About this time each year, I start to forget what the world looks like when it's green. I love the white, the sweet, quiet blanket of snow that covers a multitude of imperfections in our landscape, but I am ready for chirping birds and warm breezes through open windows and and green.
One can get melancholy, come month three of winter. And though I am still thankful for this time of rest, this time of rejuvenation, what has become a balm to my winter-weary soul is the seed catalog.
Oh, sweet nectar of dreams, plans, and inspiration! In the pictures, there is nothing but lush, perfect produce. Flowers in full bloom. Sunshine poured out on bushels of potatoes. And I soak in each delightful page, the garden growing in my heart and mind with each sub-freezing day that passes.
This year, on the third Sunday home-bound (from snow or illness, alternately) I took down the three catalogs that we had received, and asked Ryan for scissors and glue. We spent the next few hours dreaming of pumpkins, tomatoes, spinach, watermelon (!), green beans, popcorn, fresh sweet basil...We discussed the strawberries that had done so well last fall, and the raspberries that need to be moved. In my brain, where the work is magically done and no sweat is involved, the garden is nicely planted, expertly and effortlessly weeded, and produces an abundance of produce. And I can almost smell that sweet summer air just thinking about it now.
Of course, this has not always been my cup of tea. Learning to enjoy gardening has been a real treasure (though, still I could do without the bugs...).
This year I think I might actually plant flowers...unlike me, because I am usually a practical gardener (How much of that do we eat? Is that really a necessary thing to grow?) and quite impatient (why plant flowers now when they won't bloom for weeks, months, even!). And, every year come flower-bloom time, I am sad that I didn't take the time to sow any seed. This year, I plan on breaking that cycle and adorning my table with fresh-cut flowers, planted with patience and cultivated with love. I would love (truly) suggestions on what kind of flowers to plant around my garden.
How do you beat the winter blues?
Showing posts with label endurance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label endurance. Show all posts
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
The call of the ocean
Unfortunately, I fear, the desire to swim is unavoidable.
The bright morning sun streaming through my windows as the day dawns tries to lure me into cheerfulness. Come, it beckons, there is more today. Each day deserves your heart.
The warm, steaming, creamy coffee draws me close and comforts. Come, it says, take heart and renew your spirit.
Boys with light steps and rosy cheeks beckon me. Come, they say, build towers to the sky! Crash them down and build again and again! Create and dream with us!
Harvest time calls with its cozy hues. Come, it beckons, delight in the blessings bestowed! Bring thanksgiving for all you have been given!
And then, to overshadow all of those quiet, sweet voices, comes the loud crashes of ocean waves. Stay, it says, long for what cannot be. Wade in deep waters and let the ache wash over you. And that water, though warm and familiar, slows. Feet that were made to run freely are pulled down relentlessly by the strong ocean currents. I know this. Muscles, though toned and ready, burn under the force and resistance of the waves. The water wasn't made for running.
Come, they beckon. Come and live wholeheartedly! Rejuvenate and renew! Play, dream, and dance! Let gratefulness and gladness overflow!
I hear them loudly now, and I want to be there. But that water, oh, with its deep blue recesses and rolling waves that touch the horizon lures me. Stay...
But the chorus of quiet voices still sings. Come, they call to my heart, be with us! Come, they beckon from the grassy knoll above me, run unhindered the race set before you.
And I stand on that sandy shore, toes sinking slowly into the warm, silky sand. Tiny waves wash over my feet, waiting for my heart to decide. I hesitate, not fully ready to choose either path, as it will mean leaving the other behind.
In the rythym of it all, if I listen closely, another voice resonates.
Be still, he quiets my heart, once frantic for clear direction. For it is not from within you that you pull this strength you desire. This endurance comes from Me. Be still, set your heart with Me. Only then will you be able to run the race set before you.
--------------------------------
I have a story about a crazy/amazing chicken to share following this post. You will laugh. In the meantime, thank you for indulging me in these not-so-lighthearted posts- they are quite therapeutic for me.
The bright morning sun streaming through my windows as the day dawns tries to lure me into cheerfulness. Come, it beckons, there is more today. Each day deserves your heart.
The warm, steaming, creamy coffee draws me close and comforts. Come, it says, take heart and renew your spirit.
Boys with light steps and rosy cheeks beckon me. Come, they say, build towers to the sky! Crash them down and build again and again! Create and dream with us!
Harvest time calls with its cozy hues. Come, it beckons, delight in the blessings bestowed! Bring thanksgiving for all you have been given!
And then, to overshadow all of those quiet, sweet voices, comes the loud crashes of ocean waves. Stay, it says, long for what cannot be. Wade in deep waters and let the ache wash over you. And that water, though warm and familiar, slows. Feet that were made to run freely are pulled down relentlessly by the strong ocean currents. I know this. Muscles, though toned and ready, burn under the force and resistance of the waves. The water wasn't made for running.
Come, they beckon. Come and live wholeheartedly! Rejuvenate and renew! Play, dream, and dance! Let gratefulness and gladness overflow!
I hear them loudly now, and I want to be there. But that water, oh, with its deep blue recesses and rolling waves that touch the horizon lures me. Stay...
But the chorus of quiet voices still sings. Come, they call to my heart, be with us! Come, they beckon from the grassy knoll above me, run unhindered the race set before you.
And I stand on that sandy shore, toes sinking slowly into the warm, silky sand. Tiny waves wash over my feet, waiting for my heart to decide. I hesitate, not fully ready to choose either path, as it will mean leaving the other behind.
In the rythym of it all, if I listen closely, another voice resonates.
Be still, he quiets my heart, once frantic for clear direction. For it is not from within you that you pull this strength you desire. This endurance comes from Me. Be still, set your heart with Me. Only then will you be able to run the race set before you.
--------------------------------
I have a story about a crazy/amazing chicken to share following this post. You will laugh. In the meantime, thank you for indulging me in these not-so-lighthearted posts- they are quite therapeutic for me.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
The Pace of Peace
It all started with a mishap. I suppose that's how most of my stories start- as when things go along quite swimmingly, there is nothing too surprising to report. That old pipe under frozen ground, stretched between house and well, broke- burst-cracked, or in some way, shape, or form, ceased to work.
In America, we don't often have the pleasure of being so thankful for something as basic as running water. I have been given this gift many times here on the farm. And let me tell you, I am thankful, thankful, thankful for that warm (or cold) stream of water that so effortlessly pours from my faucets. But I digress...
This, ironically, was not the mishap. When the last of frost had melted away and the ground was crumbly instead of clumpy (as the farmers put it, well, I don't know if that's how farmers put it, but we'll pretend for the tale's sake), we rented a trenching machine. The behemoth came with its own trailer and should have come with it's own set of earmuffs. When properly positioned, it plowed into the rich earth; way down, 48 inches, to be exact. It clipped along at a steady pace, snaking across the yard to the well. I held my breath watching the machine chug chug chug along, knowing at any minute it could run into the old water line, the sewer main, any number of unknown buried objects (a farmstead has many stories to tell under that layer of soil).
We kept Ryan and David far from the large, loud and dangerous machine. They watched eagerly from the window, fascinated by it. When Phil came in half way through, he was weary, worn, and dirty. While he ate a sandwich, we ventured out to survey the progress. With a tape measure, we realized that while the machine's violent grabbing and throwing was creating a trench, (a feat in itself in such clay-like, heavy soil) it was also throwing a foot of earth back into the hole. That foot of soil was not to be trifled with- it would have to be removed somehow so the pipe could be pushed firmly down 4 feet below ground level. The frost-line can reach over three feet here some years, and we didn't want to chance being in this situation again.
It's funny the things that make us slow down, appreciate life a bit more. Because at this point, we didn't stop- we didn't figure out how to fix the refilling issue. Hurry hurry hurry get it done before the weekend's over, there is more trenching to do! "We'll just get that last foot out by hand or something", we reasoned with each other dismissively. (It made sense at the time)
And so was put in motion yet another opportunity to learn the meaning of focus, discipline and patience.
And then, the mishap. When the link snapped and our rented trenching machine stopped in its tracks, a rock sunk in my stomach- what would we owe? How would we finish our trench? And what about that extra foot of dirt at the bottom of the 8 inch wide hole? But at the end of a long day we were all tired, frustrated and weary, and we called it a night.
The next morning, boosted by a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls, we headed out to the back yard, and surveyed the landscape. With no other option, we borrowed some hand-tools from Neighbor Mike, and fashioned some of our own (nothing nearly as good as the old time tools hanging around in Mike's barn), and headed to work, painstakingly dipping and scooping the last foot of earth from the bottom of the hole, dreaming of water.
Sssshh, thud, ssshhh, thud. The steady rhythm of the "crumber" dragging along the bottom of the trench and the dull sound of dirt being dumped onto the grass outside the narrow hole is punctuated only by laughter and talking. Over post-hole diggers, crumbers, and sweat, we reconnect. Sometimes there is only silence, a faint chirping of birds, whispering trees, and ssshh, thud, ssshh, thud. The work is hard, our bodies ache for relief, and so we take turns- the tagged-out member sprawled on a picnic blanket with two wide-eyed boys (one of whom, by the way, was later quite useful in the "tamping down" stage of the process.)
It was so opposite, such amazing dichotomy, to sit and witness the difference between man and machine. Man tires, the machine does not. The machine can break, man only wearies for the day. Man takes longer than machine, so, so much longer. But beneath all of this, encircling the entire event, is something so much more important.
That machine, the fast, intentional, harsh, thrashing, incessant stream of activity allowed for nothing else- no small voices, no interruptions, no questions or laughter or conversation. It allowed only for the efficient plowing-through of the unpleasantries of life. But what is life but a series of activities? Must some be deemed unworthy of time, patience, and gratitude for its gift, while others are given elitist status because of their relaxing nature? Might not all moments be worthy of enjoyment? Must we rush through the life, only waiting and longing for a ceasing of activity? Man, in all of his inefficiencies and imperfections, can allow- must allow- for life to happen through it all. Kids can run and jump over a trench being made with a shovel; shovels can be lain aside to tackle said child into peals of laughter.
It was in that moment, that moment where the sun cast its rays low, lingering on the edge of the world, one boy picking quietly at blades of grass and the other watching intently the rhythm of tools from a way of life now collecting dust on a bookshelf, I understood this rare slice of peace- a gift in itself- one that does not come from inactivity nor is it attained by escaping the trials set before us. No, it lurks in those spots least noticed, in slowing down, working through, persevering. Right where I never expected it, and just where it was meant to be.
In America, we don't often have the pleasure of being so thankful for something as basic as running water. I have been given this gift many times here on the farm. And let me tell you, I am thankful, thankful, thankful for that warm (or cold) stream of water that so effortlessly pours from my faucets. But I digress...
This, ironically, was not the mishap. When the last of frost had melted away and the ground was crumbly instead of clumpy (as the farmers put it, well, I don't know if that's how farmers put it, but we'll pretend for the tale's sake), we rented a trenching machine. The behemoth came with its own trailer and should have come with it's own set of earmuffs. When properly positioned, it plowed into the rich earth; way down, 48 inches, to be exact. It clipped along at a steady pace, snaking across the yard to the well. I held my breath watching the machine chug chug chug along, knowing at any minute it could run into the old water line, the sewer main, any number of unknown buried objects (a farmstead has many stories to tell under that layer of soil).
We kept Ryan and David far from the large, loud and dangerous machine. They watched eagerly from the window, fascinated by it. When Phil came in half way through, he was weary, worn, and dirty. While he ate a sandwich, we ventured out to survey the progress. With a tape measure, we realized that while the machine's violent grabbing and throwing was creating a trench, (a feat in itself in such clay-like, heavy soil) it was also throwing a foot of earth back into the hole. That foot of soil was not to be trifled with- it would have to be removed somehow so the pipe could be pushed firmly down 4 feet below ground level. The frost-line can reach over three feet here some years, and we didn't want to chance being in this situation again.
It's funny the things that make us slow down, appreciate life a bit more. Because at this point, we didn't stop- we didn't figure out how to fix the refilling issue. Hurry hurry hurry get it done before the weekend's over, there is more trenching to do! "We'll just get that last foot out by hand or something", we reasoned with each other dismissively. (It made sense at the time)
And so was put in motion yet another opportunity to learn the meaning of focus, discipline and patience.
And then, the mishap. When the link snapped and our rented trenching machine stopped in its tracks, a rock sunk in my stomach- what would we owe? How would we finish our trench? And what about that extra foot of dirt at the bottom of the 8 inch wide hole? But at the end of a long day we were all tired, frustrated and weary, and we called it a night.
The next morning, boosted by a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls, we headed out to the back yard, and surveyed the landscape. With no other option, we borrowed some hand-tools from Neighbor Mike, and fashioned some of our own (nothing nearly as good as the old time tools hanging around in Mike's barn), and headed to work, painstakingly dipping and scooping the last foot of earth from the bottom of the hole, dreaming of water.
Sssshh, thud, ssshhh, thud. The steady rhythm of the "crumber" dragging along the bottom of the trench and the dull sound of dirt being dumped onto the grass outside the narrow hole is punctuated only by laughter and talking. Over post-hole diggers, crumbers, and sweat, we reconnect. Sometimes there is only silence, a faint chirping of birds, whispering trees, and ssshh, thud, ssshh, thud. The work is hard, our bodies ache for relief, and so we take turns- the tagged-out member sprawled on a picnic blanket with two wide-eyed boys (one of whom, by the way, was later quite useful in the "tamping down" stage of the process.)
It was so opposite, such amazing dichotomy, to sit and witness the difference between man and machine. Man tires, the machine does not. The machine can break, man only wearies for the day. Man takes longer than machine, so, so much longer. But beneath all of this, encircling the entire event, is something so much more important.
That machine, the fast, intentional, harsh, thrashing, incessant stream of activity allowed for nothing else- no small voices, no interruptions, no questions or laughter or conversation. It allowed only for the efficient plowing-through of the unpleasantries of life. But what is life but a series of activities? Must some be deemed unworthy of time, patience, and gratitude for its gift, while others are given elitist status because of their relaxing nature? Might not all moments be worthy of enjoyment? Must we rush through the life, only waiting and longing for a ceasing of activity? Man, in all of his inefficiencies and imperfections, can allow- must allow- for life to happen through it all. Kids can run and jump over a trench being made with a shovel; shovels can be lain aside to tackle said child into peals of laughter.
It was in that moment, that moment where the sun cast its rays low, lingering on the edge of the world, one boy picking quietly at blades of grass and the other watching intently the rhythm of tools from a way of life now collecting dust on a bookshelf, I understood this rare slice of peace- a gift in itself- one that does not come from inactivity nor is it attained by escaping the trials set before us. No, it lurks in those spots least noticed, in slowing down, working through, persevering. Right where I never expected it, and just where it was meant to be.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Home
"Do you miss grandma?"
"Yah."
"Me too. Thanks for staying here with me."
"Your welcome."
"I would have missed you."
"I would have missed you, too."
Without my intention and truly, without noticing along the way, this blog has become a story of God’s faithfulness to His people. Our red sea. Our manna. Our five loaves and two fish. This journey to Iowa has not been easy.
There is beauty, surely. Serenity and peace in fields of whispering corn and rest for the weary soul in the sweet breeze across the land. And by contrast, there is hardship. Harsh winds, bitter cold.
And longing.
I miss my family. I miss my mom. She left today after staying a wonderful week with us. What a beautiful time we had- watching David learn to walk, watching Ryan cling to her and inform me that he was, in fact, going home with Grandma and in no way going to stay with me. (After one particular tickle-torture session I demanded of him “Say ‘I love you mom! I will stay!’” With a shriek of laughter he yelled back “I love you mom! Goodbye!”) Her encouragement, laughter, and her piece in our daily lives will sorely missed. But, she is needed at home. I haven’t asked, but I am sure dad would be unwilling to trade her for a steady supply of cinnamon rolls. Hmm…(*strums fingers together contemplatively*)
I know many of you wonder from time to time why we would stay here, surrounded by all of these trials and so far from people we hold so dear. If I could write you one sentence for that answer, believe me, I would. I suppose that’s why I avoid the difficult discussions here. It’s easy to show the trials, much more difficult to explain faithfulness as it relates to our lives. God is faithful to us. I can’t say it’s an easy journey. I can’t say I understand His purpose or even His will with all of this. But I cling to the knowledge that He knows when even a small sparrow falls. He watches over the lilies of the fields and clothes them in great splendor. How much more valuable are we than a weensie bird?
In all of our trials, all of our discouragements and ups and downs, He has walked so faithfully with us. No, nothing has been perfect. Laughably opposite, in fact. But I know my job is not to be comfortable, but only to be faithful back- with each step, with each breath- walking straight ahead whether I am terrified or at peace, onward, onward.
I sat across from mom at lunch, discouraged, sad. I missed her already and she wasn’t even gone. This, I have come to learn, is an emotion directly related to the distance between us. And then, I looked at each of my boys, one by one. David scrunched up his face, smiling with his entire being. He let out a shriek and then a giggle. And Ryan sat politely, eating ice cream and refusing the bite offered by Grandma, because “I have my own, right here. No thank you.” And all of the sudden this amazing feeling of love for those two boys ran through my veins. I wouldn’t miss this for anything.
Love can be so painful. When it’s far away. When it’s gone. When it’s wrapped up in someone who is making bad choices. But would you trade it? Could you? Is not the entire fabric of life weaved of love?
“When my spirit grows faint within me, it is You who know my way." Psalm 142:3
"Yah."
"Me too. Thanks for staying here with me."
"Your welcome."
"I would have missed you."
"I would have missed you, too."
Without my intention and truly, without noticing along the way, this blog has become a story of God’s faithfulness to His people. Our red sea. Our manna. Our five loaves and two fish. This journey to Iowa has not been easy.
There is beauty, surely. Serenity and peace in fields of whispering corn and rest for the weary soul in the sweet breeze across the land. And by contrast, there is hardship. Harsh winds, bitter cold.And longing.
I miss my family. I miss my mom. She left today after staying a wonderful week with us. What a beautiful time we had- watching David learn to walk, watching Ryan cling to her and inform me that he was, in fact, going home with Grandma and in no way going to stay with me. (After one particular tickle-torture session I demanded of him “Say ‘I love you mom! I will stay!’” With a shriek of laughter he yelled back “I love you mom! Goodbye!”) Her encouragement, laughter, and her piece in our daily lives will sorely missed. But, she is needed at home. I haven’t asked, but I am sure dad would be unwilling to trade her for a steady supply of cinnamon rolls. Hmm…(*strums fingers together contemplatively*)
I know many of you wonder from time to time why we would stay here, surrounded by all of these trials and so far from people we hold so dear. If I could write you one sentence for that answer, believe me, I would. I suppose that’s why I avoid the difficult discussions here. It’s easy to show the trials, much more difficult to explain faithfulness as it relates to our lives. God is faithful to us. I can’t say it’s an easy journey. I can’t say I understand His purpose or even His will with all of this. But I cling to the knowledge that He knows when even a small sparrow falls. He watches over the lilies of the fields and clothes them in great splendor. How much more valuable are we than a weensie bird?In all of our trials, all of our discouragements and ups and downs, He has walked so faithfully with us. No, nothing has been perfect. Laughably opposite, in fact. But I know my job is not to be comfortable, but only to be faithful back- with each step, with each breath- walking straight ahead whether I am terrified or at peace, onward, onward.
I sat across from mom at lunch, discouraged, sad. I missed her already and she wasn’t even gone. This, I have come to learn, is an emotion directly related to the distance between us. And then, I looked at each of my boys, one by one. David scrunched up his face, smiling with his entire being. He let out a shriek and then a giggle. And Ryan sat politely, eating ice cream and refusing the bite offered by Grandma, because “I have my own, right here. No thank you.” And all of the sudden this amazing feeling of love for those two boys ran through my veins. I wouldn’t miss this for anything.Love can be so painful. When it’s far away. When it’s gone. When it’s wrapped up in someone who is making bad choices. But would you trade it? Could you? Is not the entire fabric of life weaved of love?
“When my spirit grows faint within me, it is You who know my way." Psalm 142:3Thursday, September 04, 2008
On being ants...
Last winter was hard.
If we had any romantic delusions of what an Iowan winter could be, this past winter shook those right out of us.
Recalling it now, I am little but somber, solemn, and terrified. At the risk of sounding "I-used-to-walk-10-miles-in-the-snow-both-ways-uphill-barefoot," here is a small list I compiled of the challenges we faced just this past winter.
If we had any romantic delusions of what an Iowan winter could be, this past winter shook those right out of us.
Recalling it now, I am little but somber, solemn, and terrified. At the risk of sounding "I-used-to-walk-10-miles-in-the-snow-both-ways-uphill-barefoot," here is a small list I compiled of the challenges we faced just this past winter.
We started off the winter with a pre-Thanksgiving ice storm that left us with two inches of ice coating everything. Then came snow, snow, and more snow. Not until March did we have above freezing temperatures. I shudder now just thinking about it.
Being that we had animals, we carried 5-gallon buckets of water out to them each day over snow drifts so hard that you could walk on top of them (you, plus the 10 gallons of water). They were so tall, though, that if you fell through you would have been up to your chest in snow.
If you'll recall, we changed our furnace to a corn-burning stove. This was great for economy, but we had no storage in the house for such grain, and therefore used those same five-gallon buckets and carried nearly 700 of them through snow, into the house, and down the stairs to the basement.
Twice the gate on the corn bin froze shut, meaning that the house grew cold until Phil carefully warmed the door enough with a torch to slide it open.
We learned where our snow drifts on the property...right through the pile of stored wood we had lined up. Phil spent entire afternoons chipping at the mini-mountain with a pick-ax and a shovel.
Also, he had been working as a carpenter, but they had no inside work last winter. The early ice scratched out roofing and siding as a possibility, and you would be hard-pressed to find a homeowner wanting a window installed when its 15 below freezing outside.
Wait. I can't forget about the water main that froze under the ground a month before thaw. We spent a few days carrying buckets to the house, and then, when it was warm enough, we stretched a hose between the well and the house, leaving a small drip running at all times so it wouldn't freeze.
Each month we would cling to "oh, it's already
Growing up, the thought of preparing for winter meant "Get Excited About Your Christmas List!" or "Pray for snow!!!" And up until this year we have just about stumble-tumbled into winter here, as well. Sure, we bought fuel and such, but there was little else that went into the thoughts of routine and rhythm when it came to the seasons.
Not to be outdone, in March, three months before we would be able to plant our garden, we sat down and made a battle plan. Water, windows, wood, corn, doors, clothing, animals, roof, shop heat, and food were all discussed in detail. This new preparation seems both daunting and actually, a bit exhilarating. I know, I know, don't worry, it's not the overdose of coffee. Hear me out.
One of my favorite things to do before a storm is batten down the hatches. Warily eyeing the looming thunderheads, we pick up the toys, secure the machine shed, shut windows, put the animals inside. You spend that bit of time running around, always eyeing the clouds, wondering if you have another minute to pull that piece of equipment into the shed or if you should just head in because that thunder is starting to rumble a bit louder now. Its the imminence of the storm that brings it all into focus- a clear purpose.
And then it comes. Loud crashes, rain. Lightning. And we sit inside, watching the intensity of the storm with awe -just being so thankful for the protection of a strong and sturdy home. (When we first moved here, we would pop popcorn to watch a storm. They are that neat.) But, of course, the storm is only that delightful to watch because we spent the time preparing for it. If we were worried a door might blow off the machine shed and fly into one of our friend's campers, then it would likely invoke an entirely different emotion. And as a result, that process of preparation has become satisfying to me on a level that's hard to explain.
In the same way, preparing for winter can be the same thing. Sure, caulking windows isn't the most delightful job in the world, but we are going to war here! And, whether I like it or not, when one is battling the elements, attention to detail counts. When the fury of winter descends upon us this year, I want to be warm, cozy, curled up next to the wood-fire with my boys and a book...drinking hot cocoa coffee with pumpkin spice creamer. And that thought alone keeps me quite motivated to push through, squelching my inner grasshopper. Coffee, I tell myself. Remember the coffee. And the creamer. (This rationale most always works for a Seattle-ite at heart.)
So, that is where I have been lately. Battening down the hatches. The first few chilly evenings have come, meaning that I am just that much more aware that the enemy is nigh over the hill...
Thursday, March 23, 2006
What's cookin?
I thought I would post some pictures of our kitchen remodel. We aren't finished yet, but you can get a rough idea of where we are so far. This is what the kitchen looked like when we first moved in. There was really no room to move because there was a huge island in the middle of the room, mostly blocking one door. Everything was green, and those cabinets you see are all metal. The woman in the picture is our real estate agent.
So, we decided that this kitchen just wasn't going to work for us. We decided to take everything out of it. The big box in the middle is our old dishwasher, and the walls are of cement and stone. You can kind of make out the old carpeting - must have been about a 1970 style, or earlier. To do the floors we ended up taking up the carpet, and then scraping up some linoleum that was underneath.
This is what our kitchen looked like a few days ago. We had put up the wainscoting, and all of the flooring is up. We debated painting the floors, but after sanding a bit of the floor, decided to try and see what it would be like if we just finished the floors. I am nervous about upkeep, but Phil assures me that the finish he got is very good. We are going to put many coats on to seal the floor.
So this is where we are now. We have not stained the floors, but the walls are done, and the floor is mostly sanded. We added a fan light fixture to help move air in the summer (and because the old one was terrible!I am so excited with how it is coming out! What a long road, though. My new stove is sitting in the breezeway, waiting for a new room. Hopefully by Ryan's birthday I can bake a cake in it! (There I go again with my lofty goals! Ha!)
UPDATE! We have added curtains (thanks Calli/Mom), stained floors, and we have a WORKING STOVE (thanks Dad/Ken)!!!! Life is good!
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Oh the tangled webs we weave
With my mother and father in law back to stay with us for two weeks, we thought it would be great to have them help us with a few projects. We have finally finished painting the kitchen, which was started the week we moved in, and have almost completed sanding the floors. We are working on patching a few rooms upstairs, painting, pulling carpet, etc. While this is going on, we are placing our order tonight for our first garden. Oh yes, and the most important piece of the puzzle is that Ryan is turning ONE this week! Big kid!
I don't know why we think we can do everything...but I just don't see any other way. It seems every project we start needs to be tripled in both time and money invested. I think I am being taught patience and perseverence, personally! However, we do have small wins along the way. For example, since we moved in, we have re-done the plumbing the main floor, installed a new water heater, hooked up a new washer and dryer, taken up carpet and painted four rooms downstairs (living room, dining room, den, and front room), among a few other projects here and there. I think we can get so caught up in "now" that we forget that we are just simply on a long road.
But, looking to the next few weeks, until we get that garden planted, it is going to be a challenge! We need to get some special attachment so that the plow will work on Phil's tractor, and we won't be turning any ground until that is running. Then once you start turning ground, I think it is still quite a bit of work to smooth and prep it all. I am so looking forward to spring, though!
That tractor has turned out to be a wonderful purchase! It mows through our long, matted grass and turns it into short, manageable grass! Between that and burning off patches of grass, I can start to dream about what it will look like planted and pretty! With the wide mower deck on the tractor, he drives that thing around mowing like it's nothing. And being so old we don't really have to worry about beating it up. It does need some tune up work, but I think it will work for what we need it to do this year.
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