Pulling out the old linoleum flooring was a chinch. Happy about that.
Didn’t we just notice spring arriving and how hot it got in July. New England got damned hot.
Yeah, I know. I chose to used two different patterns from kitchen to dining. I like it. A dividing point instead of a wall.
July-August, I was cutting tiles for our kitchen floor. Man, it was like standing in a hot oven as I cut tiles outside on a wet-table tile saw. No shade. The sun’s glare on a wet, shiny tile demanded sunglasses. It took several minutes to regain my vision as I stepped back into the house from each cut—many cuts.
August, we installed interior doors solid panel as well as french double-doors. Painting the woodwork and touching up was a joy. Uh huh. Right!
My easel is just beyond that doorway. Waiting.
One french door was too short. Fortunately, I had a remnant from another door, so with a little surgery and sanding and painting, I successfully ‘grew’ the too short door with a transplant.
I’ve seriously pondered such surgery. Three or four inches taller would be just right. I was ‘normal’ height in high school. I prayed I would continue to grow. Years later, I conceded that I was deluding myself.
Sutdio doors. Patient on horses awaiting surgery.
Back to my door transplant. Hubby was impressed and promised to help with the installation. Once the paint was dry and the glass surfaces scraped clean, he helped carry the door upstairs. French doors may have less wood, but they are still heavy. Since Hubby was not home, I installed the door myself. Difficult, but doable. The light shines through the glass door and illuminates a dark hallway at the same time. Just what we need.
September, it was sheet rock and mudding. Then, I noticed the kitchen ceiling—cracking? Grab the step-ladder, tape and tools and keep mudding until it looks smooth. That took a while. And yes, sanding and priming and painting. My neck hurt from hours of looking up.
October, finish work with door molding and thresholds and ahhh—some more damned sanding, painting and touching up.
“But you’re an artist. You must love doing this,” said Hubby.
Yeah! Right.
My finished doors and the patient now standing about 3 inches taller. Waiting to go upstairs.
I don’t mind doing it a little bit. But this has been going on since I was a little kid helping my parents with each house project. Then my first husband proved inept with a hammer—to install little blocks of wood outside the window for drapery rod extensions he sunk the hammer head deep into a plaster wall. So, I became the architect/carpenter/painter, et al. I’ve constructed additions, designed homes, built homes and two-story, 4-bay garages, an eighteen sided home and now this. It is going to stop.
My manuscript is in my computer just inside my studio, reminding me to finish the editing I promised myself to finish last spring.
Summer is over there. In my kitchen, on the floor, the ceiling, around doors, in doors and thresholds. Oh yeah. Almost forgot. We cut trees and split firewood and I helped Hubby design and build a retaining wall to support the fire-wood in the basement. He feared the stacked wood might fall atop our little VW. I assured him it would not. Hubby worries about stuff like that.
Hope your summer was fulfilling as was mine. 😉
The Muse and I — J. M. Orise 