Put a little lime and salt on that

Last summer when our family arrived from Tennessee after a long and tiring journey, it was supper-time, their first evening with us in our new home. Everyone crowded into the kitchen as I put the final touches on a feast; hungry eyes watched as I cut a ripe watermelon into chunks. Then I mounded it in a large bowl and squeezed wedges of lime juice and sprinkled salt over it. Honest, this little trick makes it tastes like heaven. In my opinion. But my grandchildren watched in horror. Mason, whose tastes are very discerning left the kitchen and wept in the next room. None of the grandchildren ate watermelon that night. From then on they had a joke: “Grandma, did you sprinkle lime juice and salt on this?”

Mason's capacity to enjoy fine food is large.

Lately we’ve been trying to plan a little vacation time. We have a place to go – a sweet little cabin in Wisconsin. It is a way-away place with lines of ducks swimming past the dock, loons calling, and, yes, possibly wolves howling. This year there has been a lot happening with moving and family and visitors, and finding my way to Costco, and a little remodeling going on – that is, one bathroom being torn out and redone. Much as I love our contractor there has been lots of interruptions and noise – some of it due to loud, passionate sports-talk radio, so we haven’t been able to think about much more than the Vikings Running Back/Quarterback Woes much less than where or even if we might get away.

Plus, I’ve needed to convince Denis to come away. He loves his new office space and our home so much that the thought and inconvenience of packing up and leaving just isn’t appealing. But I’m promising that something good happens when people leave their workplace and home – which for us is the same, no matter how we configure it. To be away renews vision and, for me, restores creativity. I take time to reflect more and better, and that makes my soul prosper.

Denis has agreed to come but will consider it a Work Retreat. Okay. But I’m concerned that something will interrupt or ruin this time away. Possibly me. Or some unforeseen disaster. We can, or at least I can, find ways of getting us into trouble. Being crabby, making arguments, getting sick. Or. Or. Or.  Putting lime juice on the watermelon. I’m not gonna do that. 

Soul restoration, Pike Lake, WI

The Happy Chair

     I finished renewing the chair this morning. Once it was bare bones and ready to be rebuilt, it was hard to leave it alone. So it has been steadily coming together. This morning I awakened at 5 am with an idea for my next Notes From Toad Hall. I know from experience that ideas fly right out my nighttime window if I don’t write them down immediately, after that I couldn’t go back to sleep. I could hear the chair whispering down in the dining room where my upholstering mess was festering away. I only had a little bit more to do, so armed with a cup of tea and still in my pajamas, I began padding the back of the back and attaching the back piece onto the chair back, thinking I’d be done in no time. When the project is finished, all the inside work should be invisible with none of your tacks or staples showing. There are some tricks to this and my mother has been coaching me over the phone. 

Chair back

Happy Chair

     By 11:45 I was finally done. I guess most meaningful things, including people and God, require more bits of flesh than I plan to give. I hammered my thumb twice and nicked my wrist once with the fabric cutter.

     It’s been worth some cussing and pain. Inspiration for this project came from Shawna Robinson’s website. She refashions old chairs with complete disregard for convention or color and calls them Happy Chairs. She is more than a designer: in a delightful twist of calling and giftedness, she’s also NASCAR race driver. I couldn’t be happier with my Happy Chair. It punches up our living room. Not to everyone’s taste. Denis sent a pic of it to a friend last night who diplomatically replied: “Well, that’s different.”  Which is the same thing as saying I’d rather have a dead chicken hanging around my neck. That same person’s daughter said: I would TOTALLY, immediately buy that if I saw it in a store.

Renewing a chair

Nine staples where three might do.

A bowl full of mental illness

      Lately, in my meantime, in my sparetime, I’ve been tearing down an old chair, pulling out millions of staples, ripping off rotten fabric, dreaming of the bright, happy new look I will give it. My mom has a small shop where she has renewed old, stinky couches and dirty easy chairs for years. She tells me you can know a lot about a person by the way a piece was put together. Each time we’ve talked lately, I’ve complained - nay, ranted - about the hundreds of unnecessary staples I had to individually pry out. She says, yes, that is a person who is…, that is…, I forget the word...  I say, obsessive-compulsive? YES! she replies.  

     Renewal can be a lengthy, arduous process where we must address our own imperfections. 

Stripped, ready for renewal

Toad Hall reflections

The ladders are down. The painters have wrapped. I liked them – hard-working experts. It’s quiet around here this week, no more Talk Radio blasting outside. Our pockets are lighter but Toad Hall looks almost like a lady.

I was partial to Sherwin Williams but Denny, the Painter, prefered Hirschfields.

When we saw Bunny Cake (trim) and Spiced Carrot (accent) Honeysuckle voted with her teeth. For the main body (someone channeled Norwegian Settlers who couldn’t leave their fjords behind) Ocean Melody and Bowman Blue. I was a little crazy while choosing colors. And then I figured it out, partly. I want our home to reflect a bit of God’s beauty. Just a bit. But the stress of representing GOD was too much. I needed to get off and be okay for it to reveal my own interpretation of what’s beautiful. (Again, sorry, Denis doesn’t count as much here since he’s partially colorblind.) So this is what we got.

 

 

Our house was built in 1916 – it is an “American Gothic Four-square” ordered from Sears and Roebuck. This was what “prefab” was like back then. Huh! Sears also instituted another totally unprecedented option: you could buy a new home on the installment plan. Customers picked the floor plan and all its parts were shipped by rail car to your town in a sort of giant DIY kit. We like the five-panel doors, the oak floors, and wide oak trim everywhere. Our four bedroom house has a grounded feel you get to love, like it could withstand centuries of tornados, hail, trees falling and kids shooting pellet guns at the walls and windows.

All of which has happened since Toad Hall became our home in1981 – it’s a place where we’ve been rooted and loved. (Okay. Ya. We’ve fought a little, too.) It’s been where Ransom Fellowship was conceived and grown. We’ve kept out the possums and squirrels. We’ve patched the walls. We’ve launched our children and hosted tons of friends and strangers. Sometimes I wonder how long we’ll be here. Like maybe the time and money spent maintaining its bones and hair will be for someone else to enjoy. Denis says, “My next move? Assisted care.” I already get assisted care. Without Anita’s work in the yard, it’d be all nettles and crap-grass. But I know what he means. And that’s just the thing, we don’t know. And maybe I’m just feeling sentimental because we passed our 43^rd wedding anniversary.

…so the roof is next. In July a new one is coming. And that’s how it is to steward and keep what God has given.

And btw, who gets to tag paint colors? I could do that. Pasty Flesh. Golden Gangrene. Ashes to Ashes.

Recycle the old

C.S. Lewis said one of the distinctive aspects of the modern mind is the assumption that newer things are always better. We’ve become preoccupied with things we don’t have, rather than the nurturing and stewarding the things we do have. (Huh? Me?)


The old metal cabinets in our kitchen were peeling and corroded. I did not like them any more. Refinishing seemed a huge ordeal and I imagined to do them right, we should take them out sandblast them and reinstall. A good friend advised me to just go to Home Depot and get new stock cabinets and zing, zing, in they’d go, and we’d have a nice new look at a pretty reasonable price. Walking through the displays made me realize that what I really liked were custom-made and cost the earth. Dejected. I finally decided we should repaint as best we could. They wouldn’t be perfect but what in life is? We kept them glossy white and didn’t replace hardware either. Anyway, after years the handles still don’t show a lick of wear. I lined the inside shelves with black contact paper – which gives them a surprisingly cool look.




When Anita, and okay, she did most of this work beautifully, was doing the panel under the sink, she popped off the metal logo that was covered in old white paint and Denis decided to look on-line to see what color it was originally. Or if we could even find out anything about the manufacturer. He discovered our old 1950s cabinets - GMK by Geneva - and learned they are a sought-after vintage item. Who knew?! Suddenly, their value soared and I felt more brilliant (and righteous) by the second.


Turns out the metal logo thing was brass and the letters are sort of reverse embossed so when Anita stripped off the paint and polished it, they glowed fair. She then, clever girl, gave it several coats of bright red auto paint to fill in the background, re-buffed to remove excess and snapped it back in place.



The old metal cabinets fit our “industrial” theme after all, (renaming makes it look like we planned to expose those pipes on the ceiling) and I still grin when I walk into the kitchen and see that little flash of red and brass beneath the sink. So: keep the old and be green. Woo, I’m into them now.

Kitchen re-new

The traffic pattern in our old kitchen is convoluted, congested. Stand anywhere while I cook, in a matter of seconds I’ll need to gently move you. It’d cost thousands to remodel to current standards featuring the Occasional cook who demands a Wolf range and walk-in cooler but mostly orders takeout or eats in on Jenny Craig. Not that I judge. The question we asked (mostly of me since it’s my area mostly) is what could we do that would make it more attractive to a buyer, and yet fall within our budget and my quirky tastes in case we live here til I die or can’t walk.



We painted first. That was last summer. We uncovered the chimney bricks, chose a warmish gray color so that with the radiator and pipes exposed on the ceiling we had a kind of faux industrial look. The new lighting above window over the sink casts a sunny glow that warms the space. I love this on cold dreary days.


For years I intensely disliked our Formica boomerang-patterned, coral-colored countertops until the style came round again. Mine weren’t just retro, they were authentic. It’s humbling to learn you’re a complete relativist when it comes to fashion. Even though Formica lasts about a hundred years, this was getting too worn. Picking new made me anxious. Denis was, whatever you want is okay with me. I finally chose maple butcher block. I wanted something natural, organic, warm, and easy on the dishes I regularly shatter. Couldn’t find much info anywhere on care or upkeep since everyone goes for laminate, granite or concrete these days. Laminate is the cheapest, the cost for a wood is higher, but less than stone.




After the counter was installed I was told to give it a coat of mineral oil. So I did, thinking along lines of polishing furniture. You know. A shot of dusting spray and a bit of a rub down. But the oil totally disappeared, as if I’d done nothing at all. It took several days to figure it out that I needed to dump a cup or more of oil at a time, spread it with my palm, working it in until the surface felt warm to the touch, then let it sit for a few hours, wipe off the excess and do it again and again. The scent of the wood and the rhythm of circling and spreading made things slow down, hold still. I could appreciate the color and pattern of the grain and a sense that I was preserving this beauty not just for myself but for others who might someday use it. I eventually applied three and a half pints of mineral oil.

The extra care needed to wipe up standing water especially around the sink and to not set the red wine bottle directly on the surface is okay with me. I’m still obsessive about not cutting on it and keep the old boards handy so one isn’t quite so tempted to forget. Over time it will develop a patina, the grain will smooth out more and there will be dings and stains that give it character. I like this.



A new countertop isn’t newsworthy, but most of daily life isn't. It only sounds a small note - part of a larger symphony – a desire to live well and gratefully as God’s creatures in the ordinary chores of life.

Kitchen Done!

Pretty much. Yesterday Denis installed the track lighting above the sink. It only required one extra trip to the hardware store and only one twelve minute period when I stood on the counter silently holding up the track while he forced one piece to fit another. He was patient, only said one swearword, and I love the sunny, warm light on those old counters. All we have left is painting the cabinets. (We already did the one on the left.) When Kelly walked in the other day looked at the walls and said, Oh! Lilac! I corrected her: “NO. No. Soft gray. I don’t LIKE lilac. Please don’t say that.” Thanks to all for helping me keep the chimney exposed. However, Denis says, when it comes time to sell this house and move into assisted care, and buyers say “WHAT were you thinking?” you, who voted in favor, will need to come buy Toad Hall from us.

Hazardous waste disposal: $5.00

The rest of the damage? Priceless. I hit a cement column backing out of the bank parking lot this morning. I shoulda walked back in and signed my life over. I was on my way home from Sherwin Williams who said no when I begged to return a gallon of “Mystic Grey.” Too dark. Had to go lighter. That was another money dump. And now I’d wrecked the car. I went home to tell Denis the news and look up auto body shops. After he sucked in his breath he was very kind and said I shouldn’t beat myself up. Dan, the kitchen painter, helpfully suggested maybe I could drive the “coach” while the car was in the shop, referring to the ad I placed to sell our old sofa, having accidentally listed it as an “antique coach” and I wonder why no one has called.Finally, there are fruit flies hanging around my toothbrush. Denis says I’m probably brushing with larva and tiny eggs. This makes me sick. If any one says this is the day the Lord has made let us rejoice and be glad in it, it’s going to take me a minute.

Bones of Toad Hall

Every one of you said, “Keep the bricks.” When I thought back on some decisions in life – most of my regrets are of the – I should have taken the risk variety. I know you didn’t say, keep the lath and mortar, but I’m doing that, too. Fortunately, I had three days to stand in the midst of the mess like a refugee (all our stuff is piled in the dining room and I can’t find the French press, but I know where Caribou’s is) eyeing my wall, while Dan, our English teacher, summer-time painter, went to Missouri for the Fourth. He had already measured the drywall and left it leaning against the chimney. When he walked in on Monday morning, I said, “I’ve been thinking…,” and he started laughing and couldn’t stop. He was remembering this old series from the 80s – Murphy Brown, who had a painter as a regular character on the program. I guess Murphy messed up his life regularly. Apparently Dan was sort of picturing himself in that position. I retaliated with: Well, I was thinking of episodes of Fawlty Towers with O’Reilly, the drunken Irish painter. (Basil Fawlty, played by John Cleese, always hired him when his wife was gone and O’Reilly’s favorite solution to everything, with a wave of his hand, was, “No problem, a lick-a paint here, a lick-a paint there, and she’ll never know.” Of course, the wall always fell down.) Anyway, the vision I had was applying something so the ribs of lathe looked like they were emerging from the plaster, like the bones of the house were showing up. We could clean them up, seal them a little, round out the edge, and… Dan consulted with some contractor type guys standing around at Home Depot just waiting for some dumb idea like this. One guy thought it was nuts. “Drywall it!” Another guy who was a LOT younger thought it’d be cool to go for it. Dan came back with a kind of concrete, and applied it with the finesse of a real artist. I think it looks great. And look at the close-up to see what we found in the vent – a real, vintage California Prune Box! Just kidding. I had it and sacrificed it. It sort of looks like the thing a guy mighta, coulda done in 1923, as in: Oh ya, let’s just cover that hole with this, then. If when we’re done it looks like I hired TGIFriday’s to decorate, I will kill myself. Oh, wait, I’ll just start over. In all this, Denis is, “Whatever, you want, Sweetie, is fine with me.” Ah. The freedom.