When Adam came downstairs with this, I felt it was validation for a bit of history I had just come across online.
This was the backside of a baseboard.
He does look like something of a space alien here, adding to the time machine impression. But a full dinner for $1.50 and up? That does seem surreal today.
The sign was one of several he had uncovered while removing baseboard upstairs. The writing had faced the wall. Yankees are notorious for frugality of the sort that wastes nothing, if possible.
I had just started researching the history of our house, starting with the property deed transactions at the courthouse in Machias. One of our predecessors had owned and operated a well-known restaurant. Her obituary also described her as an exacting carpenter, so here was a piece of evidence.
I’ll save her full story and those of the others for later in this series, but let’s just say, the house was beginning to look a lot older than we’d suspected when we bid on it.
For example, hand-split oak lathing like this had gone out of use by 1830, or so we were told. This piece was extracted when carving out space for the toilet and bathtub.
Hand-split oak lathing went out of usage by 1830, I’ve been told. Ours was also charred by a house fire, possibly one from a nearby chimney.
The burn marks on the underside of the flooring also suggested another serious house fire.
Another detail is the molding on the side of our stairs. The same pattern is found on other houses in town from the 1830s and 1840s.
I’m assuming this was from an update to the house.
And, from a technical point of view, ours wasn’t a post-and-beam house but rather timber framed, meaning wooden pegs held the big pieces together – and the weight of the structure didn’t come down the inside walls.
The old wood was denser, too, than what you’d buy today.
Yup, there are 52 in a deck, plus one to six Jokers, at least if you’re looking at what’s considered a standard commercial deck. There are, however, other traditional, and often older, suites to consider. Today we’ll put those off for another time and stick to the French-suited cards that are almost universally found in English-speaking countries. Got that?
To continue:
The deck has four suits (clubs, diamonds, spades, and hearts) that come in 13 ranks, starting with the ten numeral or pip cards – if you’re wondering why there’s no “1,” it’s actually the Ace, despite its usual power. And then there are the three ranks of royalty, the court or face cards we know as Jack, Queen, King.
Each numeral card displays the appropriate number of pips (the suit images) as well as the numeral itself.
Early cards were single-headed, or single-ended, but that changed around 1860, when the double-headed versions appeared. These could be read without having to turn them to an up-position. Corner indices were added around 1880.
The Jack of spades and the Jack of hearts appear in profile and are thus known as “one-eyed” Jacks. Likewise, the King of diamonds is depicted with one eye. The rest of the royals are shown full-face or oblique.
Suicide kings appear in hearts, where he usually has a sword behind his head, as if stabbing himself, and in diamonds, where he has an ax pointed blade-down toward him. Adding to the nickname is the blood-red color on the card.
The Queen of spades, holding a scepter, is also known as the black lady or bedpost Queen. She’s the only Queen facing left.
The Ace of spades is sometimes called the death card. Those printed or sold in England from the reign of James I until 1960 carried an indication of the printer and that an excise tax on the deck had been paid.
The 52 cards are said to represent the 52 weeks of the year, with 13 cards for each season or the 13 lunar cycles of the year.
Possibly originating in China or India or Persia, the cards arrived in Europe from Egypt in the 1370s, perhaps in the hands of Crusaders. The first cards were hand-printed, limiting them to the wealthy classes. That changed with the arrival of the printing press at the end of the 15th century.
Originally, the suit symbols were taken from everyday objects, which may have had any symbolic meaning: flowers, animals, birds, shields, crowns, pennies, rings, even pomegranates. I rather like the possibilities there, “King of bears” or “Queen of bananas.”
Any expectation of having the back half of the upstairs finished before starting on the front slowly faded from reality. We definitely wouldn’t be moving goods from downstairs or storage into the new space anytime soon.
Just look at the ridgepole and it was obvious Adam would need to have elbow room to work freely up while attaching the new rafters before any wall could go in.
The rafters and roofing to the right of the new ridge pole are about to come off. It’s a miracle they’ve stayed up as long as they have.
He did have to demolish the drywall and framing that had separated the front and back rooms, and with that came my realization that putting up new drywall any time before the entire upstairs was ready for that phase of work was premature. As would be painting the walls, ceilings, and floors. Duh!
Adam’s big shock came when he exposed the top of the existing dormer and found that there was nothing to speak of holding the descending rafter. What were they thinking?
The rafter was simply cut short when the dormer was added. The plank under it was insufficient for the weight sitting upon it.
It was one more impending disaster that had somehow kept ticking until being defused now.
~*~
The front half promised to be less complex than the previous section. There was no plumbing and only two rooms rather than four. On the other hand, the top of the stairs might add some complications.
Our project was envisioned by other family members and my being included in their dream felt, well, adventurous. They had some definite ideas and strong opinions but were also practical, frugal, and flexible. I would have been content to leave well enough alone, if only their thinking and style hadn’t continued to impress me as we marched forward.
Remember, these are my retirement years, unlike theirs. I’ve been downsizing and discovering how much I can live without. I had some big dreams in the previous move, and when they didn’t manifest, I refocused.
Look at all that extra room.
But then, as our new dwelling was stripped of half of its top half, a reality began to excite me: my bedroom and studio workspace were shaping up as something entirely new, tailored for me. I wouldn’t be trying to fit into some previously existing room but rather shaping one to my own preferences. I thought of windows that would allow more bookshelves and wall for artwork yet still flood the room in natural light. The ceiling would feel airy, even though one side would be lower than ideal for me – in this case, we’d make it play into the angle. There would be abundant electrical outlets, too.
No longer would I have a washing machine in one corner, but rather I would have a door between my bed and the household access to the bathroom. Yes, privacy! I would miss the proximity to the kitchen and my overhearing phone-call details of our shared daily life here – that room is the hub of life in our home – but I would also feel freer to dial up the opera when others were also in the house.
We had already agreed to keep the flooring rather rustic, more or less matching the existing planks, and the walls white, to enhance the natural light. That left window coverings and trim color for accents. I was leaning toward blue, especially indigo I associate with Japanese fabric.
The big question was just how much of my goods I could fit into the room and perhaps how much might go into the emerging guest room, the mirror-image at the other end of the hallway.
We’re keeping the charred rafter exposed, a souvenir of the downtown fire of 1886..
As we pondered the emerging space, we opted to go for cathedral ceilings rather than flat and later, as a quirky touch, to keep the charred rafters at either gable exposed when the drywall went up.
These two rooms were starting to feel more like nests, actually. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
In our big renovation project, I kept returning to the criticism of architecture as “boxes with holes punched in them.” I think the objection was by master Ludwig Mies van der Rohe – and yet I also return to the rigidity of Frank Lloyd Wright, who left nowhere for a building to grow. His houses could be like living in a tomb, or at least a temple to his visionary and snake-oil-charmer ego. And here we were with a classic New England Cape undergoing a bid for survival in the 21st century.
Well, as Mies van der Rohe, a celebrated pioneering 20th century architect, also said, “God is in the details.” Nowhere, perhaps, is that more apparent than with windows. He created whole walls of them before that style became cliché. Besides, how else, do we admit natural light and its reflection on the passing seasons into our interior existences?
In coastal Maine, where we’re renovating our full Cape, discretion is more the rule, especially considering our frequently fierce winds off the ocean. As I’ve said earlier, we love the light in this house and, for that matter, the whole town that emerged after the American Revolution.
Even so, art as we know it now was nowhere in their conscious thinking.
A Cape is a relatively economical house, but it has some drawbacks. The upstairs is cramped, cold in winter, and stuffy in summer. As you’re seeing in this series, the necessity of replacing our roof covering disclosed some serious structural problems that would have required redress even if we weren’t intent on maximizing the usable space on the second floor.
This double-hung sash window is slightly bigger than the one it replaced, something that makes a world of difference in the view.
Now, for the window details.
Upstairs, we could have gone for the same-sized windows that we have downstairs, but the back half of our second floor – facing northwest – also presented additional considerations.
One was the relatively low height of the back wall – 82 inches, just shy of seven feet. The downstairs windows wouldn’t have fit the room quite same here as they did downstairs.
Another was the fact that in the two expanded bedrooms, I wanted to maximize the wall space. I had a lot of books and recordings coming out of storage, so shelving came at a premium. Above that, I was hoping for decent opportunities to display visual art. Eastport is an artists’ mecca, and the natural light is spectacular. Oh, let me apologize for being repetitive.
That led me to consider windows that are horizontally broad but vertically short. You know, a band, rather than a drop. The first ones I found are called transom or shed windows, but, as the details mentioned, they don’t open for ventilation. Eventually, I determined that awning windows would do the trick. You really do have to learn the vocabulary.
The existing gable-end windows would be replaced with larger on the size of the double-hung sashes downstairs. No problem. I’m actually amazed at the expanded view that creates, along with the boldness in contrast to the timid existing windows. Yeah, these look great, from inside and from the street.
The back interior corners, though, promised to be darker (that is, dismal) than I desired. A small diamond window – a common architectural touch around here – would be perfect – the only problem was that those panes would have to be custom-made, and we decided the additional cost wasn’t for us at this time. A small casement window in a conventional flat framing came in at a third of the price. Plus, it would open for additional ventilation.
I would have preferred continuing the awning windows across the back, but the two coconspirators in this project instead convinced me to use two smaller double-hung windows for the bathroom and laundry room.
I’m psyched to see how these parts play out.
The view from the awning window was new to us. It does give you a sense of the village where we dwell.
~*~
The technical aspects of windows can be quite daunting. They could inform another post or more, but let’s skip that.
Our contractor expressed a preference for two brands – one nationally known, the other locally made and reasonably priced. We went with Mathews Brothers’ Spencer Walcott style.
As for sizes? Their lower-end style offers 134 standard sizes of double-hung windows alone. Beyond that, custom sizes are available.
The fun choice will the window that goes over the front doorway, but that was still off in the future.
~*~
By the way, I do love another Mies van der Rohe quote: “Architecture is a language. When you are very good, you get to be a poet.”
Seeing the detailed work going into our old house, I’m coming to see how they fit.
There was a seasonal correspondence with the renovation project and the winter season.
In a clime like ours, weeks pass when everything outdoors seems dead. Outside our vision, though, things are preparing for rebirth. Maple sap starts running, for instance, as the syrup makers know. And then the first flowers pop up.
Something similar was happening with the house work.
I mentioned the wiring. Here’s another look as it developed.
New wiring.
And then the plumbing.
And here I was expecting metal pipes rather than flexible tubing.
Selecting the toilet, tub, shower, and so on took more time than anticipated, especially when two separate trips to Bangor – a full day each – turned up nothing at Lowe’s, Home Depot, or Frank W. Webb.
You can’t always go by the description you find online or in a catalog.
I am looking forward to finally being able to take a bath without feeling like a pretzel. It’s been four years, in fact.
Visible progress was even appearing on the new exterior on the gable ends.
We love the little detail of the upturned notch on these cedar shake shingles. It matches the earlier ones that will remain on the other half of the exterior.
And the dividing walls along the center started coming down.
The new year introduced what seemed like slow-motion forever, a superficially sluggish pace that lasted all winter.
The reality was that there were a lot more parts and details to attend to in a project like this than met the eye. As for patience? It’s a skill, as I’m observing.
Cutting the openings in the exterior for the new windows and then framing them inside and out was one example. One step required each window to be perfectly leveled and then sealed into place. It wasn’t nearly as smooth-going as you’d imagine. And that was even before Adam uncovered the rot under the north gable window. One more delay for repair.
I have to admit the varied sizes I’d chosen and their emerging views did give me a sense of confirmation and satisfaction, as did looking at the scope of the full back half of the upstairs.
Some of our new casement windows resemble what are called transom or awning windows.
Pulling up flooring to permit rough fitting for the piping in the bathroom and adjoining laundry room was another example, one we’ll cover in an upcoming post.
Framing for interior walls.
An unexpected discovery was a spider’s nest of tangled electrical wires, itself a violation of building code, but something that then led to the shock that none of our “modern” wiring on the first floor was grounded. Among other problems. Addressing that situation detoured Adam for more than a week, but it included a redesign of the wiring in the cellar, too.
That project was on our longer agenda, but it wasn’t something to ignore. I am delighted that we can now plug in three-prong wires without having to resort to those crazy converters for the two-prong sockets. As it turned out, none of our surge protectors would have worked when plugged into the old system.
It’s a huge relief knowing that’s all in our past now.
You’ve already seen photos of the knob-and-tube lines we found in the rafters. Some of those then led back to outlets on the first floor – connected by nothing more than stripping the main line and taping over the new wrapping. We already knew from experience that most of the first floor, plus the cellar lights, were on one circuit. Running the bread toaster and another energy hog could easily overload that, sending me flashlight in hand to reset the circuit-breaker in the cellar.
Our carpenter also found a junction box set in the upstairs floor – another violation of today’s building codes.
And here I’d been concerned about our lack of three-prong grounded outlets? Oy vey.
Of course, we’re looking to correct all that. My, are we.
In the end, the whole house was rewired.
Framing for the two bedrooms and the bathroom and laundry room also took time and care, as did the strapping for the drywall on the ceiling to come. For now, there were the electrical lines, outlets, and switches to install, once the holes were routed in the future walls.
The addition was really happening.
Outdoors, the back half of the house was surrounded by scaffolding. Although the first cedar shakes were applied to the new exterior early on, continuing was a random activity based on fair weather. The exterior work had to do more with flashing and the underside of the roof overhang. More details, as you’ll see in coming posts.
How much would have to be more or less finished before tackling the front half of the upstairs? Instead, we were trying to find crannies downstairs to move our possessions still parked overhead, but Adam also needed more workspace. It was amazing how many tools and related equipment he had there. Even his construction lighting was impressive, before we considered the permanent fixtures.
If I was looking for a halfway point, I was sensing the path ahead was more complicated. We still had plans for downstairs, too, if any of our nest egg remained.
Welcome to our learning curve and money jitters.
~*~
One thing we were discovering was that there are far more parts to house than you’d imagine.
All along, we kept hearing mysterious pounding and shaking overhead, the whine of power saws and the thumping of an air compressor, along with falling timber or worse. I learned not to anticipate taking a nap during what other’s consider normal working hours.
The two weeks before Christmas got more than a little frantic around us, even without all of the holiday buildup. The renovation tradesmen were on a collision course. The spray foam crew gave us a date they would be in town for a bigger project down the street – they would dovetail us into the afternoon – but that meant the windows on the back half upstairs would have to be framed and the electrical outlets along the exterior wall would have to be in place before they arrived. We would also have to be out of the house for 24 hours afterward while the toxic vapors subsided.
Our contractor and his accomplished accomplice worked through the weekend to meet deadline.
We also had a plumber on-site – you don’t try to reschedule those guys, do you? It’s hard enough to get them at all. First, he was moving a cold-air duct for the new wood-burning stove and its metal chimney, accompanied by moving the water heater to make way for that metal chimney. As long as we were dealing with the water heater, we advanced our anticipated shift to a heat-exchange unit, which should drastically reduce our monthly electrical bill. While he was at it, he replaced the old sump pump and its precarious hoses. Some of those photos have already appeared in this series. We were delighted that the new stove and chimney were in place and working by Christmas Eve, when the rest of the family was visiting.
What I haven’t mentioned is the hurricane-force storm that hit a week before Christmas, pushing back the foam-installation crew by two days – along with our Airbnb reservation. (The tempest hit right after my choir’s two concerts, as if I needed any more activity.)
And then there we were, welcoming family and putting up the tree on Christmas Eve, this time in front of a warm fire.
Our lawns, walkways, and streets are littered with asphalt roof shingles, thanks to some intense winter storms.
The region sustained two similarly intense storms, back-to-back on January 10 and 13, along with widespread power outages. Having a wood stove meant we wouldn’t be freezing.
Our roofing held, front and back, unlike many of the others around town. Asphalt shingles popped up in our yards and along the streets like dandelions in springtime, but few of them were ours. Even new buildings suffered. Not that we could sit back smugly. Our front roofing was still precarious, awaiting the next big step of transformation come springtime. And here the insurance company had insisted three years earlier we had to replace it pronto?
We were tempted to leave the space open.
With the windows framed and now outlined by the foam, we had a much clearer idea of how the upstairs was shaping up. In looking at the space, we found ourselves wondering if maybe we should just leave it as one big room. We let that dream give way to more practical thoughts, including gaining a second bathroom.
We did, though, decide to have the new ceiling rise with the roofline rather than be flat. It’s not quite as step as a cathedral, but who’s quibbling? It means the new bedrooms will be more like a tent or small pavilion rather than bland boxes.
Those of you who have constructed a house from scratch must be looking at our renovation like it’s peanuts. And, in many ways, it is. We weren’t starting with talks with an architect or even inspecting an undeveloped site beforehand. No, that must be truly thrilling. There’d be none of the frustration of trying to retrofit your dream into what others had done before you, either.
For the record, we did look seriously at a couple of undeveloped sites in town and played with the challenges, but they were beyond our means, leaving us to always lament the spectacular views that others now enjoy while also wondering how we would have managed the timing.
Still, to be fully honest, I have to say what’s unfolded before us is truly exciting, at least from our end. That kinda brings me back to that adage about writing about what you know, or at least what you find most fascinating at the moment.
But it’s also humbling. Just consider how much of daily existence we take for granted, at least in the so-called developed world.
The Isaac Hobbs mansion, off to the far corner of our block, is undergoing a thorough restoration. Half of it was about to cave in when we bought our property, but that’s no longer the case. The new owner wants to be historically accurate, as far as possible. In contrast, we want ours to be more livable. Besides, most of the period detail was ripped out decades ago.
A further block up the street, a more spectacular upgrade is being given to the circa 1807 federal house Aaron Hayden built and General Samuel D. Leavitt transformed into mansard mansion in the 1880s. It had fallen into foreclosure before its bold new owners came to town on the heels of Covid.
Colorful, hardy, distinct, and local. I am surprised by how much they’re going for online, compared to what our galleries and boutiques are charging here.
Once used to tether lobster traps to their buoys, the polypropylene or polysteel rope has many other nautical uses, where it’s touted as “marine-grade commercial fishing line.”
It shows up in creative baskets and other woven items, too.
Jnana's Red Barn 