakes of wet snow.  The wooden steps at the camper entrance were coated with a thick substance that was not quite ice.

Cloud cover broke at Monday noon, revealing vivid blue skies. 

Howard quietly continued his neat finish work--a fresh coat of white paint on window trim, nail holes filled, baseboards sealed and edged.

I polyed pantry shelving and then moved on to the sun room wainscoating. 

I was committed to using the remaining 2/3 gallon of oil-based polyurethane that Jim purchased.

I concede that it is a 'tougher' finish than the water-based, but I detest its slippery consistency and tendency to run.  Have I mentioned that the stuff has a sickening reek?

I persevered, up and down a stepladder, grateful for the sun pouring through the windows. 

Jim sorted lumber, ran down the electrician, demanding some input on why the electrical inspector has put us through endless delays for permanent electrical service.

Apparently, because he can and often does--a perhaps petty display of 'power!'

The rough-in inspection was done and passed in early December, now, belatedly, the inspector has presented a 'list' of modifications; it is generally agreed that any change orders should have been noted at the time of the original inspection, when they could have more easily been incorporated in the electrician's process. 

Obviously, we are at the mercy of the inspector's whims.

We worked last evening until the sun was sliding behind the ridge in a pool of  orange light.

I dragged off layers of paint-daubed clothing, stumbled into the shower to rinse the odor of polyurethane from skin and hair.

The night fulfilled the warnings for cold temperatures.  We woke to a glowing, frost-sparkled morning, and the unwelcome realization that the heat tape on the camper water lines had  ceased to function.  The camper furnace chugged non-stop.

Jim drove to a local hardware store for a replacement heat tape, then he and Howard crawled about adding extra insulation over the lines.

By noon the lines had thawed!

I've hung about expecting a phone call from the appliance store to confirm delivery of the kitchen appliances;  the phone call wasn't made and I rather doubt that the appliances have appeared.

I have unwisely attempted to coax the recalcitrant washing machine through yet another load of laundry; it appears that this time I may be landed with a tub of wet wash that refuses to drain and spin.

These are not life-changing dilemmas.  They are aggravations, frustrations seemingly beyond our capacity to change.

The main floor of the house is ready for occupancy--sun streaming through the [yet unwashed] windows, the wood stove pouring out a comforting heat.  The gracious spaces of bedrooms and living area await the arrangement of furniture. 

My own large washing machine and dryer could be set up in the basement laundry room.

The head-banging mood which has overtaken me today is, perhaps justified by delays and issues not of our making. My 'good sport' mode of endurance needs a boost!

That being stated, it doubtless behooves me to cease complaining and go out into the bright, cold, windy afternoon. 

The one bedraggled clump of daffodils on our property.

Willis, the intrepid, enjoys a spill of sunlight at the shed door.

Towering above the shed and marching along the ridge, red budded maples suggest that spring will arrive as it has always done.

Wuthering Wind

 Wuthering

adjective NORTHERN ENGLISH

(of weather) characterized by strong winds.

I woke suddenly in the small hours of Monday morning, wedged round with sleeping cats. I lay still in the darkness wondering groggily what seemed different.

The furnace gave a rattle and the little 'click' that announces the end of its cycle--and there was silence.

Silence, such as hadn't been in nearly 48 hours. 

Squinting across the room I made out the tiny red digits on the clock: 3:20 A.M.

I  floundered around in my nest of cats and blankets, pushed up the flimsy fabric window shade, propped myself on my elbows to gaze out at a star-sprinkled, dark velvet sky. The waning gibbous moon swung behind the arching bare branches of the trees that stand just beyond the camper trailer.

The branches were un-moving, there was no sound of wind.

The wind has been an intruding presence, dominating our days, and especially our nights.

Saturday evening a fury of wind ushered in lashings of rain, rumblings of thunder. The cats skittered about, nervous.  Bobby Mac hunkered in the cupboard under the TV shelf;  I flinched each time the trailer shuddered with the impact of a particularly violent gust of wind.

Jim tracked the storm on doplar; I pulled up photos and  accounts of local flooding, road closures, updates on the situation at nearby Wolf Creek Dam.

Jim loves the sound of rain on the roof, lulling him to peaceful slumber.

Sleep, for me, was impossible on Saturday night.

This was no gentle rain!  

Rain driven in wild downpour, pounding against the camper, while the wind howled. Twigs landed on the roof, scraping and scratching.

By Sunday morning the rain had ceased, but the sky, after a promising sunrise, cloaked itself in default grey.

The wind continued to moan, rattling sear leaves.

 I know the provenance of my dislike of a night time wind.

When my parents built their modest small house in 1949, my next younger sister and I were assigned to share the southeast bedroom. [Within a few years she moved to the southwest room at the head of the stairs.]

My narrow bed was placed with its head against the south wall, inches from a window that faced the road toward Grampa Mac's white farmhouse. 

The east wall provided a boundary for the length of the bed.

Daddy purchased our first television set in time to watch the inaugural parade that ushered in the presidency of Dwight D. Eisenhower. 

The blurry reception of the TV picture was dependent on an 'antenna,' a bristling structure of thin metal tubing with a long flat flex of cable which ran down the side of the house and through the wall to connect with the TV set which squatted in the corner of the dining room.

The TV antenna was fastened by a metal bracket to the exterior wall outside my bedroom window.

The metal contraption hummed. 

It was a low-pitched hum, a sort of monotonous thrumming .

The slightest suggestion of wind induced a full-throated whine.

On a windy night--and there were many--the whine modulated to moans, shrieks, a throbbing roar.

The loose flex slapped against the side of the house.

Switching my pillow to the other end of the bed gave no relief from the sounds that accompanied my restless nights.

I love the gentle winds that ripple a field of standing hay, the breeze that sets laundered sheets billowing on a wash line. 

I remember walking the track that traversed Grampa Mac's woodlot when a high wind sang through the tossing branches of maple and beech, wind that seemed never to touch the ground. 

Wyoming, where we lived for 12 years, is famous for its winds.

I felt assaulted by the wind there--wind that wuthered and howled around the corners of a house; wind that brought tumbleweeds [and neighbors' trash] surging across a landscape of sand and sagebrush.

It was a wind that skirled down from the mountains, sharp with the scent of snow. 

Today the sun has shone, the sky was blue, the wind at rest.

Tonight I walked outside, up the lane, in the clear windless cold, under a dark sky pricked with stars.  The waning moon had risen and rode low over the ridge.

Now at midnight, Jim is asleep; the cats are sprawled, sleeping--other than Bobby Mac who is out on the prowl.

I am about to slip into my warm nest.

I have raised the shades enough to let moonlight and starlight spill onto my pillow.

I may--or may not-- sleep well, but I can enjoy the peace of a night without wind.

The Quotidian Round

Quotidian: ordinary or everyday; mundane.

Looking down the lane toward our 'encampment.' A rare morning of sunshine.

Somewhere in the past two weeks, I think we began to lose our sense of time.

One day has followed another--most of them grey and chilly--so that we pause and ask ourselves things like: 'Did Howard bring the doors last week--or was it the week before?'  'Didn't we refill the propane tanks last Friday?'

Howard was at home in Tennessee for nearly a week, so Jim spent the time putting up window trim and the wainscoat in the living area.

I applied polyurethane to both sides of all the knotty pine doors--a most frustrating task.

I dislike poly!  I'm a careful 'painter' but this stuff drips and runs, spatters off the brush. 

Jim insisted I buy the oil-based variety, which adds the insult of a nasty odor clinging to my clothes and hair. 

I applied the first coat with the doors in place, then next day lightly sanded preparatory to the second coat. 

Once I am embarked on a project I tend to ignore the warning signs that I should stop and rest.

The payback was considerable pain in my right shoulder, a stiff neck, vertigo.

I left the door project for a bit to paint some trim laid out on trestles--this was an easier job.

I mentioned that painting a horizontal object was less painfully aggravating than climbing and stretching, which prompted Jim to take the doors off their hinges and lay them across trestles.

The downside of this was a better view of the dripped poly.

More sanding, repeated efforts to view the work from every possible angle.

The finished doors were rehung yesterday and I was fairly satisfied until the morning sunlight caught a dribble of poly that I missed. 

I'm sure I will notice it each time I walk past that bedroom door!

Lumber to be sorted.

Last Thursday Jim decided to move firewood which has been stored at the Amish farm since our move.

J. A. who is the new owner of the lower farmhouse, offered to help with the wood.  It was a daylong project--three loads of firewood and a stack of lumber.

Both men were tired the next day! 

Dixie escorting me up the lane.

Pounding rain again on Wednesday.

Jim walked down for lunch using a cardboard box as headgear.

He couldn't resist pausing at the camper window and startling the cats.

Teasel is wary--a low warning rumble as she peers out at the alien creature.

A day without sunshine, but as Jim is now prone to say, 'At least its not raining--yet!'

Jim tackled the septic line which has been cleared by the county inspector to link into the existing septic tank.

He did much of the work with the backhoe, but hand-shoveled a layer of dirt over the PVC pipe to prevent crushing it with too heavy a bucket load of coarse soil.

Doing this on the day after moving the wood supply, he wasn't surprised that he was tired!

Rain last Friday night turned to wet snow.

The morning promised sun to melt the snow into muddy puddles.

Bobby Mac [aka Robert] keeping his feet dry while he surveys his kingdom.

We deal with delays and frustrations which aren't out of the ordinary for a project of this sort.

The electrician went 'down in his back' for a week, which meant that the electrical inspector's visit was postponed.

Electrician reappeared, finished his work, inspector didn't show up yesterday as re-scheduled.  He arrived today, inspected, left a certificate permitting permanent power to be turned on [when?] but said he had a list of things he wants the electrician to modify.

Electrician assures us this is the usual--inspectors must find something to justify their existence!

I am 'over' life in the camper.  I remind myself daily that it has served us well: it is roomy as such things go, it has a small but adequate shower stall, it has a laundry area.  We have phone and internet.

Still, I am most anxious to be in a proper house! 

The washer and dryer, stacked in their tiny cubby, are elderly and the washer has fits of refusing to go into the drain and spin cycles. I resort to the classic retaliation of pounding on the lid! 

The small table in one of the 'slide-out' sections is heaped with our winter coats, down vests and gloves. I can't imagine trying to eat while sitting there--the ceiling is lowered over it--a head banger.

Jim eats at the little desk, I pick my way to one of the easy chairs, or stand with my plate at the counter in the kitchenette.

A friend offered words of understanding. 'A camper is fun for a few days; you take in what you need for food and clothing, enjoy the outing, then return home, tidy up the camper--you don't continue to live in it for months.'

We wait now for whatever the electrician must do to satisfy the inspector.  We wait for the power company to come out and pull levers, flick switches--however electrical current is made to flow into the 'box.'

We wait for a dry day or two to finish laying out the septic line.

Jim and Howard have been busy fitting shelves for pantry and closets.

[They do not solicit my suggestions!]

We think the kitchen cabinetry may be ready for delivery next week, likewise the kitchen appliances.

We will be overjoyed to move into the main floor, while work continues to finish the lower level, build a carport. 

I've been told life-long that the things we wish for are most appreciated when there has been a waiting time. 

Has the wait been long enough?

The Default Mode is Rain

The view at noon Monday, taken through a camper window.

Trees, grey and bare, grey rain, tangled fallen branches, all a study in grey.

On Saturday morning I slipped out of bed at the importunate insistence of several cats who felt the call of the outdoors.

The first pale hints of morning were evident in the eastern sky as I raised the shade on the small window near my nest of blankets and pillows. It felt too early in the day to pull on yesterday's jeans and paint-stained sweatshirt; Jim was sleeping and likely wouldn't appreciate me rattling about.

On a whim, I made myself comfortable, fleece throws snuggled around my shoulders, pillows propped to give me a good view out the window. Teasel and Chester-cat, having more sense than to follow their friends into the pre-dawn chill, resettled themselves, substantial rounds of warm fur near my feet.

The skyline above the rise of the land that comprises our eastern boundary was a study in soft hues of dove grey, pearl, smokey white.

While I watched, thin stripes of pale saffron threaded through the shifting veils of grey.

Three large birds, cranes perhaps, or Canada geese, beat their way above the field, wings moving in steady silent strength, dark silhouettes back-lit by the deepening gold of dawn.

Wriggling free of my feline foot-warmers, I pulled on a bag-lady assortment of leggings, turtleneck  and wooly socks, topped with my long down-filled robe; I poked my feet into the handiest pair of shoes and picked up my camera.

Outside the morning air struck with a cold bite. The crunch of my shoes on frost covered gravel brought Willis-the-Cat to the half open door of the shed, mouth gaping in a pink yawn, but clearly willing to undertake his usual escort duties.

Huddled in my inadequate layers of clothing, I picked my way up the lane, far enough to record the promise of a day that might bring sunshine instead of monotonous rain.

The house in progress, looming amidst piles of displaced red earth, the skeletal shapes of staging and a  ladder propped near the front porch, even the white chunks of PVC lying about like the dismembered bones of some prehistoric giant, all faded in relation to the 'new every morning' grandeur of sunrise.