This past weekend my husband and I were cleaning out our basement. We’d been hauling out a bunch of old wood (yes! more wood!) and I was ducking into the bulkhead to fetch another armful when- WHOOPS! I tripped and fell down the concrete stairs. Here they are:
Our attic is BIG, roughly 1600 square feet, and rises 1.5 stories above the rest of the house. When we moved in 9 years ago, it was filled with all sorts of stuff. Built-in cabinets and shelving, semi-framed walls, and lots and lots of flies. The space had served as a workshop and storage area for the former owner whose fondness for collecting left it filled to the brim. Wood was everywhere; stacked in piles, propped against surfaces, arranged on the floor. Honestly it was hard to see the forest for all the trees. Here’s what it looked like in 2009.
You know how it feels when you’re so dog-tired you’re almost delusional?
In the weeks since my last post, I’ve fleshed out the entirety of my upcoming road trip: attractions, hotels, restaurants, even a few thrift shops I want to hit. I found an old journal in a drawer upstairs and knowing no one would miss it, ripped out the first few used pages and made it mine.
What do you get when you cross a man, a woman, a 250 year old house, and a big green insulation machine? Labor and Delivery, Dole House Style!
It’s been a lo-o-o-ng winter here in Portland, Maine. Now nearly March, snow tickles the windowsills and blackens the streets. People warned us of the ugliness of this time when we moved here five years ago. They urged us to look inward, to remember that spring is on its way, to ignore the permafrost on every surface in this salt-lick of a city. But in truth, the snow itself, the mountainous banks lining every parking lot, even soot-gray, are a novelty.