Old House Chronicles: The Foster House, #1

Once upon a time, decades ago now, I lived in a very old house in Hopkins Mills. It was a house with original clapboards, spaced closer together as they approached the barge boards, wavy in spots from centuries of settling, and old wooden windows. The house was painted white, like all the houses in the historic village, and was perched on a hill overlooking the Ponaganset River. The interior had been largely altered over the years as its residents made sequential changes to "modernize", but it still had a cove ceiling in one of the upstairs bedrooms, and steep stairs to the second floor. I always worried about the girls taking a tumble on those stairs, but they never did.

So now the house had fallen into disrepair, and was for sale, but no one was intrepid enough to take it on, what with its overgrown acreage, deteriorating structure, and 1980's fixtures. I started driving by, worrying that the old house would inevitably be bulldozed. I think you know where this is going: we bought it. To save it. And hopefully find someone to love it.

And there isn't an inch of it that doesn't need to be touched. The last few weeks have been busy finalizing financing, lining up contractors, and struggling with what is going to be restored vs. renovated. There is a difference. Being somewhat of a purist, I'd prefer saving the old 6/6 wooden windows and the narrow stair treads, but I am trying to think of what a buyer might want today. Maybe some added elements of safety and convenience might work to save the house for future generations to appreciate.

I can tell you, no vinyl siding will be on it! But some interior walls will come down, anything rotted will be replaced, there will be a new well, land will be cleared, and the kitchen and baths will be sparkly new. That is it in a nutshell; the detailed specs are almost 20 pages in length.

I'll be posting regular updates on this old house adventure. Coming next, everything you want to know about drilling a new well to replace the dug well that went dry every August.

Welcoming 2016

I have to admit, for many years, I didn't particularly care for New Year's Eve. In fact, I found it a bit incongruous to be celebrating another year gone. It became the epitome of those nights where you lie in bed, thinking about what you should/could/would have done in any number of completely inconsequential situations. I avoided raucous parties and drunken revelry, envisioning myself as a character in some horrifying Edgar Allen Poe tale (think The Masque of Red Death).

Of course, when I was on the rescue, many New Year's Eves were quite memorable. One was spent on stand-by at a huge chicken coop fire (the coop was empty) and I recall another tending to accident victims on a treacherous, ice-covered hill. Those New Year's Eves weren't so bad; you forget your own existential angst when you're on the job and focusing on helping someone else, who might be having the worse day of their lives.

Since reaching a certain age, and maybe some level of tenuous maturity, I've been able to embrace this time of year, if not the New Year's Eve thing. I try not to reflect too much, or make false resolutions, but simply appreciate the fact that the days are now getting longer, that the home fires are warm, and that I have the comforts of wonderful friends and family. We'll go to a local inn and have a quiet but elegant dinner -- and will likely be asleep before ten o'clock. And that's OK.

I have kept one family tradition, a nod to my mother's French-Canadian heritage -- making a French meat pie on New Year's Day. My grandmother, and great-grandmother would always make a meat pie, roast a turkey and have a veritable feast while the men played cards. They didn't do too much on New Year's Eve, either.

I wish all of you a safe, happy and healthy New Year -- no matter you celebrate (or don't celebrate). This year is another chance to get it right! See you in 2016!

Searching for Inspiration

It's been difficult to find something to write about....I don't want this to get into the political arena, don't have the energy for it, but the unrelenting mass murders on the news every day are just mind-numbing and inspiration-sucking.

The house is about 80% decorated for Christmas. It feels like spring this weekend (not complaining!) so we've stalled out a bit. A teeny bit of snow would be pretty in the next week or so.

In times like this, when it's easy to get overwhelmed and cynical, usually the best things to do are to (1) get outdoors and commune with nature, and (2) do good deeds for others.

A trek to the ocean, even in winter, or a walk in the quiet New England forests will always help clear the head and soothe the soul. We're so lucky we can do either here.

Most of us are fortunate. We have a warm place to live, food to eat, and regular income. Don't forget to do something good this holiday season for those less fortunate. Your local food pantry needs food donations, to be sure, but don't forget that other items that are needed -- diapers, toiletries, feminine products, low-sodium, low-sugar or other food products for diabetics.

Let's remember our humanity.

Today: House Painting

Today is my day off, and luckily, it is going to be about 70 and sunny on this early November day. What a gift! Our old house is largely scraped and primed and today is painting day.

It's not uncommon for people to ask why I don't hire someone to paint. I usually feel a bit defensive, like I am a freak of nature or something, because I don't pay thousands to have someone else do this job, when we can do it ourselves. Granted, our old cape is quite diminutive, and that is good. And, as any old house owner knows, scraping, caulking, priming and painting is something you had best get to enjoy. Generally, I do like it. It's a good opportunity to reacquaint myself with every clapboard, nail hole and gloriously perfect imperfections of this house I love so much. On a warm day like today, I'll play my favorite music, maybe some Railroad Earth, open the windows, and tackle the final phase of painting before the cold weather sets in for good. It will be a good day to commune with nature and this old house.

I'm proud to not be one of what I refer to "the HGTV generation". My father always painted his house, too, finally stopping when he was 85 and my mother banned him from doing any high ladder work. He still tackles the stairs and porch, though. My former neighbor in Foster, RI, now in her eighties, always did her own painting, too. And she owns not only her home, but six or seven rental properties. She still does some of it, too, but has a handyman get up to the peaks, which galls her. The lesson: be independent, don't be a slacker, know how to do things yourself.

So I am waiting for sunrise and for the temperature to come up just a bit. I'll tackle priming the north side of the house and the newly built bulkhead door (thanks to my husband) and then paint over all the primed sides...and if I still have any ambition, I'll scrape and prime some of the west side. We don't always do every side at once, and I thought we would run out of time to complete the west, back side of the house, but maybe the weather will hold up long enough to get it done.

I'll be enjoying my day. I hope you do, too.

Just Plane Crazy

I just returned from the foreign land of Tennessee, and that entailed four flights -- from Providence to Detroit and then on to Knoxville, and then the same trip in reverse. The entire traveling experience is always fascinating, and there is probably no better people watching opportunity than being in a big airport. There are always sports teams. I saw some amazingly tall female college basketball players, young, fresh-faced, intense, in uniform...perhaps they were in a hurry to catch their flight. A female body builder strutted her stuff in a short, tight dress in Knoxville, people turning to stare. A well-dressed woman stops in the "walk" lane (which actually means the "run" lane) of the people mover in Detroit's McNamara terminal, to sneeze, blow her nose and tie her shoe, causing a pile up of travelers and luggage behind her. She seems oblivious to the "stand" lane to her right and glares at the muttering, rushing crowd trying to pass her.

Of course, the actual flight is the most entertaining and as anyone who has flown knows, you're up close and personal with the people seated next to you. First flight from Providence to Detroit: I had the pleasure of sitting next to a woman, some years my senior, who as it turned out was a psychologist who works about a mile away from my office. She was intelligent, conversant, socially adept and the trip went by too fast. We exchanged cards. Second flight from Detroit to Knoxville: I had a window seat and the woman sitting next to me was not so friendly, with her nose in a book and nary a sideways glance. I read my own book.

On the way home, on the first flight, I was next to a forty-something year old woman, who I guessed was a business traveler. She spent the entire hour and a half working on her laptop, serious and seemingly in her own world, rather curt to the flight attendants. I was again next to the window and turned my head away from her direction. After getting a grand workout in Detroit, lugging my bags for what seemed like five miles, I board for the final leg of the trip, back to Providence. This time I am stuck in the middle -- never a good place to be in any circumstance. To my right sits a young woman, maybe twenty, pretty but with an anxious countenance. As I settle in my seat she offers barely a wan smile and I immediately notice she has her in-ear headphones on and is clutching her iPhone and know there will be absolutely no conversation with her. Passengers stream on by and I observe several men who look like cowboys, boots and hats and western shirts, some families with babies, Even though I am heading to Rhode Island, I don't see anyone I know, which is unusual. As I begin to think that perhaps the aisle seat won't be filled and I can move a seat away from the girl and have some space, a tall gent who could pass from Kramer on Seinfeld spends an inordinate amount of time trying to stuff his luggage in the overhead compartment and then flops in the aisle seat. He greets me heartily, and then apologizes as he procures an enormous paper bag and empties the contents on the seat tray -- a greasy cardboard to-go container loaded with fish and chips, cole slaw, tartar sauce. He offers me some and I decline. He inhales his dinner in about two minutes, crumples up the bag with its contents and stuffs it into the overhead compartment. He then buckles in and starts sprawling, arm on my seat rest, right leg in my space. I start moving toward the girl and she looks out the window. In flight, he wants beer and wine and is surprised to find out he has to pay for it. He skips the booze, takes a juice and when pretzels, cookies or peanuts are offered by the pretty flight attendant, he takes one of each. She has a French accent and they converse and he reveals he is from Toronto. My annoyance turns into sympathy (well, not much sympathy, but less annoyed) and I surmise he doesn't travel much or maybe they do things different in Canada. Do they serve free booze there?

We make it to Providence and taxi to the terminal. While passengers collect their baggage and impatiently await the door to open to let us escape, it is fairly quiet save for a female voice with a southern accent somewhere in front of me, loudly crowing about her four million dollar deal, how they have now sold over eight million dollars (of what, unclear) and how "one of "y'all are going to Paris". The voice grew louder, more animated and I started looking carefully at the passengers to see who the chest-thumping voice belonged to. Naturally, it was emanating from someone on a cell phone, a billowy blonde who finally exited the plane, still yelling into the phone about her sales prowess.

I'm finally off the crazy plane.

This Morning on Facebook

Wednesday is my day off, and usually I would have some plans to get something productive done around the homestead. Instead, I watched the weather, confirming that another miserably hot and humid day is on tap....and then I browsed Facebook.

Today, I saw that my youngest daughter had posted a New York Times article on the upcoming release of "Black Mass" on my page. We're both eagerly awaiting the release of the film, next week, so that was good. Next, I saw a posted article on where the best places for a burger and shake are in Rhode Island. I didn't read that. I shouldn't be even thinking about burgers, shakes, fries or the like. Following that, there were a few depressing posts about a poor starved dog that had to be euthanized and how we should basically all rally to stone the dog's owner.  Naturally, there was a horrifying picture to accompany the call to action.

Next up, some local news posts, all focused on some murder and mayhem....a missing couple in Connecticut and the arrest of their son on a gun-related charge...a poor child found dead on an island in Boston harbor....a local pol accusing another pol of being dishonest.

Now we have the Patriots and Tom Brady memes, but not being much of a sports fan, I only glance at those. The next news article posted by a local news station catches my eye: "Providence diocese says new annulment process emphasizes mercy". Under that, a post from a friend who is a feline aficionado entitled "This is what the workplace would be like if a cat were boss". I click on the link and get to read a series of vaguely amusing comic strips, "Adventures of Business Cat".

As I scroll down the page, I am quickly reminded that Friday is the anniversary of 9-11. While I do believe this should be observed as we observe Memorial Day, I cringe at the vivid images of the twin towers in flames, a plane flying into the second tower, and other trauma-inducing photographs. I wish these posts were less focused on the horrific, and more on patriotism and survival.

Happily, there are some photographs of friends' children, off to pre-school or college, camping, or driving a kid's motorized Jeep. Whew -- a pleasant interlude. But what is next? A post on Kim Davis, a fine example of a municipal employee, thanking her supporters. Next up: IKEA recalls crib mattresses due to concerns about flammability. And after that, Christie Brinkley, she's 61 and looks 31! What is her secret? (I don't know, didn't click to open this, I am going to be 60 and don't think there is much hope of looking like I'm 31.)

Now we have the admonitions: Don't live your life impressing others. People will judge you anyway. There only person you should try to be better than is the person you were yesterday. On a bad day there is always lipstick.

And next is an article on how much you need to save for retirement. I don't bother reading that either but have the gnawing feeling in my gut like I might have an ulcer.

Now my day is off to a wonderful start. I think I need to get outdoors and pick up dog poop.

A Few Antiquing Tips for Labor Day Weekend

I'm just about done with tomatoes. I've canned, frozen, made various sauces, eaten a lot of BLTs and Sungold cherries on salads. The garden is winding down and this drought hasn't helped, despite watering.  

Today I took a pile of San Marzano tomatoes and put them in a freezer bag and stuck them in the freezer, whole. My friend Sarah told me that when they thaw, the skins come right off. Perfect!

Instead of slaving in the kitchen, I thought maybe going to the beach for a swim would be great....until I realized my one bathing suit was on the boat, 40 miles away. Plan B: browsing at a few local antique stores just over the line in Rhode Island.

I started at The Town Trader in Chepachet, RI. I really like this store; there is a lot to look at in the warren of small rooms and hallways. My little house is chock full of stuff already, but I like looking at the prices on things that I already have. Sometimes I am pleasantly surprised although it doesn't really matter because I would have a tough time parting with some of the things I have. If it is in my house, I most likely love whatever it is and there is some story behind it. Today, I bought some autumn decorations, even though it was over 90 degrees outside. I was sorely tempted to buy a green and cream enameled flour container but I don't even know where I would put it so I managed to restrain myself....today.

From there, I cruised south on Route 102 toward Foster. I stopped at a roadside flower stand, just north of the intersection of Route 101. I bought two gorgeous bouquets of sunflowers, zinnias and herbs for $5.00 each. It's an honor system -- you leave the money in the box or you can write an IOU note and leave it. I've treated myself to flowers from there for many years now.

At Route 6, I headed west, crossed Route 94 and the only traffic light in Foster, and then pulled into A Bee's Buzz, on the left. This is a huge barn that has two floors of antique and vintage collectibles and furniture, as well as displays by local artists and merchants. You could spend hours here! Again, there is a lot to look at, from handcrafted soap to locally made jewelry, antique oil paintings, glassware.....you name it. I bought a few more fall motif items for the house. I'll probably go back for a 1960's era purse I saw, a purse that has the kind of old school clasp that will pinch you good if you're not careful.

So if you're an antique lover like myself, check out these stores. In Chepachet. there is also Old Post Office Antiques, across from The Town Trader. I always stop there, but they were closed today. This is another amazing store, with tiny rooms on two floors of the old post office, crammed full of treasures. The Brown and Hopkins General Store -- the longest continually operating general store in the country -- should also be on the list of must-see stops in this historic village. 

Take an afternoon or weekend cruise. You'll be delighted!