On Thursday morning I bid farewell to the kids, hauled my gear out to the truck, and headed for Tsawwassen. Traffic was heavy and I felt rather dull, thinking about how cold the cottage was going to be and all the work that needed to be done. As is always the case, as soon I boarded the ferry and we pulled away from the mainland, my spirits lifted. When it was time to disembark, they soared. Here's a picture I took while sitting in my truck...
Whenever I drive off the ferry, I feel like my heart is expanding with happiness and excitement: This is my island. The air is razor clean, the trees are dense, whispers of smoke trail into the sky from wood stoves, little houses peer out from the forest, and I drive along - owning the road it seems - and I still can't believe that I am going to my very own cottage.
It was cold - minus two degrees - and when I entered the cottage I wasn't expecting just how bone-chilling it would be. Lorenzo had prepared a fire for me but it wouldn't light for some reason. It took ages, and I had to sit on the couch in my coat waiting for the place to warm up before I could do anything. I made a pot of tea, and once the fire took hold things began to feel much cozier...
The purpose of this trip was to paint all of the wood that will be used for the crown moulding, the baseboards, and the trim around the doors and windows. It was all in a stack on the floor, which looked pretty manageable. I set up the sawhorses and laid the pieces out...
We're using primed MDF and it was very dirty, so I washed everything first. I couldn't find a bucket, so I used a pot...
After I painted the first stack, I laid them out on the table and the boxes of hardwood flooring to dry...
And then I cursed my husband. The other pieces to be painted were sixteen feet long. I looked around our tiny cottage, wondering where the hell I was supposed to put them. So I figured I needed to move all the pieces I'd just painted to the upstairs to make room. Carried each wet piece, being careful not to touch the walls, up a flight of stairs. MDF is heavy - and my left elbow has been bothering me lately, making my left arm half as strong as my right. (and I'm left-handed) Regardless, once I cleared a space, I picked up the first two long pieces, and laid them on the saw horses...
These pieces were sixteen feet by about 20-inches wide. Again, I washed the pieces first because painting is all about prep. When I finished the first two pieces, this is what I was dealing with:
I picked up the first piece, arms straining and sweating profusely, and attempted to carry it over to the area I had just cleared. Guess what? They were too long. So it was back to the north-end of the cottage where I had about sixteen feet and two inches of width to play with. It was maddening and I must have yelled out the f-bomb about twenty times. Luckily, I had my Irish tunes playing the whole time so I managed to stay in a reasonably happy mood. Compared to 700 years of English oppression and being starved to death I felt I couldn't complain, really. It's remarkable that the Irish were able to write toe-tapping jigs and reels about being treated like second-class citizens...
However, I digress. By around 7pm, I was done the first coat and called it a night. But not before I nearly set the cottage on fire. The tea towel was wet, so I foolishly draped it over the stove to dry. Within a few minutes it burst into flame. What if I had been in the shower? Imagine having to call Lorenzo and tell him that his cottage is burnt toast. It gave me shivers. When I was a little kid, my grandmother's house burned down. My mother had a psychic flash about it and suddenly we were all racing over to her house for seemingly no reason. When we got there, the house was a black, charred box. Legend has it, that when the firefighters asked my Nana what she thought the cause was, she said (while puffing on a hand-rolled cigarette) "It was Satan."
She was Irish; anything bad happens, it's Satan. Or England.
Anyway, the next day, my cell phone was dead and I forgot my charger so I had to drive to the Springwater to use the pay phone. I told Lorenzo what was going on, and he said things were fine at home. We talked for about 20 minutes, or until my hands started to go numb. I bought a scone at the Mayne bakery, then I picked up some milk for my tea, stopped at Home Hardware to buy another roller, and then it was back to work.
By the time I was finished, my upper back was really sore from lifting these pieces. It wasn't just so much the heaviness as it was trying to turn them horizontally without bashing into the walls or marring the fresh paint. It was certainly a challenge.
Then I noticed that the ends were bending a bit, so I dragged the boxes of hardwood flooring around to make a better platform...
As you can see, I had barely an inch on either side of the room for this wood. I wanted to kill my husband. I don't know what he was thinking.
And then I brought down all the pieces I had previously carried upstairs as I didn't want Lorenzo to have to do it. But first I got rid of the STUPID kitchen table that kept getting in my way. I was so frustrated with it that I just picked it up and practically threw it outside onto the deck. The area now looks way better...
I finished around 6pm on Friday. I staggered upstairs and had a long shower, then I made tea and looked around at what I had done.
I felt proud of my work and my physical strength. I felt like Super Woman. My birthday was on January 1st and I wasn't feeling very happy about it. But working this hard reminded me that I still have youth and stamina and that made me feel strong and energized. I love physical work -
I'd rather chop wood in the rain than sort through mismatched socks or vacuum anyday. Most housework depletes your mind while leaving your body practically inert. The work is necessary, but it isn't hard. It's mind-numbing drudgery. What I did at the cottage was hard; it was a workout for sure and it made me happy. It also made me understand why Lorenzo never wants anyone to help him; there is real pride in doing a job all by yourself.
Why outsource work you can do yourself? One day you'll have no choice, so embrace the work you are still able to do. It makes you feel good about yourself. And for the guys out there - if you can build stuff, women will really dig you. When I stood in the cottage looking at everything my husband has achieved with just his two hands, I wanted to jump his bones.
Anyway, I awoke Saturday morning to a clear and frosty day, pleased that I had no more painting to do. I swept the floors, cleaned the stove and sink, hauled useless crap outside, wiped down the wood stove, then I drank tea and read and listened to my Irish fiddle tunes without having to endure any complaining from my kids.
And then, it was time to depart for home. I caught the the 5-pm ferry back to Vancouver...
The house was clean - Sergeant Lorenzo had put the kids to work. And there was a lovely homemade salad sitting on the counter for me. With pumpkin seeds and red cabbage! It was delicious. Lorenzo and I talked for ages, and I gave him a bit of bad news. While at the cottage, my curiosity about the hardwood floors prompted me to open a box. I pulled a few pieces out and I was thoroughly ticked off. Here is what I thought we were getting. This picture was sent to us by the company we purchased it from, and the sample he gave us confirmed that we were buying distressed Birch prefinished hardwood...
I pulled three pieces out the box and here is what we're dealing with:
I had mentioned this to Lorenzo on the pay phone from Mayne Island and he said, "I can't hear this right now." He was ready to pass out. When I showed him the samples I brought home he was quiet for a moment, then he said, "I'll make it work. We'll stagger it, and it will look fine."
Then I told him something else I'd been thinking about which made him say, "Are you trying to kill me?"
At the cottage, I found myself staring at the north wall and not liking it. We put in a single French door instead of double doors. Why? To accommodate our piano. And I think it was a mistake...
The piano should be on the west wall. It's an area that is wasted space anyway...
Lorenzo said, "What about the windows?" I told him I could put shutters on the bottom third and it will look fine. Then he asked, with eyes narrowed, if I was suggesting he tear out the French door he just installed, take down the header, open up the wall, move the electrical, all to accommodate a new set of double French doors?!
I said, "Only if you think it's a good idea." I sipped my tea and tried to look earnest. He groaned. Like I said, it's a mental sickness. We not only renovate everything we buy, but we renovate our renovations before they're even finished. I don't think we're going to do it, but somehow a single door that opens onto a deck looks pokey to me. I guess we'll see what Guido thinks the next time he goes over, which will be this weekend...
Ciao for now.
