Scattergad

Brick by Brick, Part III: Let's Talk Dirty

Our basement has two parts: one unfinished and the other…more unfinished.

I always enjoy showing off the more unfinished part on house tours, because I never get tired of saying, “This is where we hide the bodies.” I was a little concerned when we first moved in that we MIGHT one day find a skeleton buried under all that dirt, but so far we’ve been disappointed. The cats love it, though.

Not ten steps from the main door to the house is a trapdoor, which accesses that part of the basement. I’ve never been quite sure of the reason for locating a trapdoor so close to the main entrance; it all seems a little, I don’t know, unwelcoming to guests.

Renovating old houses is, above all, a dirty business. Sometimes you open up a wall or a floor or a pipe and you just don’t want to look. Mouse skeletons, a three-foot-long wasp nest, slimy gunk that probably self-conceived in 1946: it can be ugly. Sometimes you get rewarded, however. We have a shelf full of stuff we’ve pulled out of the walls, from old glass medicine bottles to a large German shell casing. When we first moved in, there was even an antique urinal in the basement; one which might have been easily converted to a lovely planter and posted on Pinterest, but one which I really couldn’t stomach keeping - even though it was an antique. And I do like my antiques.

In addition to the dirt and mystery gunk, our house unfortunately plays semi-permanent host to asbestos and lead. Granted, we’ve come a long way in ten years, but still they linger like uninvited neighborhood children at a backyard barbecue. Someday, perhaps, we'll be rid of them both.

(And someday, perhaps cats will decide to start cleaning out their own litter boxes.)

As I mentioned before, our house came to us clad in asbestos shingles. We knew this would be a problem. We knew we wouldn’t be able to put up with them for very long, even if they were in decent shape. No, they would have to come down. Eventually. After we finished a few more pressing projects.

We moved in at the end of October. I lasted four months.

The shingles were driving me out of my mind. I couldn’t help thinking of them as a giant, unnatural scab that was slowly suffocating my house. So, one day in February, I picked up a crowbar and trudged out behind the barn (which had also been included in the shingling project), climbed up onto a snowdrift and started whacking.

Of course, I knew at the time that this wasn’t exactly the most practical approach to the problem. Cleanup would be difficult because of the snow, and it was just possible that by busting up asbestos shingles I was actually doing something illegal.

But, never fear. This is New Hampshire, the "Live Free and Die," er, sorry, I mean "Live Free OR Die" state.

It turned out that, at that particular time, there were actually very few laws concerning asbestos removal in effect - no tents or HAZMAT suits required. I doubt the State even cared if we wore masks. Nope, as long as we double-bagged and labeled it, we could haul it right to the dump ourselves. (Incidentally, the laws since then have strengthened significantly - which is why it’s a good thing we didn’t wait.)

I didn’t get very far with my shingle-bashing that winter, unfortunately. First off, well, not to overstate the obvious, but it was cold. You had to bag the shards immediately, lest they freeze into the snow, and my gloved hands were little better than paws for picking them up. Furthermore, I found that I ran into the same problem I had with the lath and plaster: inadequate upper-body strength. (Let’s just say that Salon Pas is now my friend.) Once again, this would be a job for Dear Husband.

So, okay, that turned out to be one of our longer-lasting projects. Each and every ugly-a** shingle was painstakingly removed by hand (with crowbar extension), packed into boxes, double-bagged and taken to the dump. Underneath we were pleased to find the orginal clapboard siding fairly well intact. As it turned out, DH only had to replace the clapboards above the porch roof on the west side of the house. (I hope to post a picture of him doing this in my next installment, along with several others of the house - as soon as I can figure out how to do it.) Other than that, we just had to plug up the holes where the previous owners had blown in insulation, scrape, sand and repaint the entire house.

I'm pretty sure that all ended up taking a couple of years, and involved some truly questionable safety-related decisions. Like if either of us end up with Mesothelioma in our 60s, you'll know why. I furthermore have memories of set-ups involving: one ladder to the porch roof, a two-by-four nailed into the porch roof itself and, behind it, another ladder extending up to the gable peak of the house, a husband afraid of heights (and me supporting his ladder) and neighbor children standing on the ground below yelling up, "Whatcha doin'?" -children who are right in the line of fire should the whole apparatus come crashing down.

(Incidently, I have seen the DH fall off the porch roof on at least two occasions, and it was frightening, to say the least. Thankfully, though, both times were in the winter and he landed on a pretty large snowbank. Still, though. Yikes.)

If removing asbestos from our house has been like removing a scab, dealing with lead paint has been more akin to battling a virus. Because it's everywhere: from the paint on the porch to the paint on the interior doors, right down to the house dust itself. It has been there so long and has been disturbed so often that there is most likely not one square inch of the structure it does not inhabit. Which is why it was somewhat amusing one day when Monkus' pediatrician said to me:

"You really should have your house tested for lead."

Me: "Uh, are you suggesting we target specific elements, or do readings on each room, or...what?"

Doc. L.: "Just have your house tested for lead."

Me (in my head): "Gee, thanks. And if it comes back that our entire house is caked in lead, what exactly are we supposed to do? Move? Not. A. Possibility."

And, as it turned out, the State of New Hampshire agreed with me. There was no point in testing the house for lead, as we already knew the outcome. The question was what to do about the Monkus.

Despite what might appear to be a flippant attitude on my part towards the whole lead situation, I actually was in a bit of a panic around Monkus' 9-month wellness visit; because that's when I found out he had a blood-lead level of 9. At that time, if your child tested at 10, the State would actually swoop in on your house, build up a caseload of paperwork regarding your child's unhealthy environment and actually provide assistance in lead abatement. So, as we didn't quite qualify for state assistance, and we had no money to hire contractors to work on the house, I was in a quandry.

Thankfully, I had at my disposal some useful information. As most of you know, I've spent a lot of time working with immigrants and refugees and the other people who work with them. A couple years before this incident, I had been serving on a State DOE committee for ESL and had just happened to strike up a conversation with another ESL instructor from Manchester. She was heavily involved with the local Somali refugee population and was telling me that they were currently experiencing a near-epidemic in lead poisoning among the children.

When I asked why the incidence of lead poisoning was higher among the Somali children then among other New Hampshire-born kids living in old houses, she replied that most of the Somalis, having spent years in refugee camps before relocating to the states, had severe iron deficiencies. She added that, apparently, in the absence of adequate iron levels, the human body will instead absorb any heavy metal it can get it's cells on: especially lead.

So, the way I chose to deal with the Monkus and his Level 9 scare was to pump him with iron. In addition to supplements, I made sure almost all solid food that went into his body was a source of iron. I fed him oatmeal with blackstrap molasses. I ground up walnuts (thankfully no allergy there) to mix into it and other dishes. I uses almond milk and flaxseed oil in much of my cooking for him. As for vegetables, I made sure he ate pureed spinach (or kale) at least every other day.

Between that and the fact that, as babies get older, they naturally spend less time on the floor, his lead level slowly declined to where it is now at a 3.

I tell you this story not to be smug, though I admit I am proud of this slightly out-of-the-box solution on my part, but because I want to demonstrate that sometimes with old houses, you have to accept what you've got and adapt accordingly. Nontheless, as we replace more and more of the original trim, we are automatically reducing the amount of house-lead for our own family as well as future owners, which I feel pretty good about as well.

At this point, I would like to mention my favorite renovation site on the web: www.oldhouseweb.com  I've been on this site for years, long before it acquired the slick look it has now and when it consisted of mainly just the Forums. I've never posted anything on it myself, because I've never needed to. Many of the topic hosts and regular posters on the site have an enormous amount of renovation/restoration information to offer and I have found guidance on everything from windows to heating systems to paint colors and floor finishes. Of course you do occasionally find yourself bogged down in arguments over vinyl vs. wood windows or why-you-must-preserve-that-steam-radiator-system-at-all-costs, but that just comes with the territory.

And then there are the stories, some of which are legendary. There's the guy who bought a house like ours in Northern Ontario and spent the first several years sleeping on a cot in the kitchen next to a woodstove because there was no working heating system in the house. He conducted the entire home renovation from that kitchen.

Then there's my favorite story, which may well be an urban legend and, if not, should be elevated to that status if only for its pure outrageousness:

A young couple bought a three story house with a bathroom on the third floor. That third-floor bathroom contained a cast iron clawfoot tub which was still in great condition. One night, the wife decided she would finally take a bath in that tub, which she had been dying to do since they moved in. So, she turned on the water and came back down to the first floor to grab a towel and clothes. While chatting with her husband for a minute or two, they all of a sudden heard a creak, a whine and then a tremendous CRASH. And then another. And lo and behold, the clawfoot tub, along with the water and no small amound of lath and plaster, was sitting right in the middle of the living room floor! The poster wrote that, once the dust cleared, they could see all the way up from the living room the third floor ceiling.

And, really, for those of us who love old houses, doesn't that story just illustrate why? I mean, other than uncovering a hidden box under the floorboards that contains enough cash to cover all the renovation costs plus pay off the mortgage, what better story could we have to tell about our houses than that? Yes, I admit it. Although I would have hated the cleanup and repairs, I am slightly jealous of the clawfoot tub story. (I do have to wonder, however, why it ever occured to the original owners of the house to haul up a, most likely, 600 pound tub to the third floor. Crazy, tyrannical mother-in-law, anyone?)

Renovating (or restoring, or "resto-vating" as I refer to our project) and old house is truly a labor of love and, if you can get past some of the dirtier and more offputting aspects of it, can be an ultimately satisfying, even fulfilling, experience. I know that most old-homeowners out there would agree.

Someday I will have to revisit the more unfinished part of the basement to lay a plastic sheet across the dirt floor (to prevent moisture buildup on the floor joists), but I can't bring myself to do it just yet.

Who knows, though? Maybe in a few years the Monkus will be more than happy to do it for me. And while he's down there, he may just find that box of cash we're all counting on. Or a graveyard of mouse skeletons.

Either way, I'm sure he'll be thrilled.

 

A Poem I Like (and One of my Own).

-Back again with some more poetry! This time, I'm featuring a classic from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, one which seems to "find me" at certain points in my life, offering me both understanding and encouragement. I hope in reading it you experience the same comforting compassion I always have.

After the poem and a few brief personal comments, I offer another of my own "hack poems," which I hope you'll also enjoy.

And, as always:

thanks for reading.

A Psalm of Life                 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

 Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream! –

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

 

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal;

Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

Was not spoken of the soul.

 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each to-morrow

Find us farther than to-day.

 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

 

In the world’s broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,

Be not dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife!

 

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act, - act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God o’erhead!

 

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;

 

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother

Seeing, shall take heart again.

 

Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labor and to wait.

 ********************************************************************************

 I won't offer much here in the way of interpretation, as Longfellow's style tends to be fairly direct and approachable. Suffice it to say that, from time to time in our daily struggles, it is important to be reminded that all we can ever really do is our best; and that if we somehow manage to make each day better than the one before, then perhaps we are truly living in alignment with our soul's purpose. (That is, of course, if you believe in souls. If not, then surely there is still value in the striving for betterment, both for ourselves and for others?)

I also find encouragement in the final three stanzas, in which Longfellow describes the "footprints" we leave behind after we die: more specifically, the idea that others who follow us may, by happening upon the paths we walked, uncover a feeling of kinship. It reminds me much of the motto inscribed on the University of Illinois Alma Mater: "To thy happy children of the future, those of the past send greetings." I have read that motto a thousand times, and each time I hear the words in my head, I find myself thinking that no better message could be spoken to us from the human voices of the past.

You are not alone. We passed this way too, once. We know your struggles; and even though we do not know you personally, we greet you as a friend all the same.

***********************************************************************************

As A Psalm of Life suggests a feeling of kinship across time, so too I hope the following poem to describe a similar feeling across space. It is about the people from my region of origin who, like me, long ago left it for greener pastures. And yet, no matter where we are, whether on a train to Rome or an apartment in Washington State or the local children's museum, we always seem to find one another. And we are, I believe, happier for it.

This is my Diaspora.

(Oh, and if you find yourself described in the following poem, please forgive me for not asking your permission first. I'll buy you a beer, okay?)

************************************************************************************

 

Diaspora

 Early morning Rome Express,

Half-hazed eyes perceive

an approaching figure.

Familiar Eyebrows.

 

Smiling “Grazie”s as she flops down opposite

-the last seat on the train.

 “Are you…Marilyn?”

 

But I know the answer.

“Yes (?)”

(Familiar Eyebrows arch.)

“I went to high school with you. You were in my brother’s class.”

 

Smiles open like floodgates,

abetting Torrential Speech:

 

“I’m traveling by myself.”

“We’ve just been to Sorrento.”

“Have you been home recently?”

“How’s your family doing?”

 

Furtive glances, rolling eyes, unconcealed annoyance.

Passengers squirm and flap their newspapers;

shove in their ear buds.

 

Loud sighs...

So much talking! So much English! We’re all just trying to sleep (or read. Or stare out the window. Or plan our walking tour.)

Can’t you at least stop

-and take a breath?

It’s TWO HOURS from Firenze!

 

But why should we breathe?

We’re halfway around the world!

And we’re from those tiny towns.

And we know each other.

 

We speak the same language.

 

(And I told her if their travels took them up to Florence,

Here was my number.)

========================================================= 

“You have a cup from La Bamba!” (Burritos as Big as your Head)

 

“I went to Indiana.”

“I went to Illinois!

I lived upstairs from La Bamba.”

 

Turns out:

his girlfriend went to Indiana.

 

Then he moved to Manhattan.

 

And she moved to El Paso.

 

They both ended up in Bellingham.

 

Scientists.

(They had an argument once about mammoths and mastodons).

 

Fifteen years.

He once visited my parents’ house.

She’s friends with them.

 

He moved to D.C.

She moved to New Hampshire.

We moved to New Hampshire.

He moved back to Bellingham.

 

(Hey!)

 

But, see, we like living near one another:

we speak the same language.

 

At least there’s Facebook.

 

 ============================================================

“Weren’t we in the hospital together?”

-smiling, young mother sitting on the floor

of the Children’s Museum.

 

“Uh. Maybe….”

I really don’t remember.

 

(Six days in the NICU.)

 

“When was your daughter born?”

“December 17^th. When was your son born?”

“December 15^th. I think we must have been.

 

(Sorry, I was a little disoriented.)”

 

Half-hour later:

 

“I’m originally from Iowa.”

(Of course you are.

I would have recognized your Midwestern-ness anywhere.)

 

“But I’ve lived a bunch of other places.”

“Yeah. So have I.”

 

Half-hour later:

 

“You’ve had a really interesting life.”

“Yeah. So have you.”

“Hey, are you signed up for story time/music class/swim class/….?”

 

We like hanging out,

Doing mom things.

The conversation is so easy.

(So much is understood).

 

You see, we speak the same language. 

A Little Pulp Fiction, Part IX

Denise Cloutier, this one's for you!

********************************************************************************

And then, suddenly, she laughed.

"But it's so tiny! It looks like a toy."

J6 lifted it from the box and held it in her palm, aloft. "Yes, it's a Deringer - and an antique one at that. The quintessential Victorian woman's parlor pistol. It's so tiny because it's meant to be concealed, obviously. And, yes, it's not much good at a distance; but that matters little when you're holding it to someone's temple." With that, she quickly cocked the hammer, spun to her left and pulled the trigger.

Following a crack that made Belinda jump, the champagne bottle exploded into fragments.

"Oops," J6 muttered, "looks like there was still a bit left in the bottom there. That was kind of a waste. Oh well," she sighed, turning to smile at Belinda. "That's what this tiny 'toy' can do, anyway. Quite a fun little show, really."

"But, I mean, surely it would be more practical for me to carry something more...modern?" Belinda ventured.

"Ah. Well, of course. And you will, when you return to the field. No, this is intended to be your 'last line of defense,' as it were, for emergency use only. My grandmother, who ran a bordello on the Lower East Side back in the day, used to sleep with it under her pillow. It's a family heirloom."

Belinda wasn't quite sure exactly how to take that last statement, so she just stammered out, "Th-thank you. Um, where would like me to practice firing it?"

J6 was busy resettling the pistol back into its case. "Oh, we won't start with that today. I know you need to go to work at the hotel later on this afternoon, so for now, just take this home with you and put it in a safe place. When is your next day off?"

"I'm not working Thursday."

"Good! Why don't we meet then? That will give you some extra time to research the things we talked about, while getting used to your new digs." As she spoke, J6 was furiously pulling files from various nooks and tossing them on top of the desk, next to the Deringer case.

When she finished, she briefly glanced at the toppling pile of folders and then up at Belinda's stylishly compact backpack. "Huh. Maybe I'll just have Henri deliver these to your apartment, instead. AND, before I forget..." J6 pulled a set of keys out of her pocket and handed them to Belinda. "Do you know Kensington Place?"

Belinda nodded. "Yes, that's the gray building overlooking the Rose Garden."

"Yes, that one. Your apartment is on the third floor, facing the street. The number's on the tag there. Henri should be around sometime this evening. Don't worry - he'll have my key. See you Thursday!"

With that dismissal, Belinda gathered her things and headed out the door. "Thanks again, Madame. And Happy Birthday!" she called back as she left.

Once on the sidewalk in front of the Brasserie, Belinda stopped long enough to look down at the key tag for her new home: "Apt. J" She rolled her eyes and walked on.

**************************************************************************************

 "Hey, it's me." Belinda spoke softly into the phone. "It looks like this is all happening a little faster than I expected. I'm actually sitting in my new apartment right now. It's nice, but...well...a little empty. Give me a call when you get a chance. Love you! Bye."

Dropping her phone on the kitchen counter, Belinda stared around at Kensington Place, Apartment J. It was small - one bedroom - but designed from another, more elegant, era: high ceilings, well-burnished wood floors, tall casement windows. It was very - European. Torsten would love it. (Too bad he wasn't going to be living there, Belinda thought sadly.)

The building itself may have been old, but the fixtures were most definitely up-to-date, even trendy. So much so, in fact, that Belinda felt slightly self-conscious about even using any of the appliances, let alone spilling on them. The living room was comfortable, filled with overstuffed neutral-toned furniture and a row of windows overlooking the West Park Rose Garden. It was a nice view, really, and the windows afforded a substantial amount of light and fresh air.

Sitting down at the small dining room table, Belinda unpacked her lunch: chicken salad sandwich from a nearby deli she hadn't tried before and a bottle of San Pellegrino. Instead of checking her messages or reading the news, she opted to sit staring into space as she ate. It felt good to turn off her brain for a little while, anyway.

About fifteen minutes later, Belinda decided to go over to the park. She had a recent copy of National Geographic with her that she hadn't had a chance to read and, besides, why stay inside on such a nice day?

Once out in the hallway, Belinda found herself suddenly surprised by a familiar face just two doors down: dirty-blonde hair pulled up into a ponytail, ruddy skin and a shorter-than-normal upturned nose, black glasses, high warbling voice.

Ugh.

"Belinda? Is that you? Oh my god! Are you living here now?" She fairly rushed the ten steps to give Belinda a squealing little-girl hug. "I haven't seen you in so long! How are you?"

"Hey Lauren!" Belinda announced with as much faux-enthusiasm as she could muster. "Yeah, I just moved in today. I'm great. How are you doing?" Belinda felt that if she clenched her teeth together any more tightly, she might never wear more than one expression again.

Lauren Porcara was someone she had known in Undergrad. She grew up in Deer Pointe (please, don't forget the -e on Pointe), an upper-middle class Jamestown suburb known for its powerwalking, fake-bake soccer moms proudly parading their pudgy, overscheduled progeny along pretentiously-named avenues and cul-de-sacs in their gargantuan SUVs.  If that in itself weren't laughable enough, it turned out that Lauren's parents, in a sudden inspiration of aspirational babynaming, had actually named their precious little bundle after Ralph Lauren, the fashion designer, because obviously this would set her up for a lifetime of enviable style and material success.

Material success, perhaps. Style...yeah. Nevermind.

"Oh, I'm doing great. Thanks!" Lauren bobbed her head enthusiastically. "I'm still at TechCo, which I think you kneeww.." here she paused to squint, cock her head and point in Belinda's general direction, "and we're working on this new product which is SO AMAZING..."

At this point, Belinda's eyes glazed over. She regarded the young woman in front of her, what with her beaming smile, nervous giggle and exaggerated gestures, and could not help but feel pity. Lauren truly believed that what she said was interesting - fascinating even. And it was: to her. Unfortunately for everyone else within earshot, her tales of corporate adventure and intrigue held all the appeal of preparing for a tax audit.

At one point, Lauren paused as if in anticipation of a response. Belinda quickly nodded her head and offered a weak "Uh-huh. Yeah." Lauren was unsatisfied, if even a bit miffed.

"I asked if Torsten was living here with you."

"Oh, sorry." Belinda blushed slightly. "No, I mean we're still together, but we're kind of at a point in our relationship where we sort of need our space, you know?"

Lauren reached out with a sympathetic frown and nod and placed her hand on Belinda's arm. Belinda winced imperceptibly. "I understand. All relationships go through this. I'm sure you'll work it out somehow." Pat-pat-pat.

All feelings of pity faded at that moment. Lauren had always bent over backwards to impress Torsten, who in turn gave her no more notice than he would an ant crossing the sidewalk in front of him; yet she seemed to take this as some sort of a challenge, rather than as a brushoff. No, Lauren would be thrilled to hear that Belinda and Torsten were "having problems."

"...and what was it you majored in again, Belinda? Archaeology?"

"No. Classics. And I did get a Master's Degree in it."

"Really?" Lauren leaned back in feigned surprise. "And yet I heard you were working over at the Mayflower. At the Front Desk. What happened with that?"

All right. Enough. "Well, it' so nice to see you again, Lauren. I'm sure we'll run into each other often. Bye!" Belinda smiled and walked in the direction of the stairs.

"I'll be home this evening if you want to stop by." Lauren called out. "I could show you what I'm working on!"

Or I could ask someone to shove toothpicks under my fingernails, thought Belinda in response.

An hour in the park alone with her National Geographic was just what Belinda needed after the morning she'd just experienced. Before long, it was time to get ready for work and for the onslaught of Nanotechnology Conference activity which awaited her.

***************************************************************************************

The lobby was so packed that Belinda could barely shove her way through the throng. When she finally stumbled behind the desk, she found her supervisor standing in front of her computer terminal.

"Hello, Belinda. Good to see you. We're experiencing a bit of a fiasco here, unfortunately. It seems the reservations system is down, so we can't check anybody in. Or post room charges. Steven's downstairs on the phone with tech support, so hopefully things will be up and running again soon. In the meantime, though, I'll need you to keep everyone calm and let them know we'll get them into their rooms as soon as possible. Here are bunch of drink vouchers you can give them to keep them out of your hair. I'll be in and out, but let me know if you need me. Okay?"

"Uh. Sure," said Belinda with not much confidence. The crowd seemed realtively calm at the moment, but after a few drinks? She briefly considered questioning the wisom of the voucher idea, but before she could, her supervisor had vanished.

And that set the tone for the evening. Thankfully, most of the attendees had checked in yesterday, but the ones waiting for their rooms today were in no way happy about the present situation. Belinda did her best to mollify their fragile egos but, after two hours and about two hundred drink vouchers, she began thinking she might need her little toy pistol after all.

It was then she spied Jimmy Talbert. His weasely features were unmistakeable: the buggy eyes, the pinched mouth, the mousy thinning hair. Tom Sutherland's former bookie-turned-political financial manager. Belinda immediately dialed Winston.

"Hey! Blin! What's going on? We heard you got demoted to a desk job, or something. Where are you?"

"I'm at the hotel. And I'll tell you everything that happened when I get the chance. But for now I need you guys to get down here and do some surveillance work. I'mve got Jimmy Talbert here."

"What?!" Winston gasped. "Right there in the lobby? What's he doing there? I didn't think anyone connected with Arcadia was going to be at the conference, did you?"

"Nope," replied Belinda. "Just get down here with Jorge. Quickly. I don't want to lose him, but I'm totally swamped. It's a madhouse here!"

"Yeah. I'm on my way."

Click.

Four hours had passed when the reservations system was finally working again. Belinda and another coworker checked in forty-five weary, irritated and inebriated guests and watched as the lobby slowly cleared out. Winston and Jorge had arrived shortly after Belinda's call and had followed Jimmy Talbert into the bar, where she then lost sight of them.

At 11pm, Belinda shut down her workstation and gathered her things to go home. In all the craziness, she had forgotten to check for messages from Torsten.

She had just emerged from behind the front desk, head lowered, when she became aware of someone blocking her way. She looked up to see the grisly smiling face of an enormous and hideous bovine of a man. She did not recognize him, but the man standing next to him she knew all too well. It was Tom Sutherland.

"Hello, Belinda Radican. So good to see you again. Won't you join us for a drink? In another bar of course."

Belinda thought briefly of refusing, even running, but one look into the eyes of Bovine Man told her this would not be wise. Withered from the events of the day, she relented, hoping to come up with a brilliant plan later.

"Of course! I'd be happy to. Where will you be taking me this evening, gentlemen?"

"Oh, it's a great little place...." Tom's decription trailed off as the two men led Belinda to the front door of the Mayflower.

As they walked out onto the street, Belinda noticed out of the corner of her eye Torsten emerging from a parked car and walking toward the entrance. He spotted her and made as if to call out, but Belinda opened her eyes wide and shook her head faintly. He raised his hands in question. Belinda smiled and cocked her head in the direction of the bar.

Thankfully, there was enough pedestrian traffic on the street to distract Belinda's captors from noticing the exchange, at least she hoped. Within a minute, a dark car pulled up in front of them. Sutherland threw open the back door and Belinda was shoved forcefully into the vehicle.

Once inside, she felt a whack on the back of her head. She fell into darkness.

Corporate Wastelandia: An Uncharacteristic Rant

When I was about 28 or 29, I realized that I would be far more likely to find myself at 50 sitting in a bar in Tangiers than in a corporate boardroom.

It looks like I'm still on track for that.

I entered the workforce in 1994, a high-distinction liberal arts graduate with little to offer in the way of practical skills - except typing - and threw myself into one of the roughest, most labor-exploitative job markets in the country: Seattle, Washington. Pre-Windows 95. Pre-Dogvana.

Back then, Seattle was in the grips of a fever: one that could only be broken by a ghastly, spectacular display of full-bore economic hemmorhage - which, of course, is exactly what happened six years later.

But for a 22 year old hell-bent on excitement, "The Emerald City" was THE place to be in 1994. And that was even after Kurt Cobain offed himself.

We flocked to the Northwest by the thousands back then: homeless teenagers, college dropouts and recent graduates; all of us in search of our own personal El Dorado. Or perhaps a little mischief. Or both. For my part, I was just eager to get as far away from Illinois as possible, where I had recently blown an interview at the State House by basically telling the belligerent interview panel (of 15 people, no less) to stick it.

[And yet as I left the House chamber, the interview coordinator whispered to me, "You did such a good job." I guess that's because I didn't cry. Apparently some other candidates did. That was how the committee chose to weed out the unworthies. Sickening.]

Oh, and I was also dating a then-Economics major the University of British Columbia, a mere 2.5 hour drive away.

If you were a college grad living in 1994 Seattle, then you were one of only two types of people: a techie or not a techie. Can you guess which category I fit into? [Hint: I majored in Poli. Sci. and History, with a minor in French and an almost-minor in German. My senior honors thesis was about James Fenimore Cooper and the establishment of an American national literature. Hmmm.]

If you were a techie, you banded together with a small group of like-minded people (usually male), dreamed up some outrageous (or not) idea for an internet start-up, met with a bunch of clueless baby-boomer venture capitalists willing to throw boatloads of cash at "the next big thing," and then set up a fly, frathouse office in Belltown filled with overstuffed leather swivel chairs and basketball hoop covered waste baskets. Then you might actually do a bit of work - even build a successful start-up which you could then sell to the Japanese - or you could just sit around playing Doom until the money dried up. Either way, you could have a pretty good run.

For us non-techies, the Seattle job market was a quick and dirty lesson in Social Darwinism 101. Unless you had a secret trust fund or a sugar-daddy and could hang out all day at the Crocodile Cafe in your thrift-store clothing talking Pearl Jam and Kirkegaard, you had to move. Fast. And you had to not be afraid to exaggerate your work experience, because even a part-time entry-level sales job at Eddie Bauer paying $4.25 an hour attracted fierce competition.

Thankfully I had an in: a friend of a friend who could make an extra $50 recommending me for the job (if they hired me). That was my first job out of college. A high-school kid could have done it. I lasted three months before heading to the temp agency.

Years later, I would discuss my career frustrations with a female editor who'd earned her corporate stripes in the early 1970's newspaper industry. "I always seem to end up a secretary, no matter what else I'm able to do. It's been that way since I graduated from college."

"Did you tell them you could type?," she asked.

"Yeah. That was pretty much all I could do at the time."

"Oh, you NEVER let them know you can type. That was your first mistake."

Where was this woman at the beginning of my career?

(As an aside, I also told her that I could imagine myself in an earlier generation working at some big city newspaper, where I would have become both a successful reporter and a chain-smoking alcoholic. Her response was: "as we all were." (understanding pat on the shoulder).)

Temping brought me a low but fairly steady income. I had an interesting stint working in the buying office of a downtown department store eventually bought out by Macy's. It was there I first witnessed Corporate Wastelandia.

Imagine an office full of body-conscious middle-aged females, all working under a male manager who would rather be just about anywhere else. His female lackey has her own walled-office and lords it over the others like some kind of middling-priced retail queen. No one seems to have a clue about how to run an office. But they can sure hold meetings. And yell at the underlings at random intervals about whatever trivium has upset them (or the overseer) at that particular moment. A typical conversation with my supervisor:

"Johanna, you're supposed to be at work at 8:00. You've been in at 8:10 every day this week."

"Yes. That's because I catch the 7:40 bus, which doesn't get me here until 8:10. If I catch the earlier bus, that would get me here at 7:40, with 20 minutes to kill."

"Uh-huh. But it gets you here before 8."

"Does that mean I get to leave at 4:40 then?"

"No."

"Are we done here?"

"Uh, yeah. I guess."

Johanna gets up; walks back to the temp office.

We had a little fun at the Bon Marché, us temps. Every morning we'd go out on the floor, buy muffins and coffee at the café and check out the latest high-fashion styles, which we could tell you everything about, right down to the SKU numbers, but couldn't remotely afford.  We cold-heartedly made fun of a senior buyer who spent every morning in the seventh floor bathroom engaging in bulimic wretching in order to maintain her competitive edge. Or the assistant buyers for the Juniors department, their faces leathered by too many trips to the tanning booth, romping around in sundresses designed for twelve-year-olds.

One time I left for lunch with a coworker. We were only supposed to be gone for a half-an-hour, but, well, we both needed to get our passports renewed so, you know, there was that long line THERE; and then, of course, we were STARVING after all that, so we HAD to go get something to eat; wasn't there that new place across from the Four Seasons that was supposed to be good? Yeah, it's sit-down, but, oh well, we've ALREADY wasted so much time, so...

We got back to the office two hours later. One of the other temps said our supervisor came back a couple of times and asked about my whereabouts. "I told her you were in the bathroom."

As you can imagine, management was none too happy with me or any of my coworkers, but they couldn't fire us because, who would do all the grunt work? So they made up for it by making our working conditions as miserable as possible. And paying us nothing. And reminding us daily that we were worthless.

So we fought back. It was during this time of my life that I finally decided who's side I was on. And it wasn't the vapid, arbitrary, uncaring buffoon upstairs or his female puppet ruling from her almost-windowless bunker. That same year, I remember participating in a barely-controlled mob scene outside the Westin Hotel protesting Newt Gingrich and his asinine Contract With America. It was then that I offically declared war on the Republican Party.

 At one point a minor miracle occured. My friend's brother was the art director at Seattle's Child newspaper (the first regional parenting publication in the country) and the small company was hiring a, yes, sigh, secretary. He called to say he had recommended me highly to the publishers and did I want to interview for the job? (I later learned that his actual recommendation went something like this: "She's a total BRAIN, I tell you! You absolutely want her working here. She can do anything!" Simon, wherever you are, I cannot thank you enough - for the compliment as well as the job. Wow.) I made a point of telling EVERYONE in the buying office of the Bon Marché that I was leaving them for a better, higher-paying job and where I was going. The looks on their faces were priceless. (Yes, I know. Uncharacteristically vindictive for me, but really, you had to be there.)

I worked at Northwest Parent Publishing for a little over a year. The office was located in a trendy glass building just two blocks from Pike Place Market, where I went for lunch every day. In addition to answering the phone and filing, I had the opportunity to try my hand at everything from proofreading to marketing to ad design and illustration. It was fun, but I realized quickly that I would never advance from the front desk unless I went into ad sales or else someone in editorial died. So I decided to pack it up and go to grad school. Besides, life in my house with 10 roommates had degenerated over the two years I had lived there. The old roommates had moved on and taken the feeling of camaraderie with them. The newer ones were younger, more troubled, and at least one enjoyed getting high and setting off fireworks from the front porch at 4 in the morning on a weeknight. I'd had enough.

As a side note, I reviewed all of the resumes submitted for my job in the month before I left. There were over 600.

If I thought that academia would provide a welcome respite from Wastelandia, I was sorely mistaken. Sure, it was different. I was treated like a person with potential instead of a barely-visible drudge. But the politics felt similar. There was the same cowtowing and backstabbing; the posturing and puffery; the maneuvering and jockeying. Uh, when were we actually going to get around to studying history and discussing ideas about history and writing about history? Oh, and how about when we're going to discuss MAKING history. When would we have time for that? And while I'm at it, how come I can't study exactly what I want, even if it crosses disciplines? Even if there isn't a professor within 60 miles to advise me on it?

Okay, so you're probably noticing a small pattern here. I can be a bit of a nightmare as an employee. But, I'll have you know, I always have a smile on my face (mostly sincere), and a friendly word for EVERYONE (including the custodians and delivery people) and I can get into team-playing like nobody's business. It's just that you'll have to excuse my restlessness. And my questioning. And my constant stream of "What if" scenarios.

So I completed my master's in history, but decided against going for my PhD. Besides, the field was already so glutted with aspiring professors that it seemed like I might have better luck at the Tulalip Casino. So instead, I picked up a certificate to teach English as a Second Language at the same time, which finally allowed me the opportunity to leave my secretarial days behind me.

At least after the Asian Economic Crisis was over, which hit in 1998, the year I graduated.

If there were any field I would hope to remain untainted by the gangrenous scourge of Corporate Wastelandia, it would be education (and there are mixed metaphors flying all over the place in that last sentence!). But no, it's black tendrils have spread even into the schoolhouse.

The problem is that companies and schools are not a one-to-one comparison, as I'm sure everyone reading this post knows. Schools are not producing products; they are producing educated citizens (or residents, or citizens-of-the-world, in my case). Not to mention the fact that teachers don't DO corporate very well. Most of us are averse to the cutthroat competition and scurrilous practices which come standard in corporate environments. We are IDEALISTS, man. We're changing the world. Kum Ba Yah.

And so we find ourselves exploited for that very reason. The corporate structure of education requires that school districts increasingly pad their administrative staff with six-figure salaries and multiple layers of middle-management overseeing the work of classroom teachers. And many of said administrators have little or no experience in the classroom. But question their policies or directives? You get: "But what about the CHILDREN?" Why must you think only of yourself, lowly teacher, when you should be willing to give your all for those empty, eager minds awaiting your guidance? No matter that your "cost-of-living increase" was eaten up completely by health-insurance premiums, plus some. Yeah, you're actually taking home LESS this year than you did last. No matter. It is a privilege to serve in this noble profession and  you should be willing to work for FREE.

While I drive around in my Beamer convertible with my trophy wife.

So you never can escape Wastelandia, so it seems. Whichever field you're  in.

But what if you reach the age of, say, I don't know, 41. You've been fighting the corporate Man for almost twenty years and you're tired. You've taken hits not just for yourself but for others. You've sparred with management or administration to get paid what you're worth or to improve working conditions for your coworkers, or to get adequate and required-by-law services for your students. You've served on union boards (as in the case of DH) to fight exploitation of teachers and students alike, only to get forced out of your job. (Yes, I know this is illegal. Try fighting it in New Hampshire). Your skin is thick, but can you continue to live this way? Another 10 years? Another 30 years? Sometimes you just wither inside thinking about it.

As many of you know, I'm currently undergoing a kind-of midlife crisis, when I am spending considerable time reviewing my "career" over the past 20 years. I've been a secretary, a community college instructor, a public school teacher, a newspaper reporter and a freelancer in several fields. It doesn't pay much and, at this rate, I will most definitely be working until I drop.

I'm not intending this post as a "poor me" lament. I made my choices from a place of integrity and I don't regret them. I have met so many amazing people on my journey who have experienced the same restlessness; the same struggle for a life of integrity and variety which also supports financially. I further believe that I have truly LIVED my life and have never really wasted a moment of it. No, I am grateful, believe it or not.

But, God, I just hope I don't wake up one day and realize I need that corporate job to stay alive - because no one in that world would hire me, I'm sure. My resume is too erratic; my skills are too varied; my ambitions and requirements for company loyalty are too high. I know so many others like me. Several of us get together every Friday night to commiserate, secretly hoping that one day one of us will come up with an answer. How can we live to our potential without sacrificing our need for honesty and kindness, fairness and a place at the decision-making table? How can we achieve those things while still maintaining the values that matter most to us - family, friends, communities and dreams - in satisfactory balance?

Yeah, I know. We want it all. We're dreamers and idealists. We're also extremely tenacious and loyal workers. We even have some good ideas. Why should we ask for less? All we have is this one lifetime: one-hundred years tops. Why should we accept a hollow, meaningless existence?

So I fully embrace the consequences of that risk I knew I was taking all those years ago, snubbing Corporate Wastelandia in the hopes of building a better world for myself and anyone else who chose to join me. We've had some laughs, at any rate. Even the occasional transcendent experience.

See you all in Tangiers, my friends. 2022. Anyone know a good bar?

Brick by Brick, Part II: "Under the Sheltering Roof"

Or,

"It wouldn't be my home renovation if I didn't overthink it..."

 So when your house is enough of a ruin that you're tempted to just drop a lighted match into it one night, where do you begin?

Lots and lots of observation. And research. And trial and error. You develop an approach; you devise a plan, a budget, a list of materials; and then...

The House reminds you that IT is in charge.

Never in my life would I have imagined that the success of a project involving a couple of humans and an inanimate object would require me to view said object as a living, conscious protagonist in my own little architectural Theatre of the Damned. But that is just what I have done.

Over the past ten years, "The House" has assumed a life of its own - setting the agenda, vetoing design decisions, offering bits of wisdom and advice when necessary, as well as warnings. "You want to redo the kitchen to look like it just walked off an HGTV program set? Delusional human! How about you deal instead with that proposed $6000.00 heating bill for the season? Or the fact that you can't take a bath with hot water unless you turn on the faucet, run it ten seconds, turn it off, wait, run it another ten seconds, turn it off, wait, etc. until the tub is (halfway) full. Oh, and by the way, the reason you spend every winter's day feeling like you're caught in a chimney updraft is because each one of your 24 windows is single-paned, in need of reglazing, and overall little better than gaping holes in the wall as far as heat-retention goes. HA! I LAUGH at your paltry, superficial dreams!"

Yeah...my house and I have actually had some conversations like that over the years. Okay, so maybe I just spend too much time alone...

My point is that, within the first year, The House had totally schooled me on the proper approach complete home renovation and it goes something like this:

1. Site (land, drainage, unanticipated sink holes, etc.)  2. Integrity of Major Structures (walls, floors, foundation, roof) 3. Whole-House Systems (heat, ventilation, electricity, plumbing)  4. Integrity of Minor Structures (staircases, non-loadbearing walls, closets, wrap-around porches)   5. Localized Systems (appliances, showers/bathtubs, sump pump/cellar drainage) 6. Cosmetic Frippery (including both functional and aesthetic aspects, BTW, not just paint colors and shiny objects.)

Of course, the play becomes somewhat of a farcical tragedy (or is it more of a "tragic farce?") when one of the major characters is an artist who prefers the "Cosmetic Frippery" to virtually everything else. The plot is further complicated when the other major player approaches the renovation with an attitude easily summed up by: "How hard can it be?"*

*i.e., "No research necessary(!) Regular people do this stuff all the time(!) It's not rocket science(!) I'll just cut these wires and move these others from there to here and, oh! Look at this nifty new saw I just got! I think I'll go tear down and rebuild the wrap-around porch. By myself."

Which, of course, he did. Sure, it's far from level. But he did it for under $500 and it still stands to this day.

He did, however, eventually conclude that he should probably stay away from electricity. Like, I think at some point The House decided to take out a restraining order against him in this regard.

(Did I mention that superhuman tenacity, as well as superhuman humility, are essential to the success of a project such as this? Yeah, we've learned a lot about both in ten years.)

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So, for anyone interested in my approach to this renovation, may you find the following post informative. For anyone desirous of a quick summary, I will give you this, which describes not only my approach to this project, but my approach to many of the monumental challenges we humans face in these agonizingly short lives of ours:

1. Obsessively plan. 2. Obsessively research. 3. Obsessively obsess. 4. Begin to lose touch with family, friends, neighbors, concrete reality, etc. while running a multitude of scenarios through your brain, usually at 3 in the morning. 5. Finally put the plan in motion. 6. Grit your teeth, release your debilitating perfectionism and get it done. 7. Adapt (because most things won't go the way you want). 8. Accept that many of the brilliant ideas you brought to the project are junk and need to jettisoned out the airlock. 9. Change course and try again. 10. Be willing to accept "good enough" more often than you would like and move along to the next thing. (Maybe five years from now, you can come back and redo it! PERFECTLY this time!)

 I didn't say it was the best approach...just mine.

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The House is located two blocks from the public library, which is highly convenient, as I have found there over the years many helpful books in developing my understanding of "home." At the end of this post, you will find a short bibliography referencing some of my favorites.

As would be stereotypical for my gender (sigh), I began with the glossy, colorful "design" books, which achieved little more than instilling in me a seething jealousy for all the things my house was not. I quickly switched to landscaping books, landscaping being a subject I already knew something about (one of my first jobs upon moving to New Hampshire was working in this field (HA!- pun intended)). Not to mention that, with some good community connections and a lot of hard physical labor, one can achieve a pretty decent-looking yard with minimal investment.

We were already several years into the project when I came across a book which has since become a kind of architectural bible for me. It's called Patterns of Home: The Ten Essentials of Enduring Design (see full bibliography below) and, in my case at least, reading it was like seeing God. Okay, yeah, that's maybe a bit of an exaggeration. But not much.

Patterns of Home is written by architects and its ideas distilled from a earlier work aimed at industry professionals, A Pattern Language (1977). As the title of the former would suggest, the authors put forth ten "patterns" which they believe to make the difference between a home which is disjointed, dysfuctional and ultimately unfulfilling to its inhabitants to one which is not only efficient and enduring, but even a "delight" to its owners. ("Delight" is their word, but I felt the need to include it, as I had never before considered the ramifications of living in a space which I considered to be a "delight." Why does this word make me imagine an ice cream parlour in my living room? A candy store, perhaps?)

Here is a list of the ten patterns and a short description of each:

1.  Inhabiting the Site: A house is just one part of a larger site, which in turn is just one part of a community and/or natural setting, which is furthermore just one part of an overarching climate zone with its own particular requirements. Good design means creating a home which is integrated, both functionally and stylistically, into its larger (outside) setting.

2. Creating Rooms Outside and In: This seems to be the one pattern that most home-design shows have latched onto over the past decade. I should know. I probably watched a thousand of them - that is, um, before the cable company realized we were getting significantly more channels than we were paying for...yeah - but that's another story. Anyway. The point here is that each room should serve some sort of function, including those outdoor "rooms" such as, you know: The Patio Room (with $4000 Grill); The Saline Swimming Pool Room; The Jacuzzi-in-Gazebo-Made -from-Reclaimed-Wood Room; The Authentically-Replicated 16th Century Japanese Tea House Room (fully electrified and plumbed for those guests you don't really want staying in your actual house.)

Okay, so, I'm not bitter. Much.

3. Sheltering Roof: I found this pattern to be so simple and so profound that I chose it as the title for this post. The idea is that a house is really just a glorified roof. That's all it is: just a roof, on the ground, over our heads, protecting us from the elements and sabre-tooth tigers. The goal of this pattern is that a home's inhabitants have at all times, and in all sections of the house, a sense of the comforting roof and that the roof itself have a definite composition and continuity of design - preferably one that fits with the overall look of the surrounding landscape.

 4. Capturing Light: This is another pattern I hadn't given much thought to before reading the book. Windows evidently perform functions including, but not limited to: preventing me from falling down the stairs; allowing me to observe approaching sabre-tooth tigers; releasing Winter-Stench from the house when the thermometer finally rises above 50 degrees. No, windows perform a function called "capturing light," in that they trap wayward photons and direct them to important places in our homes. Think of the places in a house you want most illuminated: kitchens, bathrooms, bedrooms (though less so), entryways and stairwells. Natural light puts an exclamation point on the most important functional spaces of  a home and illuminates the pathways between them. Oh, and it also makes rooms look PRETTY. awww.

5. Parts in Proportion: This one is fairly staightforward. As in any great work of art or music (or architecture), parts exist both in proportion to one another and in proportion to the whole. A well-designed home has a "hierarchy of Parts in Proportion" (Patterns, p.13). An example of this would be installing a refrigerator in your kitchen which does not consume three-quarters of the space. Or not designing a house which is basically your master bathroom surrounded by collection of uninspired appendages. Unless the thought of this fills you with a sense of "delight." Well, then, have at it.

6. The Flow Through Rooms:  Just like the idea of entering into the "flow" of the universe, this is a rather esoteric concept, and one difficult to describe through language alone. Basically this pattern refers to designing a home so that visitors are encouraged to either linger in a space or move forward to explore parts unknown. Example: when I redesigned the floorplan of the upstairs, I purposely chose an S-pattern to direct the overall movement through the space, thinking it would provide guests (and inhabitants) with a gentle, curvilinear flow through what is undeniably an angular, chopped up hodgepodge of New England multi-dwelling architecture. I hoped this flow pattern would further encourage the exploration of all parts of the upstairs, as if offering people a "tour" of our renovation projects. Yes, I purposefully designed the pattern to show off our work. Why the heck not?

7. Private Edges, Common Core: This pattern is also one I had never considered: that good design proportionately combines public and private spaces so that inhabitants and visitors are encouraged to interact with one another, but at the same time feel there are adequate places for personal retreat when human interaction becomes tedious. Introverts designing houses please take note.

8. Refuge and Outlook: Ever wonder why sitting on a deck or porch staring at a vast open landscape (or seascape) is so satisfying? This concept is why. According to the authors, who put it better than I would: "...the core of the experience is being able to observe the outer world comfortably from a position of relative security." (Patterns, 16.) I will admit that this pattern (figuratively) blew my mind. From a psychological/philosophical standpoint, I could write an entire blog post just on this. But I won't. Promise.

9. Places in Between: as in, spaces which are neither completely indoors or outdoors, such as the aforementioned porch.  These are points of transition, which should reflect a balanced combination of both worlds. Like the proverbial wardrobe into Narnia, "Places in Between" provide the security of the "known" on one end with the excitement of the "unknown" on the other. (And, you know, they're a good place for your garbage while you're waiting for Saturday to come along so you can go to the dump...excuse me..."Transfer Station.")

10.  Composing with Materials: For something as concrete as building materials ("concrete" - truly, I crack myself up), I find it ironic that this is probably the most ethereal of all the patterns. The idea is to balance the different building materials within a home (wood, stone, metal, etc.) as to create a kind of symphonic composition. Did I just lose everyone? Believe me, even I haven't put much effort into installing this pattern in our house, even though I'm sure it would make for a most DEEE-lightful design. In case you're wondering, our house is basically a symphony of wood. Layered with wood. Divided by wood. Encased in wood. In fact, let's just say I live in a treehouse. On the ground.

So, those are the patterns; I keep them in the back of my mind whenever I approach any new subproject on The House. They provide me with a kind of compass, which I have found to be quite helpful over the years. For my teacher friends, I will describe the patterns as providing me with a "rubric." And, let's face it. We all love rubrics.

If you're interested in further information about the books I've used during our renovation, here's a short list:

Jacobson, Max, Murray Silverstein and Barbara Winslow. Patterns of Home: The Ten Essentials of Enduring Design. Newtown, CT: The Taunton Press, 2002.  282 pp.

Nash, George. Renovating Old Houses: Bringing New Life to Vintage Homes. Newtown, CT: The Taunton Press, 2003. 410 pp.  - Thorough, technical, awesome.

Holohan, Dan. The Lost Art of Steam Heating. Dan Holohan Assoc. Inc., 1997. 203 pp. -Probably the only person on this earth capable of teaching me Thermodynamics. Plus it's a fun read!

Miller, Judith and Martin Miller. Victorian Style. London: MITCH, 2006. 240 pp. - More than chintzy-velvet Victorian house porn, this book has been helpful for me in attempting to maintain the original look and fee to my 1880 house.

There are more, plus websites that I'd love to share. I'll be sure to provide additional bibliographical information in all future posts related to this topic. Have a great week, everyone!