The kids are asleep. So are the dogs. The staccato noise coming from the jowls of Chumley, the one who snores, sounds like a woodpecker. I can hear it all the way down in the basement.

Find the not-so-hidden pretzel.

It’s 12:16 a.m., a time that can be eerie even in a new house. When it’s post-midnight and you’re working in the dirt floored, stone-walled cellar of a place built in the early 1800s (or earlier), you dare not give free reign to your imagination.  I step on a piece of plywood that’s beneath the saw-horses. It groans, Crypt-Being-Slowly-Opened style. A bit of adrenaline squirts into my arms and sizzles down to my fingers.

The furnace kicks in and the roar is comforting. Steam works its way through the old pipes over my head. The water heater kicks in with an electric hum. The house is old but alive. The systems are doing their jobs, providing comfort to the innocents above who sleep and snore.

With some effort, I uncover the paint I need: Pratt & Lambert “Rose Mauve” exterior latex. A hard sourdough pretzel in one hand and my favorite brush in the other, alone but not lonely, I spread strokes of  light purple on dozens of natty front porch decorations.

I work into the night until my vision blurs. Flip down the light switch, the scary basement is returned to its ghosts.

Tags: basement night ghosts

The house magically changes colors during the course of the day. At dawn and dusk, the lavender deepens to something most people would call purple. At mid-day, the siding appears white. It’s an illusion I find pretty cool.

On the other hand, I’m well aware that part of that mid-day brightness isn’t illusion. It’s because, with every minute of every day, a little bit more of that paint’s pigment is fading. It’s getting beaten up not only by the visible light from our friendly local star but also by that celestial body’s unseen-yet-deadly radiation.

Then there’s the rain and cold. And the dirt constantly being blown at the house because it’s very close to a heavily-traveled road. No matter how well I prepped those boards. No matter how much money per gallon I paid for that Pratt & Lambert “Maid of Orleans” lavender (or Ben Moore’s computer-generated equivalent), the color is forever draining away.

That annoying fact struck me a few minutes ago when I pulled up in the truck. The house was bathed in bright, mid-morning, clear-blue-sky sunlight. What caught my discerning eye, aside from all the porch-column trimwork I’ve yet to tackle, were the two tones of pink.

To be precise, it’s “Bridesmaid Pink,” and it’s the color used on the gutters. (Don’t get me started about gutters). Unfortunately, our bride is dreadfully mismatched these days. That’s because I repainted (was it two summers ago?) the pink trim on the porch but didn’t tackle the corresponding trim on the gutter. The fact that I’m probably the only one who would notice this discrepancy is not much consolation, especially since I’ve just told the entire world about it.

I’d say repainting the upper gutter is now on my “to-do” list. It’s very, very low on that very, very long list. But someday this spring (or summer or fall), when I have a brush wet with Bridesmaid Pink from another touch-up, I might at least think about wrestling with the three ladders needed for the gutter job and maybe have the energy to make it happen before the bridesmaids fade further.

Tags: fading paint

Yes, it can be downright overwhelming. Some days the flame burns low.

I look around at all that needs to be done. I see how the work I did a few years ago is already getting tattered and calling for attention. I wonder what’s going to be discovered next. Will the roof leak? Will the water heater stop working? Will lightning blow-up the water pump (again)?

There were many times I’d drag myself off of a ladder or plank, collapse in a chair and growl the word of surrender: Condo. Let’s forget this monstrosity and buy a condominium or rent an apartment. The white flag of surrender is hoisted when my body is weary of fighting Nature’s  incessant erosion of wood and paint and mortar. There must be more to a bird’s life than continual nest repair.

As it turns out, many attempts at finding happiness through leisure seem to fail. A day at the beach is nice. A ride on the motorcycle is great. A hike on the mountain is wonderful.

But so is the feeling I get when the sun hits a freshly painted section at just the right angle, usually just before dusk. I think back. I see myself up there, years ago, slaving away at those old boards, trying to make them smooth as glass. The dimming light makes the lavender glow.

Sometimes I get melancholy. Sometimes I smile. Often, I just stare in awe.

That pride doesn’t come from a day at the beach.

Tags: condo, overwhelmed, proud, tired, weary

Late December of 2009 brought to New Jersey a nasty period of cold weather. Daytime temperatures rarely reached the 30s and a steady wind usually made outdoor activity even more bone-chilling. Of course, that’s when I got the bug to begin fixing the wooden, “diamond over X” porch column decorations.

So there I was, on a teetering step-ladder in 20-degree weather, wielding a reciprocating saw. Although the decorations were screwed into the porch columns, there was no way those rusty fasteners were going to cooperate and come out without a fight. Hence the saw, fitted with a metal-cutting blade.

It zipped through the screws, separating the legs of the decorations from the columns. At first, anyway. Within minutes, as my fingers solidified into icy stubs, apparently unaware that the cheap cotton gloves I wore were  supposed to keep them warm, the saw turned into a greased pig.

I was out there balancing myself on the too-short ladder, using one hand to hold the saw and the other to hold the pieces of woodwork as they became untethered. This was a recipe for trouble even when I was freeing the pieces that were at eye level.  When I tried removing those that were above my head, I entered the Red Zone of Stupidity.

You really need two hands to hold a violently reciprocating saw, especially when fingers are hardening. The blade got stuck in a particularly intact screw, the saw escaped my feeble grip and fell to the porch, snapping off the blade, I yelled a number of words that temporarily destroyed the wonderful Christmas spirit of the neighborhood. At least the descending power tool didn’t hit me in the head on the way down.

There are 40 of these decorations. Actually there were 40 of  them. Some rotted beyond repair. Some were damaged beyond repair. There are now about 3o that are intact or salvageable.

I’m using Durham Rock Hard Water Putty to fix some of them, but I’m going to have to build from scratch the rest.

This photo shows, on the left, the tattered remains of one of these fellows.

On the right is one I restored a few weeks back.

Today would be a good day to get back to that time-consuming project. Perhaps tomorrow.

Tags: decorations, reciprocating saw, restore, saw blade

One summer day about five years ago, a beautiful Ducati stopped in front of the house. I think I was out there working on one of the cars. The owner apologized for bothering me but said he used to live in our house and just wanted to stop by. I asked him a few questions about how it looked back in the 1970s. Can’t remember the questions or his answers. Actually, I think we discussed his motorcycle more than the house. Then, with a sweet, 4-stroke growl, he was off.

"Post Office" and House Before We Bought It

Not long afterward, I was again out front, painting some part or other. Two women bicyclists stopped, so I descended the ladder and hoped I didn’t have paint on my face. One of the ladies said she lived here long ago. She said she liked the work we did on the place. As she pedaled away, I appreciated her kind words and felt proud.

These encounters, and others, convinced me of the value in taking care of old houses like this one. How many people spent their lives, or good portions of them, in these rooms? I’m like a museum curator, entrusted to not destroy their memories.

In most every corner of the house, I see evidence of former occupants’ activities: Strange modifications, like exterior windows that are no longer on the house’s exterior. Sealed-up holes, once filled with stovepipes,  in ceilings.

I’d like to know the history of those things. Maybe someday somebody will stop by and tell me.

Tags: museum, owners, visitors

Almost a year ago, when I finally began stripping the thick, old paint off of the hallway doorframes, I paid a visit to a local hardware store in search of some dental tools. Yes, dental tools. Those pain-inducing, ultra-sharp, silver devices of torture used by dental hygenists and – with even more sadistic gusto – strong-armed dentists.

Nothing does a better job than a dental tool when it comes to getting in the nooks and crannies during melted paint removal.

The local hardware store is old-school and that’s why I love it. You can barely fit into its tiny aisles due to all the stuff. Man, do they ever have stuff!

I had no doubt they’d have dental tools, and they did. But they also had this other silver device for which I have no name. I am tempted to call it Mr. Perfect because it’s perfect for the job at hand.

The one end is flat and rectangular. The other is flat and spade-shaped. Words cannot convey how wonderful it feels to get that little spade into a door-frame corner, with paint softened by heat-gun-blasted hot air, and have it breezily scoop out every last molecule.

Thank you local hardware store.

Thank you Mr. Perfect.

Tags: dental tools, heat gun, paint removal, scraper

I’m in one of several rooms where renovation began but was paused years ago. I can’t remember why the work here stopped but I assume other, more crucial, repairs elsewhere in the building took precedence. I bounce around, un-sticking a window here, plastering a crack there, hoping it will all come together and be finished someday. Maybe I should be painting instead of writing about painting? A nap sounds good, too.

Yes, it’s procrastination, but only to a certain extent. A guy can only stand so many hours wearing a respirator or a dusk mask. In fact – aside from having to earn a living, raise kids and eat – one of the biggest roadblocks to my just finishing for God’s sake is the fact that people are living here. That not only means I have to sweep and mop and put stuff away every time I stop working but also that I can’t keep working (on many of the unfinished tasks) when people are here.

So I do little bits at a time. That’s not necessarily a bad way to do it. I’m not in a rush. As Wall of Voodoo sang: “So I’ll do it tomorrow. That seems like a pretty good idea to me.”

Tags: lazy, procrastination, tired, tomorrow

I was down the road when the cell rang. “Where are you?” asked the wife. “You need to come home.” Within five minutes, I learned why. An old fellow, reaching for his oxygen while driving, lost control and smashed through our front fence and into our porch. Debris was everywhere. He was OK, the porch didn’t collapse and insurance sent a nice check. I needed to repaint the posts anyway, but who needs that drama?

Tags: accident, insurance, porch

So God created the universe. Yawn. I’m more impressed with Warner Manufacturing Co. which created the #382 Electric Paint Remover, a 1,000-watt heating element on a handle.

A 6.5″ x 3.5″ metal box surrounds all but the business side. With one hand, you slap the sucker onto the surface and wait a few seconds for the paint to melt. With the other, you wield a wide scraper. Keep it moving. Wear a respirator. Heavenly.