Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to the Universe (just wanted you to know I was thinking of you).
Joy in the Journey
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Friday, December 21, 2007
Hallelujah
Hallelujah! We just attended a performance of The Messiah. With that glorious Hallelujah Chorus still ringing in my ears, we moved into our rental home today! The miracle of running water, a flushing toilet, and a furnace blowing warmth throughout the house astounds my sensibilities!!!
To move from my 3400 sq ft home directly into this little rental (probably 800 sq ft) might have been difficult. So Heavenly Father put me in a 24 ft. trailer for about six weeks. Perspective is everything. We had a late Indian Summer thing still going on when we got there. But He kept us there long enough that the shroud of winter’s snow had fallen, and it was cold, cold, cold– nothing but cold.
I hate to be cold! I figure some ancestor of mine, possibly a pioneer, was so deeply cold for so long, that it altered their DNA so that they were scarred for life about cold. This was passed down to me, so that I have always had a dread of cold beyond reason. For me to be cold is the hardest, most paralyzing thing I could be asked to do.
Naturally, that is what God sent me for a character stretching present. I don’t know how well I passed muster. I started to say cold makes me gloomy, but let’s be honest, when I am cold, I allow myself to be gloomy. I go right down to the Maslow’s hierarchy of needs basement, way down into survival. I don’t have much to give anyone.
I tried to be chipper and all that, I really did. Getting our little propane “Dyna Glo” heater turned the corner for me, so that I could continue to face life. We torched that thing for about 15 minutes at night and in the morning, and it would bring up the temperature to a bearable level. Speaking of bears, how I wished I could be a bear, and crawl into my bed and not come out til Spring. Now that’s the perfect way to spend the winter.
Since that wasn’t evidently God’s plan for us, we ran a space heater night and day, rather like a candle in a meat locker. A for effort, but not impressively helpful. Once we had the “Dyna Glo” (which is not recommended for indoor use, but how can a trailer with shot up windows strictly qualify as indoors?), but that explains only using it for fifteen minute power bursts, which punched up the temperature, and then the space heater could hold onto it pretty well. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, Dyna Glo.
But now, all of that is history. And that, my friend, is a blessing indeed. My daughters decided “We’re going to get into a house this week.” I told them that we had been searching for a month, and there were no rentals available. We had tried to make a deal with sellers, to lease while their house was on the market, but to no avail. Yet the girls remained adamant, we would find a house. I tried to prepare them for reality, so they wouldn’t lose faith when things just didn’t pan out like they imagined.
My daughters had really been great sports about our trailer adventure, far better than I expected. But I think the fun began to wear off when we began to have water dripping in on us from the snow melting (proof that the space heater was doing some good).
Within a day or so of the girls’ ultimatum, someone mentioned a list of three contacts who might have rentals. This information came as an afterthought in our conversation (which only Heaven knows why it didn’t occur to them to share this vital information with me sooner).
Of the three people, it was strike one, strike two, and on the third and last swing, we found a man with some trailers available to rent. Since we were already in a trailer, that wasn’t too appealing, so I didn't bother to even call him for a few days. On an impulse, I did call him and he said that he had a small house and a duplex I might want to look at. The duplex was about as appealing as a trailer would have been, but the house, which was opening up the very day we looked at it (in fact the previous renters were still moving out their stuff), was more hopeful. A pillar of light opened up from Heaven, and the Hallelujah chorus swelled, as we walked through the house. It’s small, and it’s old, but there is new carpeting, new linoleum, new paint, new kitchen cabinets and a new sink.
The bathroom has a pink bathtub, which can only mean 1950s or 1960s, but they’ve put up new siding on the walls around the tub, so it’s okay. The house is small, it’s true. But after time in a 24 ft trailer, space has a whole new definition to us. I can totally be here and be happy. Someday our house will sell, and then we’ll be able to move on from this rental. By then, I will be a different person than I was when I left that home. This is being an opportunity to totally redefine myself. I can be what I was, that was good. I can leave behind things about myself that no longer serve me. I can drop off the things that don’t matter. This is as painful as a birth, in many ways. But I look forward to discovering what comes out of the cocoon.
P.S. We were in the house within a week of the girls’ declaration. Thank you, Lord for sending us a Christmas Miracle, and most of all for sending me daughters with faith.
Joy in the Journey
To move from my 3400 sq ft home directly into this little rental (probably 800 sq ft) might have been difficult. So Heavenly Father put me in a 24 ft. trailer for about six weeks. Perspective is everything. We had a late Indian Summer thing still going on when we got there. But He kept us there long enough that the shroud of winter’s snow had fallen, and it was cold, cold, cold– nothing but cold.
I hate to be cold! I figure some ancestor of mine, possibly a pioneer, was so deeply cold for so long, that it altered their DNA so that they were scarred for life about cold. This was passed down to me, so that I have always had a dread of cold beyond reason. For me to be cold is the hardest, most paralyzing thing I could be asked to do.
Naturally, that is what God sent me for a character stretching present. I don’t know how well I passed muster. I started to say cold makes me gloomy, but let’s be honest, when I am cold, I allow myself to be gloomy. I go right down to the Maslow’s hierarchy of needs basement, way down into survival. I don’t have much to give anyone.
I tried to be chipper and all that, I really did. Getting our little propane “Dyna Glo” heater turned the corner for me, so that I could continue to face life. We torched that thing for about 15 minutes at night and in the morning, and it would bring up the temperature to a bearable level. Speaking of bears, how I wished I could be a bear, and crawl into my bed and not come out til Spring. Now that’s the perfect way to spend the winter.
Since that wasn’t evidently God’s plan for us, we ran a space heater night and day, rather like a candle in a meat locker. A for effort, but not impressively helpful. Once we had the “Dyna Glo” (which is not recommended for indoor use, but how can a trailer with shot up windows strictly qualify as indoors?), but that explains only using it for fifteen minute power bursts, which punched up the temperature, and then the space heater could hold onto it pretty well. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, Dyna Glo.
But now, all of that is history. And that, my friend, is a blessing indeed. My daughters decided “We’re going to get into a house this week.” I told them that we had been searching for a month, and there were no rentals available. We had tried to make a deal with sellers, to lease while their house was on the market, but to no avail. Yet the girls remained adamant, we would find a house. I tried to prepare them for reality, so they wouldn’t lose faith when things just didn’t pan out like they imagined.
My daughters had really been great sports about our trailer adventure, far better than I expected. But I think the fun began to wear off when we began to have water dripping in on us from the snow melting (proof that the space heater was doing some good).
Within a day or so of the girls’ ultimatum, someone mentioned a list of three contacts who might have rentals. This information came as an afterthought in our conversation (which only Heaven knows why it didn’t occur to them to share this vital information with me sooner).
Of the three people, it was strike one, strike two, and on the third and last swing, we found a man with some trailers available to rent. Since we were already in a trailer, that wasn’t too appealing, so I didn't bother to even call him for a few days. On an impulse, I did call him and he said that he had a small house and a duplex I might want to look at. The duplex was about as appealing as a trailer would have been, but the house, which was opening up the very day we looked at it (in fact the previous renters were still moving out their stuff), was more hopeful. A pillar of light opened up from Heaven, and the Hallelujah chorus swelled, as we walked through the house. It’s small, and it’s old, but there is new carpeting, new linoleum, new paint, new kitchen cabinets and a new sink.
The bathroom has a pink bathtub, which can only mean 1950s or 1960s, but they’ve put up new siding on the walls around the tub, so it’s okay. The house is small, it’s true. But after time in a 24 ft trailer, space has a whole new definition to us. I can totally be here and be happy. Someday our house will sell, and then we’ll be able to move on from this rental. By then, I will be a different person than I was when I left that home. This is being an opportunity to totally redefine myself. I can be what I was, that was good. I can leave behind things about myself that no longer serve me. I can drop off the things that don’t matter. This is as painful as a birth, in many ways. But I look forward to discovering what comes out of the cocoon.
P.S. We were in the house within a week of the girls’ declaration. Thank you, Lord for sending us a Christmas Miracle, and most of all for sending me daughters with faith.
Joy in the Journey
Counter Productive
We sanded our new, unfinished cabinets with little sponge sanders. An employee of a heretofore unmentioned store in my local town, and which shall remain unnamed, suggested that we sand with 0000 steel wool pads. We tried this with disastrous results. It left flecks of the steel wool in the grain of the wood, looking like grimey dirt. The only solution was to sand that layer away. My son bought the little sponge sanders and they worked like a charm. You don’t really have to sand much, you just want it to smooth up, and take the stain evenly.
Oh, it is worth mentioning that the cabinets from the store may have various flaws and gauges in them. You’ll want to inspect each little nook and cranny carefully for defects that might bother you. I knew that we were going to bung things up a bit once we got them installed. But after you are spending all the money on replacing them, you somehow just want them to start as perfectly as they can. That’s a hazzard of ordering things like this from a distance. You have no control of that, and the hassle of returning is expensive and stressful. (Ask my son, who lives in a fairly remote small town, and does remodeling for a living).
We rubbed the stain in with a rag, which my son says is the best way. I also used some sponge brushes. After it dries awhile, you rub it again, and sand it again, with a finer sponge. We did this twice. I thought we would brush on the varnish layer, but my son didn’t want brush marks. He taped up a plastic curtain to protect the rest of the house, wore a face mask, and sprayed on the varnish (polyethelene). This was fast, and made a very even, beautiful coat. He did that twice, as well.
At this point my son tiled the counters, and from that point on we really had a kitchen. I became conscious of the importance of beauty. It was so restful to have a place to put my eyes that was lovely. I would leave other places in the house, just to come back to see the kitchen.
My son put crown molding at the top of the cabinets, which connected them to the ceiling. This deprives you of the temptation to stash unsightly junk on top of your cupboards, and really finishes the lines beautifully. He had done it in his work, but not alone, so he googled crown molding, and figured out how to do the job. He said it was miserable, but for us it was magic.
By moving the edge of the bar counter flush with the door way, instead of ending several inches before the door, we were able to widen the kitchen by one foot. This equaled one drawer space of cabinet added to the size of the kitchen. It was amazing how much twelve inches of extra space made! It went from cramped, claustrophobia, “I can’t stand to have anyone else in the kitchen with me,” to comfortable and just the right amount of space.
I always wanted a bigger kitchen, until I went to someone’s house who had a huge kitchen. At first I lusted after the space. Then I helped cook a meal. I discovered that you can walk five miles preparing dinner if your kitchen is too big. This is fine, if that’s what your exercise program is, but I’d rather take a walk outside, down a pretty country road. I was exhausted. It was a good thing for me to learn that there is such a thing as too much space.
In my little square kitchen I was always just a few steps away from exactly what I needed. And with the addition of one more foot, I didn’t feel crowded when the kids were in the kitchen with me. It was great. Another important thing we did was leave the hanging cupboards off. This opened up the room so that it flowed into the family area. I knew that we needed to get rid of the boxy cupboards, but what I didn’t know is how it would affect the flow of light in the room. Remember, I’m the girl who loves light. It was wonderful! I can’t even tell you.
Sliding doors marked the transition between the Kitchen and Family room, opening to a covered deck. Sliding doors are called Sliding Doors because no one would buy them if they were called Sticking Doors, which is what they really are. Ours could only be opened by children if they hung onto the handle, using their feet to push out from the wall. The answer was to take out the Sliding doors and install French doors, which are better in every way. If you need to take something really big through it, both doors open and free up tons of space. This was my husband’s stroke of genius idea, and it was perfect.
The final thing we did was take out the box the fluorescent lights were in. Everyone has these high vaulted ceilings anymore, and ours are only eight feet tall, a la 1970s, fuel crisis, lower the ceilings to lower fuel costs era (and explain to me how we are in less of a crisis thirty years later, and closer to the end of peak fossil fuels, by far). We knew it wouldn’t do, to have the ceiling be one inch lower than it had to be. We reinstalled three small boxes, just to cover the lights in pairs. The boxes are white, matching the ceiling, and it really is amazing how having the ceiling in between the banks of light being a full eight feet high really helped the feel of spaciousness in the room.
To summarize, we tiled the floor, replaced all the cabinets, raised the ceiling, got rid of the hanging cupboards, pushed the room out one foot, and put granite tile on the counters. We also replaced the kitchen sink, and the dishwasher and stove (more on that later). It was a total remodel. We even replaced the window, which had been broken some years ago when said remodeling son had thrown a snowball outside at the person doing dishes. I would say he more than atoned for his sin, with his help during our remodel.
Would it be unkind to point out that this son was the most mischievous, mess making, let’s be honest, destructive child we had out of nine children? It just goes to show that you never know where your children’s energy is going to lead. If I could have known then, I might have lightened up a little and enjoyed the wild ride a little more. If that’s where you are along the trail, give it some thought.
Joy in the Journey.
Oh, it is worth mentioning that the cabinets from the store may have various flaws and gauges in them. You’ll want to inspect each little nook and cranny carefully for defects that might bother you. I knew that we were going to bung things up a bit once we got them installed. But after you are spending all the money on replacing them, you somehow just want them to start as perfectly as they can. That’s a hazzard of ordering things like this from a distance. You have no control of that, and the hassle of returning is expensive and stressful. (Ask my son, who lives in a fairly remote small town, and does remodeling for a living).
We rubbed the stain in with a rag, which my son says is the best way. I also used some sponge brushes. After it dries awhile, you rub it again, and sand it again, with a finer sponge. We did this twice. I thought we would brush on the varnish layer, but my son didn’t want brush marks. He taped up a plastic curtain to protect the rest of the house, wore a face mask, and sprayed on the varnish (polyethelene). This was fast, and made a very even, beautiful coat. He did that twice, as well.
At this point my son tiled the counters, and from that point on we really had a kitchen. I became conscious of the importance of beauty. It was so restful to have a place to put my eyes that was lovely. I would leave other places in the house, just to come back to see the kitchen.
My son put crown molding at the top of the cabinets, which connected them to the ceiling. This deprives you of the temptation to stash unsightly junk on top of your cupboards, and really finishes the lines beautifully. He had done it in his work, but not alone, so he googled crown molding, and figured out how to do the job. He said it was miserable, but for us it was magic.
By moving the edge of the bar counter flush with the door way, instead of ending several inches before the door, we were able to widen the kitchen by one foot. This equaled one drawer space of cabinet added to the size of the kitchen. It was amazing how much twelve inches of extra space made! It went from cramped, claustrophobia, “I can’t stand to have anyone else in the kitchen with me,” to comfortable and just the right amount of space.
I always wanted a bigger kitchen, until I went to someone’s house who had a huge kitchen. At first I lusted after the space. Then I helped cook a meal. I discovered that you can walk five miles preparing dinner if your kitchen is too big. This is fine, if that’s what your exercise program is, but I’d rather take a walk outside, down a pretty country road. I was exhausted. It was a good thing for me to learn that there is such a thing as too much space.
In my little square kitchen I was always just a few steps away from exactly what I needed. And with the addition of one more foot, I didn’t feel crowded when the kids were in the kitchen with me. It was great. Another important thing we did was leave the hanging cupboards off. This opened up the room so that it flowed into the family area. I knew that we needed to get rid of the boxy cupboards, but what I didn’t know is how it would affect the flow of light in the room. Remember, I’m the girl who loves light. It was wonderful! I can’t even tell you.
Sliding doors marked the transition between the Kitchen and Family room, opening to a covered deck. Sliding doors are called Sliding Doors because no one would buy them if they were called Sticking Doors, which is what they really are. Ours could only be opened by children if they hung onto the handle, using their feet to push out from the wall. The answer was to take out the Sliding doors and install French doors, which are better in every way. If you need to take something really big through it, both doors open and free up tons of space. This was my husband’s stroke of genius idea, and it was perfect.
The final thing we did was take out the box the fluorescent lights were in. Everyone has these high vaulted ceilings anymore, and ours are only eight feet tall, a la 1970s, fuel crisis, lower the ceilings to lower fuel costs era (and explain to me how we are in less of a crisis thirty years later, and closer to the end of peak fossil fuels, by far). We knew it wouldn’t do, to have the ceiling be one inch lower than it had to be. We reinstalled three small boxes, just to cover the lights in pairs. The boxes are white, matching the ceiling, and it really is amazing how having the ceiling in between the banks of light being a full eight feet high really helped the feel of spaciousness in the room.
To summarize, we tiled the floor, replaced all the cabinets, raised the ceiling, got rid of the hanging cupboards, pushed the room out one foot, and put granite tile on the counters. We also replaced the kitchen sink, and the dishwasher and stove (more on that later). It was a total remodel. We even replaced the window, which had been broken some years ago when said remodeling son had thrown a snowball outside at the person doing dishes. I would say he more than atoned for his sin, with his help during our remodel.
Would it be unkind to point out that this son was the most mischievous, mess making, let’s be honest, destructive child we had out of nine children? It just goes to show that you never know where your children’s energy is going to lead. If I could have known then, I might have lightened up a little and enjoyed the wild ride a little more. If that’s where you are along the trail, give it some thought.
Joy in the Journey.
Don't take your Tile Grout for Granite
The first thing we did, once we pulled everything out of the kitchen, was to tile the floor. My son assured me that tile is all the rage, and the house would sell better if we put in tile. Having never installed tile, my husband and I felt daunted. But my son got us started on what ended up being a lot of tile in the house, by doing the kitchen floor.
Our adult married kids came home and helped, making quite a party of it. Adult kids are great people to have in your life, everyone should get some.
This of course meant we had to choose the tile. This fell to me. Ironically, I became the Gofer Girl of this show. I say ironically because I am very visually challenged, to say it the nicest way possible. For the first decade of my married life my home decorations consisted of Christmas gifts from my crafty sisters-in-law gave me. Just when they became too busy with their own families to produce tasteful decorations for in-laws, my own daughters grew up overnight into little crafting mavens and took over the job of decorating my home. I can prove it, too. Here are links to their own blogs:
http://benandeirene.blogspot.com
http://allanandmim.blogspot.com/2007_06_01_archive.html
You’ve heard of tone deaf (which I’m that, too), well, I’m color deaf. Not color blind, I can tell what the colors are. But deaf to clashing tones. I mean, I can usually tell if something obviously looks bad, but I have a hard time telling what will look good.
A few years back, we had taken carpet out of our entry way at the front door and put in some tile, about nine squares of it. I made the decision of what color tile to buy based on the dirt in my yard. Truly. I went and scooped some dirt up into a baggy, took that to the store, and bought tile that was the closest match. Not that I was planning on never sweeping the floor, but it seemed practical to make my life easy by installing the tile that would make the dirt less noticeable between sweepings.
You can imagine me in the store then, making the choice of which tile to buy. My son was with me the first trip, and we decided on a splotchy grey granite for the kitchen counters. The splotches included other colors, including a peachy tone and some browns. My son promised us that granite was popular, and tile would be a vastly less expensive way to get granite counters than slabs. At $4-5 per square foot tile I was doubtful. I later learned that slab granite goes for $45-$75 a square foot!
It ended up being my job to match the floor tile and the splashback tile to this granite. I was totally befuddled. I realized I needed help, but didn’t know where to turn. I began scrutinizing the other customers in the aisle. I chose a woman who was very well coifed, extremely neatly and attractively dressed, including matching fingernails. This was a woman I could trust.
“Excuse me,” I pleaded, would she help me with my final decision. And I was right, she was perfect. She knew exactly what would work, and explained why some of my choices wouldn’t work. She quickly narrowed it down to the only possible selection. The floor ended up being a solid grey, that wouldn’t clash with the splotchy, more busy pattern of the counters. Yet it wasn’t too dark, and had just a little rust color (my nod to coordinating with the outside dirt), that also pulled out the lighter colors of the counters. The splashbacks were darker than the floor, nicely framing the kitchen.
I did love having tile counters. You can set hot pans and dishes with wild abandon to your heart’s content. There is a glassy richness when they are cleared, shined and cleaned. A veteran clutterer (someday I’ll regale you with my theory on stackers and clearers), it gave me a passion for keeping the counters absolutely clear. It was a little more work, cleaning out between the tiles from time to time, but not to the point that it was a big deal to me. We set them right next to each other, with hardly any space between the tiles. I liked the continuity that gave and feel it minimized the cleaning.
Of course that brings up the subject of grout, which rhymes with grouch, and with good reason. After spending an hour in the store with my tile, matching the grout with the brown splotches, I found that the color on the box resembled the actual color of grout on the floor about as much as a fetus resembles a baby. Not much.
The color on the box was clearly brown, and the grout turned out to be much lighter and pinkish. Thankfully it did tie in with some lighter colors in the granite, but not to the credit of the grout makers. Like Frank Church and Emma, the grout did no harm, but not to the credit of the grout manufacturers.
When I complained about this to a store guy, he said “Well, the amount of water you add, really makes a difference.” So that's how the manufacturers absolve themselves of any responsibility, leaving apparently no real way to tell what color of grout you are getting except to buy a five pound box and experiment. No doubt, not once, but again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again.
If your reality includes working with men, who want to get the job DONE, I recommend making very neutral grout choices, and making peace with however it turns out. There ARE more important things in the Universe. Think of world peace, the hole in the Ozone, and the fact that you are alive today instead of dead. There are worse things than disappointing grout.
Which I’m not saying I am disappointed with my grout, but I can see how a person could be. Ours turned out to coordinate, but if we didn’t have such a variagated pattern in the granite, there may have been a different ending to our story. Just a little caveat for unwary grout seeking persons.
Joy in the Journey
Our adult married kids came home and helped, making quite a party of it. Adult kids are great people to have in your life, everyone should get some.
This of course meant we had to choose the tile. This fell to me. Ironically, I became the Gofer Girl of this show. I say ironically because I am very visually challenged, to say it the nicest way possible. For the first decade of my married life my home decorations consisted of Christmas gifts from my crafty sisters-in-law gave me. Just when they became too busy with their own families to produce tasteful decorations for in-laws, my own daughters grew up overnight into little crafting mavens and took over the job of decorating my home. I can prove it, too. Here are links to their own blogs:
http://benandeirene.blogspot.com
http://allanandmim.blogspot.com/2007_06_01_archive.html
You’ve heard of tone deaf (which I’m that, too), well, I’m color deaf. Not color blind, I can tell what the colors are. But deaf to clashing tones. I mean, I can usually tell if something obviously looks bad, but I have a hard time telling what will look good.
A few years back, we had taken carpet out of our entry way at the front door and put in some tile, about nine squares of it. I made the decision of what color tile to buy based on the dirt in my yard. Truly. I went and scooped some dirt up into a baggy, took that to the store, and bought tile that was the closest match. Not that I was planning on never sweeping the floor, but it seemed practical to make my life easy by installing the tile that would make the dirt less noticeable between sweepings.
You can imagine me in the store then, making the choice of which tile to buy. My son was with me the first trip, and we decided on a splotchy grey granite for the kitchen counters. The splotches included other colors, including a peachy tone and some browns. My son promised us that granite was popular, and tile would be a vastly less expensive way to get granite counters than slabs. At $4-5 per square foot tile I was doubtful. I later learned that slab granite goes for $45-$75 a square foot!
It ended up being my job to match the floor tile and the splashback tile to this granite. I was totally befuddled. I realized I needed help, but didn’t know where to turn. I began scrutinizing the other customers in the aisle. I chose a woman who was very well coifed, extremely neatly and attractively dressed, including matching fingernails. This was a woman I could trust.
“Excuse me,” I pleaded, would she help me with my final decision. And I was right, she was perfect. She knew exactly what would work, and explained why some of my choices wouldn’t work. She quickly narrowed it down to the only possible selection. The floor ended up being a solid grey, that wouldn’t clash with the splotchy, more busy pattern of the counters. Yet it wasn’t too dark, and had just a little rust color (my nod to coordinating with the outside dirt), that also pulled out the lighter colors of the counters. The splashbacks were darker than the floor, nicely framing the kitchen.
I did love having tile counters. You can set hot pans and dishes with wild abandon to your heart’s content. There is a glassy richness when they are cleared, shined and cleaned. A veteran clutterer (someday I’ll regale you with my theory on stackers and clearers), it gave me a passion for keeping the counters absolutely clear. It was a little more work, cleaning out between the tiles from time to time, but not to the point that it was a big deal to me. We set them right next to each other, with hardly any space between the tiles. I liked the continuity that gave and feel it minimized the cleaning.
Of course that brings up the subject of grout, which rhymes with grouch, and with good reason. After spending an hour in the store with my tile, matching the grout with the brown splotches, I found that the color on the box resembled the actual color of grout on the floor about as much as a fetus resembles a baby. Not much.
The color on the box was clearly brown, and the grout turned out to be much lighter and pinkish. Thankfully it did tie in with some lighter colors in the granite, but not to the credit of the grout makers. Like Frank Church and Emma, the grout did no harm, but not to the credit of the grout manufacturers.
When I complained about this to a store guy, he said “Well, the amount of water you add, really makes a difference.” So that's how the manufacturers absolve themselves of any responsibility, leaving apparently no real way to tell what color of grout you are getting except to buy a five pound box and experiment. No doubt, not once, but again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again.
If your reality includes working with men, who want to get the job DONE, I recommend making very neutral grout choices, and making peace with however it turns out. There ARE more important things in the Universe. Think of world peace, the hole in the Ozone, and the fact that you are alive today instead of dead. There are worse things than disappointing grout.
Which I’m not saying I am disappointed with my grout, but I can see how a person could be. Ours turned out to coordinate, but if we didn’t have such a variagated pattern in the granite, there may have been a different ending to our story. Just a little caveat for unwary grout seeking persons.
Joy in the Journey
Take my Kitchen, Please!
In our Dark Ages, our kitchen was too small, the cabinets too dark, the ceiling too low, and the floor hideously ugly. Well, I will confess one thing about the floor. It was a gold and brown pattern that did not improve with mopping. This had its good aspect, because that meant you also couldn’t tell when I didn’t mop it. I will not publicly reveal how far I tested this, but let me assure you that my kitchen floor often went a good long time without mopping, to no real detriment to the appearance of the home. This is more of a statement on how it’s ugliness couldn’t be helped than anything.
That hideous linoleum, as opposed to the white tile in my military housing that would soil the first time a person walked across its freshly dried surface, could hide a multitude of sins, including splotches of mud, gravy and mustard. As ugly as my linoleum was, I will admit I enjoyed this feature and utilized it to full advantage.
Anyhow, we puzzled and perplexed about how to solve our kitchen’s problems for about thirteen years. It is a square kitchen, with an east facing sink, a stove on the south, a bar on the north (which also contained the dishwasher which was for the most part a decoration), and the fridge on the west wall, which was also the pass through space for traffic coming from the living room into the family room.
One other good point is that the family room is set right off the kitchen, which, let’s be honest, is where everybody wants to be. It’s always a little more comforting to be close to the food. The bar had cupboards hanging over it, further boxing up the kitchen. They had installed fluorescent lights in a box, lowering the entire kitchen ceiling, in as near as I can tell, an effort to duplicate the ambience of a ship’s galley.
With all that going on, we stood wringing our hands like the Wicked Witch of the West, wondering “What to do, what to do.”
What we finally did, with the encouragement of our afore mentioned son, was to rip everything out. We (this is the Royal We, my part in this was giving my opinion of how things were looking, often, just too late to do any good). *sigh* Okay, “We” installed unfinished cabinets, which in our area are only available at Lowe’s. These were vastly less expensive, and allowed us to choose our finish.
We (and here the We means pretty much me) chose a finish with the doubtful title of “Pickled Oak.” It is light, and after the dark walnut of the previous cabinets I really wanted light. I felt like golden oak was too orange, and the wood wasn’t really beautiful enough to just varnish clear. If I could have afforded lovely wood like maple or hickory, that would have been a beautiful option.
However, with as much remodeling to do as we envisioned, our decisions were based mostly on “not quite the least value money can buy.” Here’s my theory: Spending the least money you can on just about anything, is equally as cost effective as flushing your money down the toilet. The least expensive product will end up being so cheaply made that it breaks instantly. This holds true for paint, carpeting, appliances, furniture– everything!
I am can only imagine how this damages the spirit of factory workers that give their lives away making can openers that open seven and one half cans. My conscience screams at the waste of valuable resources, and I have no doubt there is a special place in Hell for factory owners who perpetuate this.
On the other hand, if you spend the most money possible, you are often throwing away even more money for bells and whistle features that are doomed to fail. This is the electric can opener that is supposed to also take the cut lid off the can for you and which also works for seven and one half cans. After a short while, you have a regular run of the mill can opener (washer, CD player, electric toothbrush) that you paid a lot of extra money for. That explains why I almost always put my money on the middle range product.
Thus, walking down the canyons of The Home Depot and Lowe’s was an experience in torture. I could see the el cheapo choices and ignore them easily enough. But I could also see how far you could go with extravagance and exquisiteness. Thus, my middle range choices, which were often lovely, were only a candle to the brilliance of what might have been, if price were not an object. I had to remind myself of my theory often, but it wasn’t much comfort.
Still, I have no doubt that we spent way, WAY too much money on our remodel. I knew we were going to move, so I wasn’t thinking of myself. If it were just for me, I think I would have gladly settled for less, with my inherited Puritan ideals on suffering insuring me a better place in the hereafter. (My religion does NOT teach me this, btw, but Puritan DNA is strong stuff, not easily cast aside--oh and let's be honest, so far as I know I don't have any actual Puritan ancestors, but my ancesters who were living at the time were no doubt influenced by their Puritan associates, and that was enough to cause the damage).
I was remodeling for an Invisible woman, whom I’ve never met, and I wanted her to have all the things I wished for, but never had. I’m sure we nearly doubled what we planned to spend, for two reasons:
1. Incremental Increases in quality. This is how it works: You buy one thing, and it isn’t so much money. Spending a few extra bucks will make it so much better. A few bucks for a better tile, or trim, or you name it, doesn’t seem like much. But when you add all those little extra dollars on top of each other...... you’ve made a mountain of difference.
2. Ripple effect.
Ripple effect is when you decide that this and this look okay, but you really MUST replace that. But when you replace that, now this and this look very shabby, and it is obvious they need to be replaced, too. And there your money goes, with glad little cries, rippling away from you.
But, it must be admitted that the end result was fabulous, and that’s worth something, too (we hope).
Joy in the Journey
That hideous linoleum, as opposed to the white tile in my military housing that would soil the first time a person walked across its freshly dried surface, could hide a multitude of sins, including splotches of mud, gravy and mustard. As ugly as my linoleum was, I will admit I enjoyed this feature and utilized it to full advantage.
Anyhow, we puzzled and perplexed about how to solve our kitchen’s problems for about thirteen years. It is a square kitchen, with an east facing sink, a stove on the south, a bar on the north (which also contained the dishwasher which was for the most part a decoration), and the fridge on the west wall, which was also the pass through space for traffic coming from the living room into the family room.
One other good point is that the family room is set right off the kitchen, which, let’s be honest, is where everybody wants to be. It’s always a little more comforting to be close to the food. The bar had cupboards hanging over it, further boxing up the kitchen. They had installed fluorescent lights in a box, lowering the entire kitchen ceiling, in as near as I can tell, an effort to duplicate the ambience of a ship’s galley.
With all that going on, we stood wringing our hands like the Wicked Witch of the West, wondering “What to do, what to do.”
What we finally did, with the encouragement of our afore mentioned son, was to rip everything out. We (this is the Royal We, my part in this was giving my opinion of how things were looking, often, just too late to do any good). *sigh* Okay, “We” installed unfinished cabinets, which in our area are only available at Lowe’s. These were vastly less expensive, and allowed us to choose our finish.
We (and here the We means pretty much me) chose a finish with the doubtful title of “Pickled Oak.” It is light, and after the dark walnut of the previous cabinets I really wanted light. I felt like golden oak was too orange, and the wood wasn’t really beautiful enough to just varnish clear. If I could have afforded lovely wood like maple or hickory, that would have been a beautiful option.
However, with as much remodeling to do as we envisioned, our decisions were based mostly on “not quite the least value money can buy.” Here’s my theory: Spending the least money you can on just about anything, is equally as cost effective as flushing your money down the toilet. The least expensive product will end up being so cheaply made that it breaks instantly. This holds true for paint, carpeting, appliances, furniture– everything!
I am can only imagine how this damages the spirit of factory workers that give their lives away making can openers that open seven and one half cans. My conscience screams at the waste of valuable resources, and I have no doubt there is a special place in Hell for factory owners who perpetuate this.
On the other hand, if you spend the most money possible, you are often throwing away even more money for bells and whistle features that are doomed to fail. This is the electric can opener that is supposed to also take the cut lid off the can for you and which also works for seven and one half cans. After a short while, you have a regular run of the mill can opener (washer, CD player, electric toothbrush) that you paid a lot of extra money for. That explains why I almost always put my money on the middle range product.
Thus, walking down the canyons of The Home Depot and Lowe’s was an experience in torture. I could see the el cheapo choices and ignore them easily enough. But I could also see how far you could go with extravagance and exquisiteness. Thus, my middle range choices, which were often lovely, were only a candle to the brilliance of what might have been, if price were not an object. I had to remind myself of my theory often, but it wasn’t much comfort.
Still, I have no doubt that we spent way, WAY too much money on our remodel. I knew we were going to move, so I wasn’t thinking of myself. If it were just for me, I think I would have gladly settled for less, with my inherited Puritan ideals on suffering insuring me a better place in the hereafter. (My religion does NOT teach me this, btw, but Puritan DNA is strong stuff, not easily cast aside--oh and let's be honest, so far as I know I don't have any actual Puritan ancestors, but my ancesters who were living at the time were no doubt influenced by their Puritan associates, and that was enough to cause the damage).
I was remodeling for an Invisible woman, whom I’ve never met, and I wanted her to have all the things I wished for, but never had. I’m sure we nearly doubled what we planned to spend, for two reasons:
1. Incremental Increases in quality. This is how it works: You buy one thing, and it isn’t so much money. Spending a few extra bucks will make it so much better. A few bucks for a better tile, or trim, or you name it, doesn’t seem like much. But when you add all those little extra dollars on top of each other...... you’ve made a mountain of difference.
2. Ripple effect.
Ripple effect is when you decide that this and this look okay, but you really MUST replace that. But when you replace that, now this and this look very shabby, and it is obvious they need to be replaced, too. And there your money goes, with glad little cries, rippling away from you.
But, it must be admitted that the end result was fabulous, and that’s worth something, too (we hope).
Joy in the Journey
Friday, December 14, 2007
Here's Hoping that Time Flies, even when you're NOT having Fun
“Here I sit like a bird in the wilderness.” That’s the first line to a very annoying song to be sung while waiting for someone to come. If you want someone to really hate you, go ahead, sing it. The rest of the words are “waiting for you to come,” repeated enough times that it explains why people get angry enough to kill when they hear it. And then you repeat the first line and begin again.
I mention it because I’m waiting for Spring to come. When I shared this, my husband reminded me that it is technically still Fall. This is not something on my “ways to stay happily married” list. But I knew it for what it was, an irresistible urge to get a rise out of me, so I ignored the comment (which IS on my "ways to stay happily married" list).
The happiest day in December for me (and this reveals that I am officially no longer a child at heart, and the magic of Christmas is marred by the stress I experience over the spending I’ve done) is Winter Solstice. Because that means that from that day forth the days will be getting longer.
I love the light, I need the light, and I long for the light. Endless, dark, winter days are no good for me. One year we had an inversion that lasted for six weeks. This means that a pocket of clouds hung over us for over six weeks. It was like living in frozen fog. I was capable of seeing the beauty in the frost lined fences and trees. Even the barbed wire looked beautiful with its lacy frost. It was very Dr. Zchivagoesque. But it was also very dreary, never seeing the sun. I felt my spirits sinking, sinking, sinking.
I always knew that I responded to the light of summer, and dreaded the darkness of winter, but this was when I learned for sure how much of a difference it made in my life. When we would travel out of our Basin and over the mountains, we would reach a point when we rose above the fog. I would feel my spirits soar, it was like taking off a heavy cloak of gloom. Likewise, when we returned home I would see that wall of fog and would feel my spirits sinking as we drew closer. It was outside of reason, that it made so much difference. It’s not like we didn’t have plenty of lights on in the house. But there is something true and real about the sun, that is not found in incandescent or fluorescent bulbs. They are shadowy substitutes compared to the real thing.
After it was over and the clouds lifted and I could feel my real self again, I vowed that if it ever happened again I would spend the couple hundred bucks it takes to get one of those special full spectrum natural light box thingamajigs. That would be a small price to pay for sanity.
I’ll tell my husband it’s either that or a trip to the Bahamas for the winter. Price, after all, is always relative. Or I can put on my “bug-eyed woman over the edge face” and ask if he wants to wake up to that every day. I don’t think there will be any resistance.
In fact, I’m wearing that face all too often, these cold days. I notice he’s getting serious about searching out a place for us lately– could be a connection.......
As I wither in this cold, it makes me grateful time flies, and there’s never enough time. Because that means this month will hurry up and get over with, and the next, and the next, and then it will be Spring again. I can just feel it now...
Shivers of Joy in the Journey
I mention it because I’m waiting for Spring to come. When I shared this, my husband reminded me that it is technically still Fall. This is not something on my “ways to stay happily married” list. But I knew it for what it was, an irresistible urge to get a rise out of me, so I ignored the comment (which IS on my "ways to stay happily married" list).
The happiest day in December for me (and this reveals that I am officially no longer a child at heart, and the magic of Christmas is marred by the stress I experience over the spending I’ve done) is Winter Solstice. Because that means that from that day forth the days will be getting longer.
I love the light, I need the light, and I long for the light. Endless, dark, winter days are no good for me. One year we had an inversion that lasted for six weeks. This means that a pocket of clouds hung over us for over six weeks. It was like living in frozen fog. I was capable of seeing the beauty in the frost lined fences and trees. Even the barbed wire looked beautiful with its lacy frost. It was very Dr. Zchivagoesque. But it was also very dreary, never seeing the sun. I felt my spirits sinking, sinking, sinking.
I always knew that I responded to the light of summer, and dreaded the darkness of winter, but this was when I learned for sure how much of a difference it made in my life. When we would travel out of our Basin and over the mountains, we would reach a point when we rose above the fog. I would feel my spirits soar, it was like taking off a heavy cloak of gloom. Likewise, when we returned home I would see that wall of fog and would feel my spirits sinking as we drew closer. It was outside of reason, that it made so much difference. It’s not like we didn’t have plenty of lights on in the house. But there is something true and real about the sun, that is not found in incandescent or fluorescent bulbs. They are shadowy substitutes compared to the real thing.
After it was over and the clouds lifted and I could feel my real self again, I vowed that if it ever happened again I would spend the couple hundred bucks it takes to get one of those special full spectrum natural light box thingamajigs. That would be a small price to pay for sanity.
I’ll tell my husband it’s either that or a trip to the Bahamas for the winter. Price, after all, is always relative. Or I can put on my “bug-eyed woman over the edge face” and ask if he wants to wake up to that every day. I don’t think there will be any resistance.
In fact, I’m wearing that face all too often, these cold days. I notice he’s getting serious about searching out a place for us lately– could be a connection.......
As I wither in this cold, it makes me grateful time flies, and there’s never enough time. Because that means this month will hurry up and get over with, and the next, and the next, and then it will be Spring again. I can just feel it now...
Shivers of Joy in the Journey
Velinda's VIEWs
You know what View stands for? Voice In The Existential Wilderness. Yep. One of the things that held me back from ever writing the ramblings of my mind, is I thought "Who in the world would want to listen to me?" I don’t fit into a category very well, so who would be my audience? And it remains to be seen if there is anyone out there that wants to hear what I might say.
I’m the kind of woman who had the audacity to bring nine kids into the world. There is a huge group of people who would find that despicable. I can hear the outcry!
"What about the Environment and Over Population of the Planet?"
"You can’t possibly be a good mother to nine children, and meet all their emotional needs!"
"How can you think of bringing that many children into a world like this?"
I don’t have an answer to all those questions, but I do have a response.
"There are resources for everyone on this planet. The problem is distribution. I have a whole treatise on this, which will have to wait."
"You’re right, I can’t meet all my children’s emotional needs. But neither can you– even if you have just one child. Life is learning how to take responsibility for your own emotional needs, and I’m all about working on that, with my kids. There are plenty of times when I don’t feel like I’m a good mother. Another day I’ll share my thoughts on being a "bad" mother."
"I don’t believe we create the spirits who become our children. I believe that God created them, and has asked us to give physical bodies to His spirits. (You know, the multiply and replenish the earth, thing). As long as there are children still being born, it must mean that there are still spirits in His realm that are waiting for a chance to come to this earth, have a body, and be part of a family.
Being the imperfect wretch– I mean mother, that I am, I spent a good deal of time wondering if on Judgment Day, God would look at my husband and I, with all our kids and say "What were you thinking?"
But after spending a night in an apartment, listening to a man in the apartment over my head raging at his sobbing wife and crying children until the wee hours of the morning, I quit worrying about what a bad mother I was. I decided that I could not leave the propagation of the earth to unwed teenagers and natives in Borneo (which is by no means a criticism of people in Borneo or any other Third World Country, because I don’t believe that our Western world culture necessarily brings a better life in many respects, to Heavenly Father’s children).
I thought if I could bring a child into my home, that spirit would not then, have to go to a home of abuse, and that would be my contribution to the planet.
I knew I would not be solving the problems of the world, but at least it would be something. (You know, the ‘I cannot do everything, but I can do something, and what I can do, by the Grace of God, I will do,’ thing). I decided to bring as many children as I could sanely bring, into a family that would love and care for them, even imperfectly................... Now the only question is how I defined sanely."
Naturally, I have more thoughts on all of these. But that’s enough for one whollop. And it brings me back to the beginning, not knowing if there is anyone out there that would want to hear the random neural firings of a mind like mine. The jury is out.
Joy in the Journey
I’m the kind of woman who had the audacity to bring nine kids into the world. There is a huge group of people who would find that despicable. I can hear the outcry!
"What about the Environment and Over Population of the Planet?"
"You can’t possibly be a good mother to nine children, and meet all their emotional needs!"
"How can you think of bringing that many children into a world like this?"
I don’t have an answer to all those questions, but I do have a response.
"There are resources for everyone on this planet. The problem is distribution. I have a whole treatise on this, which will have to wait."
"You’re right, I can’t meet all my children’s emotional needs. But neither can you– even if you have just one child. Life is learning how to take responsibility for your own emotional needs, and I’m all about working on that, with my kids. There are plenty of times when I don’t feel like I’m a good mother. Another day I’ll share my thoughts on being a "bad" mother."
"I don’t believe we create the spirits who become our children. I believe that God created them, and has asked us to give physical bodies to His spirits. (You know, the multiply and replenish the earth, thing). As long as there are children still being born, it must mean that there are still spirits in His realm that are waiting for a chance to come to this earth, have a body, and be part of a family.
Being the imperfect wretch– I mean mother, that I am, I spent a good deal of time wondering if on Judgment Day, God would look at my husband and I, with all our kids and say "What were you thinking?"
But after spending a night in an apartment, listening to a man in the apartment over my head raging at his sobbing wife and crying children until the wee hours of the morning, I quit worrying about what a bad mother I was. I decided that I could not leave the propagation of the earth to unwed teenagers and natives in Borneo (which is by no means a criticism of people in Borneo or any other Third World Country, because I don’t believe that our Western world culture necessarily brings a better life in many respects, to Heavenly Father’s children).
I thought if I could bring a child into my home, that spirit would not then, have to go to a home of abuse, and that would be my contribution to the planet.
I knew I would not be solving the problems of the world, but at least it would be something. (You know, the ‘I cannot do everything, but I can do something, and what I can do, by the Grace of God, I will do,’ thing). I decided to bring as many children as I could sanely bring, into a family that would love and care for them, even imperfectly................... Now the only question is how I defined sanely."
Naturally, I have more thoughts on all of these. But that’s enough for one whollop. And it brings me back to the beginning, not knowing if there is anyone out there that would want to hear the random neural firings of a mind like mine. The jury is out.
Joy in the Journey
Where do I Begin?
There is always a beginning. But we usually can’t remember when it was. Being in the second half of the century of my life isn’t it making it any easier to remember. But sometime around this time a year ago, I began to feel frustrated at our load of debt. I looked around and didn’t see any magical ways of getting more money. So I thought “We don’t need this big of a house anymore, let’s fix up the house, sell it, get out of our debt, and downsize to a smaller home.”
My husband should have tied a muzzle around my face and locked me in the basement. Instead he said “Yeah, we could do that.” This is the hazzard of marrying an agreeable fellow. If I’d married someone as cantankerous as I am we’d have argued about it until exhaustion, never come to a conclusion, and I’d still be living in our roomy, if shabby home.
See, I knew that we couldn’t just put our house on the market as is. I had a friend who had done that with their house of a similar age as ours, and a year later it was still sitting. With that as evidence, I began to use the “R” word. Yes, you guessed it, Remodel (hear the organ music in the back ground growing louder? Dut-Dut-Du-u-u-u-u-u-m....with the emphasis on dumb).
I decided there were three deal breakers to our house. First it was birthed in a manufacturing center nearly thirty years ago when people thought orange was a decorator color, that dark wood was appealing, and that as many small boxy rooms as you could fit in a house the better. There was less of the dark cabinetry than when they built it because God sent me real children, not papier mache children who sit tidily on couches with unbroken springs and watch TV all day.
Not that my children didn’t watch too much TV, but they also got exercise jumping on the couches (hence the broken springs) and fighting, which involved pounding down the hall after one another. The fleeing child gets the bright idea to lock themselves in the bathroom. Hence the holes kicked and pounded into the balsa wood doors.
The kitchen cabinet doors and drawers fell apart under those same fists, each gaping hole with its own story. It’s one of those times when less is not more. Less of the dark wood meant more ghetto. And who would take that on? We of course glued the faces of the drawers back on when company was coming over, only to have it fall apart again at the first pull– imagine our “surprise” when that happened to our guests. “They just don’t make cabinets like they used to.....”
The kitchen was deal breaker number one. So that’s where we began our Odessey. An adult son, who personally did more damage than all the other children combined, must have been salving a guilty conscience when he set himself into business building and remodeling homes. He offered to come home and get us started on our project.
This was the best thing we could have done, and set the standard for everything else that was to follow. He convinced us to make choices I would never have conceived of doing. He taught us that the final result required spending a certain amount of money, a hurdle I had never been able to get beyond before.
I thought “When we get out of debt, we’ll remodel.” Or “When we get out of debt we’ll fix that window.” Or “When we get out of debt we’ll go on vacation. See a pattern? Well, since we never did get out of debt, we never remodeled, never fixed the windows and never went on anything but the cheapest vacations (picture tents and backpacks).
My son ripped the kitchen apart down to and including the baseboards. It never looked so good. At first I thought we should be careful in taking down the cupboards, because they were “imperfectly good” and surely there was a needy person out there who would be grateful to have dark walnut stained balsa wood cupboards They were only missing a few drawer fronts, who wouldn’t want that? Okay, besides us. This type of thinking reveals that I’m a slow learner, remind me to tell you the story of the “needy” and our old couch.
But truth be told, it was much too satisfying to claw, hammer and pound those cupboards to oblivion. “Take that!!!! You hideous thing.... and that!!!!” Of course it wouldn’t work to always relieve stress by ripping your cupboards off the walls. But now and then a little “TaWanda!!!!” is a very satisfying thing.
Disclaimer: Remodeling is not for the faint of heart. Don’t try this without first checking with your doctor for signs of high blood pressure, heart failure and insanity. If you don’t have them now, you soon will.
Oh yes. Be sure to tell your husband you love him before you start! You won’t be feeling like it again, for a very long time.
*sigh*
About deal breakers #2 and #3, never fear-- I'll blog on them another day..... in the meantime......
Joy in the Journey
P.S. I'm alive today to tell the tale, so take hope!
My husband should have tied a muzzle around my face and locked me in the basement. Instead he said “Yeah, we could do that.” This is the hazzard of marrying an agreeable fellow. If I’d married someone as cantankerous as I am we’d have argued about it until exhaustion, never come to a conclusion, and I’d still be living in our roomy, if shabby home.
See, I knew that we couldn’t just put our house on the market as is. I had a friend who had done that with their house of a similar age as ours, and a year later it was still sitting. With that as evidence, I began to use the “R” word. Yes, you guessed it, Remodel (hear the organ music in the back ground growing louder? Dut-Dut-Du-u-u-u-u-u-m....with the emphasis on dumb).
I decided there were three deal breakers to our house. First it was birthed in a manufacturing center nearly thirty years ago when people thought orange was a decorator color, that dark wood was appealing, and that as many small boxy rooms as you could fit in a house the better. There was less of the dark cabinetry than when they built it because God sent me real children, not papier mache children who sit tidily on couches with unbroken springs and watch TV all day.
Not that my children didn’t watch too much TV, but they also got exercise jumping on the couches (hence the broken springs) and fighting, which involved pounding down the hall after one another. The fleeing child gets the bright idea to lock themselves in the bathroom. Hence the holes kicked and pounded into the balsa wood doors.
The kitchen cabinet doors and drawers fell apart under those same fists, each gaping hole with its own story. It’s one of those times when less is not more. Less of the dark wood meant more ghetto. And who would take that on? We of course glued the faces of the drawers back on when company was coming over, only to have it fall apart again at the first pull– imagine our “surprise” when that happened to our guests. “They just don’t make cabinets like they used to.....”
The kitchen was deal breaker number one. So that’s where we began our Odessey. An adult son, who personally did more damage than all the other children combined, must have been salving a guilty conscience when he set himself into business building and remodeling homes. He offered to come home and get us started on our project.
This was the best thing we could have done, and set the standard for everything else that was to follow. He convinced us to make choices I would never have conceived of doing. He taught us that the final result required spending a certain amount of money, a hurdle I had never been able to get beyond before.
I thought “When we get out of debt, we’ll remodel.” Or “When we get out of debt we’ll fix that window.” Or “When we get out of debt we’ll go on vacation. See a pattern? Well, since we never did get out of debt, we never remodeled, never fixed the windows and never went on anything but the cheapest vacations (picture tents and backpacks).
My son ripped the kitchen apart down to and including the baseboards. It never looked so good. At first I thought we should be careful in taking down the cupboards, because they were “imperfectly good” and surely there was a needy person out there who would be grateful to have dark walnut stained balsa wood cupboards They were only missing a few drawer fronts, who wouldn’t want that? Okay, besides us. This type of thinking reveals that I’m a slow learner, remind me to tell you the story of the “needy” and our old couch.
But truth be told, it was much too satisfying to claw, hammer and pound those cupboards to oblivion. “Take that!!!! You hideous thing.... and that!!!!” Of course it wouldn’t work to always relieve stress by ripping your cupboards off the walls. But now and then a little “TaWanda!!!!” is a very satisfying thing.
Disclaimer: Remodeling is not for the faint of heart. Don’t try this without first checking with your doctor for signs of high blood pressure, heart failure and insanity. If you don’t have them now, you soon will.
Oh yes. Be sure to tell your husband you love him before you start! You won’t be feeling like it again, for a very long time.
*sigh*
About deal breakers #2 and #3, never fear-- I'll blog on them another day..... in the meantime......
Joy in the Journey
P.S. I'm alive today to tell the tale, so take hope!
A Blog is Born
"Today is the first day of the rest of my life." I saw this inside the window of a little tourist gift shop on Cannery Row in Monterey, California in the early 1970's. I was there with a group of kids, with no object in mind other than to "have fun." We wandered up and down the wharf, poking our faces to the windows, peering into the shops, which were all closed. I don’t remember what else we did. But I saw a placard inside a shop window with that line on it.
And another one that said "I know you believe you understand what you think I said, but I’m not sure you realize that what you heard, is not what I meant." Both of these messages struck me, so I spent a few moments consciously memorizing them while everyone else goofed around, oblivious to my epiphany. Somehow or other both of these sayings have stuck with me over all the years since. I’ve forgotten a thousand other things that were of far greater consequence, I’m sure. But those remain in what I call the Foggy Bottoms of my Mind.
Thus I have them to pass along to you today, because they both work. I decided to begin my own Blog today, which seems like a ceremonial and monumental moment in my life. What do you say on the first day of a Blog? I know on all the subsequent days you say all the little nothings that make up the something of your life. But somehow it seems like the very first day should be something special. And "Today is the First Day of the Rest of my Life" fits that. So there it is. BTW, it’s true for you as well. What are you going to do on your first day of the rest of your life?
The "I know you believe you understand......" thing also works, because in all communication there is the potential for confusion. I may say something that means one thing to me, and it will come across another way to you. That is inevitable, so let’s admit that it’s there. I will never be meaning to offend, or hurt anyone, so if something I ever say bothers you, feel free to raise my consciousness of it. But understand, that it isn’t my nature to be intentionally offensive. I may well be, but not on purpose.
I ask my kids, when they come crying that someone has hurt them, "Did they mean to?" And sometimes the answer is yes, and sometimes it is no. The answer makes a difference in the response. If the hurt was intentional, they need to talk it out and come to an understanding. If it was inadvertent, then a little reminder to be more cautious is in order to the offender. It’s a waste of time to be angry or offended at someone who didn’t mean to hurt you, and the wounded one needs to own their own responsibility for their happiness in life, and let it go. Life is too short to go looking for reasons to be hurt and upset. Okay, so much for the little Personal Disclaimer thing. Let’s move on.
I’m going to dedicate this, my first Blog, to an unexpected person. You might think my Lord and Savior, or my parents, or my husband, or my children, or my sisters (I have no brothers), even sister-in-laws, or a dear, dear friend. All of whom I am very thankful for, and acknowledge the great gift of all of their influences in my life. The sum total of all future Blogs will be dedicated to all those beloved ones who have contributed to any good that comes of my existence. But today I am going to dedicate this Blog to Paul Potts. If you don’t know who Paul Potts is, let me introduce you:
Paul Potts is an extraordinary individual, who had the audacity to think he was someone. He is a unlikely looking fellow, on the rather chubby side, with something untoward happening among his teeth. He was living an everyday life, working at a Cellular phone warehouse, but all the while nurturing a desire in his heart to sing, when one day he decided to take a chance. He said he had a dream to sing "Because I think that’s what I was born to do."
There is a TV show in the United Kingdom called Britain’s Got Talent. He showed up at an audition, and was asked by a judge "Why are you here tonight, Paul?" This unassuming man, who looked for all the world like the guy who ought to be cleaning up the stage after the show, rather than standing on it prepared to perform, looked her in the eye and said "I’m here to sing Opera."
And sing he did. He burst into song, and knocked the socks of the judges, the audience off their seats and onto their feet. It was one of those glorious one moments in time when you could feel the Universe swirl and crescendo in a giant wave of love and acknowledgment for this one single man’s effort to fulfill the destiny he was born for. God did not give him stature, physical appeal or opportunity. But He gave him a voice. And Paul found it, and used it.
Paul had done what he could with that, at the age of 29 he began singing in amateur opera productions. He saved up and took voice lessons in Italy. He was selected from his class for the privilege of singing for Pavorotti (who was impressed and complimentary). And then he returned to the UK, and did what you have to do to survive in the world. He worked at a day job. He was a manager in a Cellular phone warehouse. He watched and waited for a way to share the gift God gave him, with a world that hadn’t cared in the slightest about his gift for the first 37 years of his life. Talk about persistence and never giving up.
On the little Youtube video clips there are snippets of interviews with Paul. In them you learn that he was bullied as a youth (what is it in the human spirit that makes it want to be cruel to those who are different, or perceived to be less than you), but his voice was a comfort to him. He said that he always struggled with his self-esteem, but after he won the Semi-Finals of the competition he was filled with confidence in himself "That I’m Somebody, I’m Paul Potts." For the pure joy of it, click on these links, if you haven’t seen them already (grab a tissue, you’ll need it):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1k08yxu57NA
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rDB9zwlXrB8&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K_5W4t_CBzg&feature=related
If the links don’t work, google Paul Potts youtube, paul potts semi-final, and paul potts bgt final. You’ll find it.
As I wept, and was lifted by the beauty of Paul Potts’ voice, and poignancy of his story, I also felt the power of the allegory of his life applying to each of us on this planet. We are all Somebody. I am Velinda. Who are you? We are all Born to Do Something. What are you Born to Do? I was born to write, and I’ve known it all my life. But I was paralyzed by the thought "Who am I to add to all that has ever been written on the history of this planet? When I read Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, J.R. Tolkien, Jane Austin, Harper Lee, and so many more, I am overwhelmed with the question "Who am I to those?" Let’s be honest– Nothing.
And what do I write best? Narrative essay. Not even a story, except the story of my life. And what is my life? Nothing. At least nothing in terms of the grand total of the sea of humanity. But something to me. And perhaps something to you, if we can share the journey together. I burn a little brighter for having known so many good people. If I can share a little of their light, and perhaps add a little of my own, it may be that I could be a help to adding light to the path of your journey through a world in which we look through a glass darkly. If so, I will be content that I have served some purpose. At least one of the purposes for which God sent me here.
I think of Paul Potts, who did what he could to prepare for and pursue the dream of singing. We should all take that example, and despite all odds, do what we can to fulfill that inner sense of mission inside of us. We each have gifts, mostly which begin as interests. What are you doing to develop yours? The journey will be different for each of us, but when we do what we can, and persevere, Paul’s story is an inspiration to us, that one day we will find a way to fulfill the purpose God placed us on the planet. A great part of my purpose has been very simply to be the best soulmate to my husband, and the best mother to my children, that I could possibly be. I have been in that season for over thirty years. But now I feel the tuggings of a new season blossoming, and this Blog is a part of that.
I thank Paul Potts, for having the courage to dream in a world of beautiful singers, that his voice was yet missing from the choir. I dedicate this first humble effort to him in acknowledgment of his reminder to me that I, too, am Somebody. I’ve been given a gift I was born to do, as was he. And as are you. I hope that you will look at your life, and work towards that something inside you that has always been there, urging you to fulfill.
At the start of this, I don’t really know where this will go. I’ve had in some ways an extraordinary journey for someone who hasn’t really done anything monumental. I have nine children, which sets me apart from today’s average. We have three kids left at home (sort of). I am unabashedly Christian. I’m more than half a century old, and have been married to the same man for three decades. I like to read, I’m a home educator and I’m passionate about the journey for personal self-education.
My husband just left his six figure a year job to create a nebulous something that we haven’t fully defined. Something about learning and healing, wholeness and stewards of the Earth. But we don’t have funding, so how can we do any of that? We fully and (no brag, just fact) beautifully remodeled our home to sell. We hope the sale will get us entirely out of debt so that we can be homeless, jobless, penniless, but debt free. This is a big gamble in today’s market, and sends my stress levels into the stratosphere.
In the meantime we are living in a twenty-four foot trailer, my husband bartering our spot, with electrical and water hook-ups, with some friends who are owner-building their house, for his services to help them out. We hope we all survive this, including the friendship.
There is choice in all of this. My husband is choosing to leave a lucrative job. We will start up a business that will support us, relating to what he does for a living. We don't HAVE to be in a twenty-four foot trailer. We're choosing this path because we can't find a rental, and I absolutely refuse to take on a second house payment until we get out from under the first one. I am mindful that I am "play suffering," as opposed to those who truly don't have other options. Call it "slumming" or call us nuts. Both work.
All of these things give me experience. And create a me that is uniquely me, as your experiences create a you that is uniquely you. I have gleaned some jewels that Heavenly Father leaves along the trail of adversity. I pick them up and put them in my pocket like Hannah Hurnard’s Much Afraid in Hind’s Feet on High Places, to memorialize the moment’s of my life epiphanies. I’ll share what I can of those, but acknowledge that you are your own journey, with your own discoveries to make. What means a great deal to me, may well be nothing to you. Yet. You never know when you will pull something out of your consciousness tomorrow that you read in passing today.
I can talk to you about remodeling a home, surviving in a trailer, mothering children, home education, a Christian life, personal education, staying married, preparing for the possible end of times (if we’re lucky), and being a steward of our planet. There will be a bit of taxes, traffic tickets, car repairs and so many other nothings that make up all of our existence. I’m just beginning to learn how to be a parent of adult children, and a grandparent. If you care to listen in to my ramblings, I’d love to have you along for the bumpy ride.
So there now, with much less bother than birthing a baby, a Blog is Born. But with every bit as much fear and trepidation at my ability to sustain and nurture. You’ve been a witness, which is rather personal. Reminds me of the crowd hovering around me at the birth of my last baby, born in the hall of the hospital....... but that’s another story.
Joy in the Journey,
velinda
P.S. I’m always long-winded, but in the future, I’ll make these shorter, but we had to start someplace, okay?
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