Tag: construction

Streetside view of the blank wall in a hailstorm last July

Small House Living: Tool Girl Redux

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I live in a small house by choice. I like compact spaces and I like living simply. I also want to be comfortable, efficient with energy and materials, and happy in my space. And after living for almost 29 years with a sculptor who could and did design and build anything, I’m picky about details.

So even though my little house and its companion garage/studio were finished last year, I’m still completing a few projects. Today’s was a combination of design and whimsy.

Streetside view of the blank wall in a hailstorm last July Streetside view of the blank wall in a hailstorm last July

My house faces south to harvest the sun’s heat in winter, so it’s sideways to the street with a tall blank wall on that side. Tom Pokorny, my inspired designer, specified a window in that wall. That window got nixed because of noise issues. Instead, we added a Craftsman-stye porch roof over a sandstone bench.

Only there was still too much blank wall. I decided it needed a faux window–my little joke, the window that’s not a window–and asked my glass guy, Steve Duhaime, another amazing designer, if he had any junky wood window frames lying around.

The faux window before painting. The faux window last August before painting

He did. I hauled home a shabby frame about six feet wide by three feet high, divided into three lights. I sanded it down, added brackets to reinforce joints long since warped in our dry climate, and screwed it to the wall above the bench. Then I painted it red to match the existing doors and windows.

Still, it needed something more. While I was inventing back-splashes of galvanized sheet steel for the galley kitchen in Treehouse, my studio, I realized what that something was: window boxes.

Not just any window boxes, mind you—ones that honored the industrial history of the place. I measured and thought, and then drew up plans for three simple galvanized sheet-steel window boxes.

Last September, I took the plans to Janet at Johnny Berndt & Sons, a local fabrication shop. “No rush,” I said. “Just ask Ken to make them when he has time.”

Window box interior with drain hole, and at top, the lip that they hang from on the frame. Window box interior with drain hole, and at top, the lip that they hang from.

She called last week to say they were ready. All they needed were drain holes. I drilled those this morning, and then fitted my glorious new window boxes on their faux window frame.

The window boxes, partly filled with wreath greens The window boxes, partly filled with wreath greens

It’s too early to plant, so I took apart the big wreath I had hung up for the winter holidays, and filled the boxes with its fragrant juniper and fir greenery.

I was so pleased with myself, and it was so warm in the sun against that wall that I took my lunch outside and ate on the sandstone bench under my new window boxes.

Window boxes in place and full of fragrant wreath greens Window boxes in place and full of fragrant wreath greens

I’ve thought a lot since having to learn power tools and carpentry in order to finish the big house about what it is that is so satisfying about acquiring this basic competence with building and designing. Every time I finish a project, no matter how simple, I am ridiculously pleased with myself, as if it’s a huge achievement.

The truth is, it is a huge achievement. I never so much as picked up a power tool before Richard died. He was so completely and elegantly competent at using tools, designing with wood, stone and steel, and building anything from a hand-operated crane to heft boulders to a whole house, that I never tried to learn. My efforts would have been painfully slow and clumsy by comparison.

Richard with "Matriculation," ready to load it on a trailer to install in the Steamplant Sculpture Garden Richard with “Matriculation,” a sculpture, and the hand-crane he invented and built

Nor did I grow up with that competence. My Norwegian granddad Olav, a mechanical engineer and the only one in my small family who could design and build, never considered teaching me to use his tools. And I, the good girl, never asked.

Now it’s just me, and while my efforts may be slow and clumsy, they work. That I can cut and mill lumber, work with steel, and design things like custom window boxes that actually look and function as I imagined is a huge source of pride for me. I didn’t know I could.

This “tool girl” work has expanded my sense of me, of possibilities. (Thank you, Susan Tomlinson, for the phrase and for your example!)

That sense of possibilities is what is so satisfying: there is more to me than I realized. I like knowing that.

Those window boxes and the red faux window make the wall friendly and make me smile.... Those window boxes and the red faux window make the wall a human scale and make me smile….

Dawn from my front deck after a "male" rain (an intense but brief thundershower).

Aiming for Sustainability

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Dawn from my front deck after a "male" rain (an intense but brief thundershower). Dawn from my front deck after a “male” rain (an intense but brief thundershower). Photo: Susan J. Tweit

Sustainable. adj. 1. Able to be maintained at a certain rate or level. Conserving an ecological balance by avoiding depletion of natural resources. 2. Able to be upheld or defended.

No matter how overused it may be, I find the idea of sustainability meaningful, especially at the personal level: What does it mean to live a sustainable life? To find a balance that can be maintained in the long-term? A life that can be “upheld”?

Creek House, my small house, on a clear evening. Those reflective dark panels on the roof are a 3.0 kw photovoltaic array. Creek House, my small house, on a clear evening. Those reflective dark panels on the roof are a 3.0 kw photovoltaic array. Photo: Susan J. Tweit

For the past 15 months, I’ve been engaged in building and finishing my new small house and garage/studio, an activity that might not seem particularly sustainable (new house, new materials, filling yet another bit of urban habitat with a building).

I can’t argue about that aspect: I did use some new materials, in particular concrete, which requires a great deal of energy in manufacturing, and new wood, steel and the rare earths that go into photovoltaic panels. I also can’t argue about the fact that my house and studio, small as they are, displace other species.

In that sense, it’s not a sustainable project. In other ways, it is. (Sustainability, like so many things in life, is not a simple concept.)

Digging footer trenches for the house in my post-industrial slope. Digging footer trenches for the house in my post-industrial slope. Photo: Susan J. Tweit

The parcel I built on was the last un-reclaimed slice of what Richard called our “decaying industrial empire.” This long, wedge-shaped chunk seems to have been an informal dump–its post-industrial “soil” yields abundant scraps of metal, railroad rails, and chunks of concrete, coal and broken glass, among other things.

A mule deer doe grazing my native grassland about four feet from my living room window. A mule deer doe grazing my native grassland about four feet from my living room window. Photo: Susan J. Tweit

Before we began excavation in April of 2013, the place was a vacant lot that sprouted a healthy population of invasive weeds. In replanting the native high-desert grassland community around my buildings instead of a lawn, I’m restoring habitat and mitigating my impact. (The deer and hummingbirds certainly approve!)

Rufous Hummingbird perched on the deck railings. Rufous Hummingbird perched on the deck railings. Photo: Susan J. Tweit

The native plant community also acts as a living sponge, cleaning the soil and the water that runs off into Ditch Creek. That’s definitely “conserving an ecological balance.”

In designing the house, I aimed for small and efficient (thanks to Tom Pokorny at Natural Habitats). The house is 725 square feet; the studio atop the garage for guests and Terraphilia residents is 384.

Treehouse (the garage/studio) and Creek House last fall, still under construction. Photo: Susan J. Tweit Treehouse (the garage/studio) and Creek House last fall, still under construction. Photo: Susan J. Tweit

Both structures are passive solar, using our abundant winter sunshine for heat and summer’s down-valley breezes for cooling. They consume so little electricity and natural gas that the payments from the electric utility for the excess my photovoltaic panels produce cover my natural gas bills.

I was also deliberate about fitting into the neighborhood. The two buildings are designed to look like railroad sheds that grew over the years. The exterior finishes are durable, long-lasting ones appropriate to both the industrial character and this harsh high-desert climate.

Creek house kitchen, at the east end of it's tiny "great room." Creek house kitchen, at the east end of its tiny “great room.” Photo: Susan J. Tweit

I also used recycled and scrap materials wherever possible (my builder, Dan Thomas, also of Natural Habitats, made that easier). For instance, those kitchen cabinets are made from leftover ash from the cabinets Richard built for Terraphilia, my old house; the corrugated metal island facing is a scrap from his studio; the countertops are also made of laminate left from Terraphilia as well.

Steel grate ramp leading from the front deck to the side garage door. Steel grate ramp leading from the front deck to the side garage door. Photo: Susan J. Tweit

The house is also designed to be accommodating to people of differing mobility, including me as I age, hence touches like the ramps built into the front deck.

I did my best to be thoughtful throughout the process and to consider sustainability in each decision—this is my last house and I want be proud of it. I think that honors the spirit of sustainability.

Whitestem evening-primrose re-claiming my industrial site. Whitestem evening-primrose re-claiming my industrial site. Photo: Susan J. Tweit

A hailstone about the size of a mothball that broke on impact.

Dirtwork: Not-So-Dry Stream Drainage

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Last Tuesday afternoon, thunder rumbled ominously, cold gusts whipped up dust-dry soil, and the light went all storm-gray. I stood on the front deck watching streamers of rain approach and debated about whether or not to set out on my usual walk to the Post Office.

A hailstone about the size of a mothball that broke on impact. A hailstone that broke on impact.

Until I felt the first cold drop. It was hard. It bounced, white and rounded.

What? Then I heard the clatter: hail.

I ducked back inside. The cloud opened up and all hail broke loose. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist the pun!) Over the next 25 minutes, more precipitation poured from the sky than we had received in the last two months–six-tenths of an inch.

Rain on my metal roof makes an audible drumming I enjoy. Hail produces an alarming cacophony of clanging, clattering, and crashing.

Rain barrel overflows at the height of the storm. Rain barrel overflows at the height of the storm.

I dashed out at the height of the storm to open the drain on my overflowing rain barrel and to check on the studio and garage. All was well.

Except for the dry stream drainage I designed to carry runoff from just this sort of downpour down the slope between the two buildings without eroding or flooding the creek with sediment.

The side of the dry stream that drains Creek House was working just as planned. The “tributary” that drained the runoff from Treehouse’s shed roof overflowed and cut a new channel down one side of the steps.

My "dry" stream drainage in a moment of not-so-dry. My “dry” stream drainage in a moment of not-so-dry hail.

Not good.

So yesterday morning, I did a little fluvial engineering, otherwise known as dirtwork. I started by digging a small retention basin where the roof drainage from Treehouse overflowed.

Retention basin beyond the downspout, the beginning of the tributary channel in front. Retention basin beyond the downspout, the beginning of the tributary channel in front.

That was the easy part—I was digging in relatively loose construction road base, not the compacted layers of post-industrial-dump over river cobbles that make up the natural “soil.”

From that small retention basin—which I will line with river rock—I used my trusty mattock to hack a channel aiming downhill to the existing dry stream drainage, cutting deep to keep it from overflowing again.

The tributary crossing the middle of the photo, aiming for the main stem of the drainage in the background. The black grating is the ramp coming off the Creek House deck, allowing wheeled access from the house to the garage. The tributary crossing the middle of the photo toward the main stem of the drainage in the background. The black grating is the end of the ramp coming off the Creek House deck.

And I do mean hack. I chipped my way through layers of cemented fly ash, fused glass and coal-dust, and pried out cobbles as big as one twice the size of my head that weighed 50 pounds. (Good thing Richard taught me about fulcrums and levers.)

The steps, slope, and main dry creek channel; the new tributary comes in from the left of the wheelchair ramp. The steps, slope, and main creek channel; the new tributary comes in from the left of the wheelchair ramp. (Yet to come are a flagstone patio on the left side of the photo and more high-desert plants.)

It took me three sweaty hours to connect the new tributary to the main stem of the dry stream, stopping now and again to guzzle water and rest.

When I finished, I cleaned off my tools, tested the new channel by running water down it, and shot a few photos.

The drainage from the second-story deck of Treehouse The drainage from the second-story deck of Treehouse

And then I went inside to soak my aching muscles in a hot bath. As I soaked, I thought about how good it feels to be able to design a solution to my drainage problem, and build it myself. Despite working right to the edge of exhaustion doing it.

Richard was so much larger and stronger than me (6 feet tall and 180 pounds of nicely toned muscle to my 5-foot-six and 115 pounds of skinny) it was natural for him to do all of the heavy work. That never bothered me.

Now that it’s just me, solo, it’s surprisingly satisfying to discover all I can do.

I’d rather have my love back beside me. Since that’s not an option (dammit), I’m having fun exploring my inner dirt-worker. Seeing muscles appear on my middle-aged frame is pretty cool too.

Yeah, I'm solo and I'm strong! Yeah, I’m solo and I’m strong!

Dreaming Home

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New moon framed by utility wires.

Last night I looked up from my reading and spotted the new moon sliding toward the horizon. I leaped up, snagged my camera, slipped on my flip-flops and headed out the front door, along the deck, across the courtyard and up the stairs to the second-floor deck of the studio.

I snapped some shots of that slim crescent glimmering as it dropped past the utility wires in the alley. As the earth continued to turn, I watched the moon disappear behind the distant peaks.

I turned too, and headed to the stairs.

Creek House at dusk, with S Mountain and the Arkansas Hills in the distance. Creek House at dusk, with S Mountain and the Arkansas Hills in the distance.

As I rounded the corner, I looked down and my heart filled. There was my sweet house, the little place I envisioned as a nest for me after Richard’s death, glowing in the dusk. Home.

I did it! I thought. I made it happen.

Not by myself, of course, and not easily.

One evening in late winter, 2012, I walked the length of this long, skinny parcel, the last still-junky part of our formerly industrial property. I paced through dried skeletons of kochia and tumbleweed, past the pile of rounded boulders Richard stashed here for sculptures that would new never be created, imagining a house and studio.

My house site before construction. (The boulders are Richard's spare sculpture materials.) My house site before construction. (The boulders are Richard’s spare sculpture materials.)

They would be small and sustainable, generate solar power and require very little energy, structures that reflected the industrial past of the parcel and also would enhance the neighborhood and be a joy to live in. With, of course, landscaping that would not only incorporate the native plant community, but would provide habitat for pollinators and songbirds, along with a host of other critters large and small.

I could see it. As the stars winked on overhead, I made my wish: that I could somehow manage to make that vision real.

I have. Earlier this month, I passed the final inspections, the last regulatory hurdle on both buildings.

The tiny house-to-be with its small garage with studio above. Like the big house, it's also passive solar and will be powered by a (much smaller) photovoltaic array. The “tail,” with house and garage/studio drawn in.

Back in March of 2012, standing on what was a weed-choked former industrial dump site, I had a lot to learn about everything related to building. First, I had to subdivide this odd-shaped “tail” from the rest of the property.

I had to finish Terraphilia, the house and historic studio combination where Richard and I had lived. Which meant learning how to hang interior doors, trim windows and door openings, and to invent and put in baseboard, as well as finishing some cabinetry and figuring out how to finish the master bath.

The tub is usable, but the walls around it need finishing; the shower plumbing is in the wall to the left. The unfinished tub-shower area in the master bathroom at Terraphilia.

I had to finagle the financing to make my tiny house and studio a reality before I sold Terraphilia (where all my money lived). I had to choose the right people to design and build my new place.

And I had to figure out how to earn enough money to pay my everyday bills during the process, and to overcome my fears about not knowing anything about what I was attempting to do or not being able to make the whole complicated dream into reality.

Last night, looking down at Creek House in the dusk, I knew I had made the right decisions. That I am finally home in this new life after Richard. Home in a place that speaks my mission to live with my heart outstretched as if it were my hand. To fashion a sustainable life that honors the community of my fellow humans and the community of the land.

A happy life, too.

My evening spot on the street-side of the front deck My spot on the street-side of the front deck, next to my tiny kitchen garden.

Tonight, sitting in my evening spot on the deck and watching the last light tint the mountainsides gold, my heart is still full. I am home. Not in the forever home Richard built for the two of us. Home in the place I dreamed up to shelter me as I learned how to live on my own.

Thank you to all who helped me make that dream real. I am blessed.

My house site before construction. (The boulders are Richard's spare sculpture materials.)

Building a New Life

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My house site before construction. (The boulders are Richard's spare sculpture materials.) The house site before construction. (The boulders–which I saved for landscaping–are Richard’s spare sculpture materials.)

Almost 14 months ago, on April 4, 2013, Tommy Meyers drove his backhoe up the bank onto this weedy, junk-filled former industrial site and began excavating for my new house.

I worked in my office in my old house, Terraphilia, with the windows wide open, listening to the growling of the backhoe engine. What Tommy was doing, I wrote then, was “breaking ground for my new life.”

Tommy Meyers and backhoe break ground for Tree House. Tommy Meyers and his backhoe commence work.

This afternoon, I picked up the Certificate of Occupancy for the new house, which means I can legally occupy what I call Creek House, in honor of the chuckling voice of nearby Ditch Creek.

The Certificate of Occupancy for Tree House. The Certificate of Occupancy for Creek House.

(I’m still awaiting the final inspection for Treehouse, the garage with studio above, and its CO.)

I have, of course, been living here since last October, when the sale on Terraphilia closed. The Building Department granted me a temporary CO then; none of us imagined I would be “temporary” for so long.

I was so delighted to receive my Certificate of Occupancy this afternoon that I took myself out to Salida Greenhouses and bought a big new blue-glazed pot to put at the street-side entrance of my front deck.

The new pot, blue to match the two pots by the front door, angled to fit into the corner of the deck railing by the front-stairs-to-be. The new pot, blue to match the two pots by the front door, angled to fit into the corner of the deck railing by the front-stairs-to-be.

Three large pots and a stock tank already sit on my front deck, making up my kitchen-garden-in-containers. I needed another pot for flowers to attract pollinators to keep my garden healthy (and make me smile at the blooms and their flying visitors).

As I filled the new pot with organic potting soil, mixed in compost for nutrients and water-retention, and carefully planted fuchsia and splashy coleus, calibrachoa and mini-petunias, ageratum and agastache, I thought about building both a house and a new life.

Fuchsia blooms I trimmed off to help the new plant get established. Fuchsia blooms I trimmed off to help the new plant get established.

I’ve just passed the two-and-a-half year mark since Richard died. (It was Tuesday at 11:07 am; I was at SeaTac Airport waiting for a flight home.) In the context of the nearly 29 years we were together, two and a half years is a relatively short span.

Sometimes I think I’m doing well in this metamorphosis into whoever it is I’m becoming. Other times I feel exposed and vulnerable, one giant nerve ending quivering with emotion.

Sometimes I feel like I’ve figured out what I’m doing and other times I feel like a kid trying on someone else’s clothes.

It’s a relief when I feel competent and strong, until I do something stupid or thoughtless. And then I just feel dumb, and clumsy with my new self.

Kayaking in the Columbia River near Portland Kayaking in the Columbia River near Portland

Why it is that losing a spouse has stripped me so bare? Because of the length of our partnership, I think, but also and perhaps more importantly, because of the depth of it. We really were each others’ other half.

Our lives were shaped to fit the other. Not in a deforming way; each of us flourished in the shelter and embrace of the other.

Molly, Richard and me at our apartment in Boulder, Colorado. Molly, Richard and me at our apartment in Boulder, Colorado.

Without Richard, I am not only just me, I’m a me I’ve never known as an adult. We met and paired after one date. I was 25. He was 33. It’s no exaggeration to say we raised each other while we raised Molly.

Now I am raising a new solo me. It’s freeing, exciting, exhausting, and scary. And as with this house, each step is taking a lot longer than I imagined.

Unlike the CO I just received, there won’t be any official paperwork to show when I’m done. Because this very figuring out who I am and how to be in this world IS my new life.

When it’s over, so am I. I only hope I’ll have known plenty of moments where I feel like I’m living it well and lovingly.

A sunshine-bright coleus, planted with love today. A sunshine-bright coleus, planted today.

Self-portrait in the bathroom mirror: note the pencil behind the ear, a portent.

Tool Girl Redux

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Self-portrait in the bathroom mirror: note the pencil behind the ear, a portent. Self-portrait in the bathroom mirror: note carpenter’s pencil behind the ear.

Last spring, when I was starting to feel like I knew what I was doing with finish carpentry, I said confidently to my builder, Dan Thomas of Natural Habitats, “I’ll do the trim work for the new house.”

Big words. By the time I moved the air compressor out of Terraphilia and finished the final details, I had rethought that pronouncement.

For one thing, I’m slow. I have to figure out everything–tools, materials, design–step by step. If I were experienced, a lot of that would be automatic. (Which isn’t always good–sometimes the best solution isn’t the habitual one.)

For another, I had a few other things to do: pack, sort, organize, sell, and move.

A steel rod with an eyelet at each end holds lace curtains, and slides out to remove them. A steel rod with an eye hook at each end holds lace curtains, and slides out to remove them.

And I was simply burned out. I had pushed so hard for so long to finish the work at Terraphilia (and did, thanks to the help of various friends) that I had zero interest in plugging in the air compressor and picking up my tools again.

I didn’t even organize my new workshop just off the garage at Treehouse. My neighbor Bev helped me move the crates and bins of tools, and there they sit, unpacked.

I’ve done a few little things: I hung a couple of robe hooks, screwed a paper towel dispenser under a kitchen cabinet (the screws supplied were too long, so that was a learning experience), laid carpet tiles in my office, and invented clever steel-rod-and-eye hook curtain holders for the French doors.

Others did the big stuff: finished and put up the trim and baseboard (thank you, Mackie and Verlin), built the kitchen cabinets and the desk and bookshelves in my office (thanks, Rob and Rachel), and built the counter and pantry shelves in the utility area of the bathroom, the workbench in the shop and the shelves in the garage (many thanks, Eric)….

There’s still plenty to do to make life in 725 square feet comfortable. For instance, I have only one closet, which is of course in the bedroom. My coats and jackets ended up buried in the back of it.

The compound miter saw is built into my workbench. The board (a scrap of trim) that will be the base for the coat rack. (The sign on the back of the workbench is from a gallery that carried Richard’s work.)

The other day I had an aha! moment and realized that the wall behind my bedroom door would accommodate a coat rack. I could have bought one, but really, why would I?

I perused the selection of  hooks at Hyltons, the lumberyard a block away, and bought four.

This afternoon, I went out to my workshop, sorted through the scrap pile, and found a length of 1X4 trim perfect for a base for the hooks.

I cut the board to length with my miter saw, searched through bins until I found my random orbital sander and sanded the front and edges.

Screws, bits and drivers for my cordless drill, hooks, the drill, tape measure, the rack base, and my little torpedo level Screws, bits and drivers for my cordless drill, hooks, the drill, tape measure, the rack base, and my little torpedo level

I found the appropriate color of paint to match the wall, dug out my good brushes, and painted the board.

Then I brought my coat-rack base inside and assembled tools for mounting it to the wall and screwing on the hooks. I figured out where I wanted the rack on the wall, leveled it, marked the corners, and checked to make sure I knew where the studs were.

I was feeling pretty competent until I drilled the first hole and found no stud. Huh. I drilled another hole and ditto.

So I got one of those clever plastic drywall anchors, tapped it into the first hole and screwed into it. At least I knew what to do….

My brand-new coat rack, already full. My brand-new coat rack

I got the board up, measured the spacing for the hooks, drilled holes for their screws, screwed them in, and voila! I have a coat and hat rack, neatly hidden behind the open bedroom door, yet still easily accessible.

It’s nothing fancy, but I made and installed it myself. I forgot how satisfying that is.

My desk in Creek House--the two piles to the left of my computer are Bless the Birds.

Sculpting Memoir

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My desk in Creek House--the two piles to the left of my computer are Bless the Birds. My desk in Creek House–the two piles to the left of my computer are Bless the Birds.

Last week was my first full week at home. Monday morning, after the usual contractor consults, I pulled out my memoir-in-progress.

I haven’t looked at the manuscript I call Bless the Birds since late July, when I got two purchase offers on Terraphilia and it was clear I needed to focus on finishing that house, radically pruning my stuff and Richard’s shop-full of sculpture tools, packing, and getting Creek House finished enough that I could move in.

When I picked up the manuscript Monday morning, two-and-a-half months later, I wasn’t sure what I’d find.

Oh, I know the story. I lived it. But living the story and writing it are two very different things, as anyone who writes memoir can attest. When I finished the rough draft last spring, it was nearly twice as long as I wanted.

Richard with a basin in progress Richard with a basin in progress

My task is to cut away the excess, a process similar, I imagine, to how Richard carved his stunning basins from rough boulders.

First you find boulder and turn it over to study it from all angles. Eventually you “see” the basin in it. Once you’ve figured out where to start, you simply carve away the rock that isn’t necessary to reveal the beauty within–the story hiding under the rough exterior.

I have the boulder, I know there’s a story in it. I just need to carve away words and paragraphs, scenes and pages until the inner tale emerges, shot through with sparkling crystalline veins. Oh, for Richard’s diamond-tipped power tools!

When I started reading Monday, the 130,000-word manuscript felt heavy as a boulder. Friday afternoon when I tore myself away, I had excised 11,000 words.

At 300 words per page–12 point Times Roman, double-spaced–that’s 37 pages. I’ve got another 30,000 words to cut. I’m hoping to finish carving by November 27th, two years from the day Richard died.

Richard chisels the excess from a one-ton granite boulder. Richard chisels the excess from a one-ton granite boulder.

How do I know what to cut? I listen to the story, reading it out loud.

When I find my attention wandering, or want to skip a section, I go back to where the story last had me by the throat. Starting there, I listen carefully, metaphorically turning over the rock, searching for what needs to be chiseled away to reveal the inner tale.

When I know–it’s a gut feeling, I pick up my word-sculpting tools (highlight and delete, or cut and paste into another file if I can’t part with passages I’ve worked so hard on) and chisel away. Then I read aloud again. And repeat–until the words blur, and it’s time to do something else.

The stairs in progress, with risers and treads of recycled plastic and wood chip "lumber." Treehouse stairs–the risers and treads are recycled plastic and wood chip “lumber.”

Last week, that “something else” included laying the carpet tiles visible on my office floor in the photo above, a mix of two Flor® carpet tile patterns. They’re non-toxic, made in the US of recycled materials, and I could lay them myself. Perfect!

It also included consulting with Steve and crew of SKT Construction as they built the stairs up the outside wall at Treehouse leading to the studio.

And celebrating with my solar guy, Tim Klco of Peak Solar Designs, after my electric utility finally hooked my 3.0 kw photovoltaic system to the grid so my 12 panels could supply my house with their clean power.

Photovoltaic panels on the roof of Creek House from the top of the new Treehouse stairs. Photovoltaic panels on the roof of Creek House from the top of the new Treehouse stairs.

And picking rocks from the driveway after the crew from A-1 Concrete poured the apron by the garage so I could finally back my car inside its new home.

So yeah, I’m back to writing. And still building. It’s a good combination: sculpting a story and making a home.

I’d rather be living with the smiling guy at the top of the post, the sculptor holding one of the rocks he so loved. But he’s gone on to the next turn of the cycle we call life, so I’m making a life on my own.

Tonight's sunset from the deck at Treehouse--the roof on the right is Richard's former shop. Sunset from the deck at Treehouse–the roof on the right is Richard’s former shop.

It’s a pretty darned good one. I’m proud of that.

Creek House from the south (the side facing the creek) in the evening sun.

Planting Seeds

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Creek House from the south (the side facing the creek) in the evening sun. Creek House from the south (the side facing the creek) in the evening sun. (The street is to the right.)

Creek House, my new place, faces south to take advantage of the winter sun for heat. That puts it sideways to the street, a fact that challenged my designer, Tom Pokorny, and me in making the street-side “friendly” to passers-by.

Physical constraints of the lot, especially the location of the city sewer line, added considerably to that challenge.

Instead of being under the street on the downhill side of the lot, the closest sewer line is in the alley at the opposite end, 120 feet from the house–and uphill. Which meant the floor of the house (it’s slab on grade construction) had to be raised more than five feet above the lowest edge of the lot.

The street side of Creek House--definitely not pretty. Yet. The street side of Creek House–definitely not pretty. Yet.

That makes for steep street-side bank, and a tall, if small house.

Tom contributed details like windows and a small porch roof to break up what would otherwise have been blank walls.

Designing the landscaping is my area. I’ve had a couple of months to think about how to create an inviting, sustainable and useful street frontage.

My plan involves boulders (on the lower left in the photo are glacially rounded local boulders left from Richard’s overflow rockyard), terracing, paths, a small sitting area under the overhanging porch roof, and plants that will provide color in all seasons and habitat for songbirds and pollinators (without requiring much water or being attractive to Salida’s over-large population of mule deer).

The side yard from the back door stoop. The side yard from the back door stoop.

Before I can start on those plans, the front and side deck has to go in, and before that can happen, Treehouse, the garage with second-floor studio, has to be finished. While I wait (patiently, of course), I decided to get started on healing another part of my all-roadbase, all-disturbed-by-construction yard.

Just out my back door (which is currently my front door since I have no front entry deck, not that I’m impatient…) is a wedge-shaped piece of side yard with the widest end toward the street .

It slopes gently toward the street-side bank and is sheltered by the long north wall of the house. Unlike the creek side of the house, it has the potential to be relatively private. I envision a swath of dryland native meadow where I can sit among grasses and wildflowers to think and dream. As evinced by the photo above, it’s not that now.

The real Roadbase seed mix. Roadbase seed mix

On Saturday afternoon, I spent a couple of hours raking the roadbase to remove the larger rock fragments. (Roadbase is crushed native rock with some soil particles, and essentially no organic matter. Its name reflects what it’s used for, a stable base for roads and house foundations. It’s a good thing our native grassland plants are used to rooting in rocky, well-drained, nutrient poor soil.)

Then I scattered the seed mix I bought from my friends Alex and Suzanne of Western Native Seed, and hauled mulch from the pile on the street-side slope to cover the seeds. The mix is a custom blend of native bunchgrasses, wildflowers and a few shrubs that Alex developed for the original meadow restoration at Terraphilia, where the yard had been covered with four inches of roadbase and then compacted. At the time, none of us were sure native plants would grow there at all–hence the half-joking name of the seed mix–but I was determined.

Spreading mulch over the seeds. (The large windows are my office.) Spreading mulch over the seeds. (The large windows are my office.)

So were the wildflowers and grasses, apparently, because that meadow restoration project succeeded far beyond even my dreams.

That’s my hope for the side yard here at Creek House. I can imagine stepping out the back door and sitting amidst my wildflowers and native grasses with their hovering and fluttering pollinators. Just the thought makes me smile.

It feels good to get started on my new yard, the last piece of this formerly unloved industrial property to be restored. As I broadcast seed on Saturday, covered it with mulch, and then gave all those embryonic lives a good soaking drink, it occurred to me that I was seeding my new life too.

Roadbase Mix meadow at Terraphilia in summer Roadbase Mix meadow at Terraphilia in summer

Creek House "great room"--living, dining, kitchen all in one cozy and inviting space.

Home at last….

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Creek House "great room"--living, dining, kitchen all in one cozy and inviting space. The “great room”–living, dining, kitchen all in one open space.

I’m home. At Creek House. I spent the entire week packing, moving, unpacking moving more, reorganizing, cleaning and settling in. There were glitches. Like when my high-speed internet provider disconnected the service at Terraphilia as scheduled on Wednesday morning, and then “forgot” to reconnect me at Creek House.

I was at the door of the cable company when they opened Thursday morning. Only to learn that they couldn’t hook me up until Saturday. Evening.

“Really?” I said. I had work in progress. Deadlines that required internet access to accomplish.

Really, said the lady behind the counter.

Okay. Deep breath.

Lace curtain from the outside of the back door Lace curtain from the outside of the back door

I took advantage of my unscheduled tumble to the wrong side of the digital divide to invent cool curtain rods for the lace curtains on the French doors at the front and back of Creek House using chrome steel rods and eye hooks, build some pantry shelves (nothing fancy, but they work), move more stuff, deal with more construction hiccups, to move more things….

It was an interesting week. “Interesting,” that is, in the sense of the old Chinese curse, May you live in interesting times. (The curse may or may not be apocryphal, but it fits.) I have been living interesting times since Richard began seeing birds two years, one month and a week ago.

I haven’t moved an entire household by myself since I was a broke and newly divorced grad student, and “entire household” meant one towel, one washcloth, one pillow, one set of sheets…. I have more stuff now, and more riding on finishing the move on time, like the sale of Terraphilia, which closes Wednesday morning.

I didn’t do this move by myself. My friends turned out to help in generous and unexpected ways. But I was the only one responsible for making sure everything got done. And the schedule is tight. After closing, I hit the road to drive to Kansas City, where I’ll teach a workshop I haven’t had time to prepare yet.

My neighbor Bev helped all week, schlepping and cleaning. (Bev’s glorious cottage gardens were the only point of light in this down-beyond-the-heels neighborhood when Richard and I bought our first dilapidated property here. Those gardens convinced us to take a chance. They were right.)

Creek House--habitable, but not quite finished, including the not-there front entry deck. Creek House–habitable, but not quite finished, especially the not-there-yet front entry deck.

My girlfriends turned out one evening for a couple of hours of load-boxes-onto-the-handcart, bump the handcart down the alley and around the steep curve of my not-finished-driveway, past Treehouse and across the dirt yard to Creek House to fill the cabinets and drawers and shelves in my new kitchen.

And stayed to drink wine and eat munchies while I rearranged their handiwork. (Thanks to Bev, Lisa M, Toni, Geraldine, and Kerry!)

Neighbor Judy, also the real estate agent for the buyers of Terraphilia, stopped by one afternoon–“I was biking home to put my feet up for a few minutes and saw you.”–instead resting, she helped me schlep boxes. A friend and former Salidan who now lives in Austin hallooed through the back door another afternoon, completely surprising me. She helped me move the contents of the fridge and freezer plus the entire pantry. Thank you, Kathie!

Yesterday, Tony and Maggie helped me move the last of the art, and patch nail holes and touch up paint at Terraphilia, where the empty rooms now echo. Tony even braved my rickety extension-ladder to attach a hanging sculpture twelve feet up (“You might want a new ladder,” he said calmly after he climbed down); Maggie helped with the last fall clean-up of Terraphilia’s kitchen garden.

Treehouse--that glorious scarlet shrub is native three-tip sumac. I'll be planting more of it. Treehouse–that glorious scarlet shrub is native three-tip sumac. I’ll be planting more of it.

I’m here now. At Creek House, with Treehouse next door. Neither are finished. Yet both feel like home–the first night I slept here, I saw a meteor streak across the almost-dark sky out the bedroom window.

When I return next week, construction will still swirl around me and the entire yard will still be bare dirt (more accurately, bare roadbase, which is worse).

But I’ll be home. Truly home for the first time since Richard died and Terraphilia immediately became way too big for the one of me.

Home in my own snug house with Richard’s art around me. I am blessed.

“Interesting” this journey we call life is. Full of grace, too. Thanks for being part of mine—both the journey and the grace.

Maple strip flooring reclaimed from an old gymnasium.

Floors and Floods

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Maple strip flooring reclaimed from an old gymnasium. reclaimed maple flooring

Late this afternoon when I stepped out on the loading dock of Richard’s shop, my flooring guys, James Mayfield and his brother, called me over to the new studio above the garage.

“We’re putting on the first coat of sealer. Take a look.”

I climbed the extension ladder, still the only access. (The exterior stairs will go in after it quits raining and my excavator can get his backhoe back on site for some serious grading.)

I looked through the door. “Oh yeah!” James stopped swabbing long enough for me to shoot a photo.

“It’s gorgeous. I love the way you let hints of the original markings remain. They tell a story.”

The maple floor boards before sanding, with random markings from its past as a gym floor. The maple floor boards before sanding, with random markings from its past as a gym floor.

James nodded. He’s very southern-culture courteous, but I could tell the day before when I asked him to sand only enough to level the surface, and not to remove all of the paint from what had once been a school gymnasium floor, he was dubious. But willing to humor his client.

“I wasn’t sure how it would look,” he said today. “I’ve never done a floor that we didn’t sand until it was ‘perfect.’ But this turned out good.”

“I want people to know it had another life before this one,” I said, “so they think about reusing materials like wood.”

We stood companionably, admiring the floor. Then I thanked James, climbed down the ladder and opened the garage door.

A small truckload of appliance boxes ready to be distributed to Creek House and Treehouse A small truckload of appliance boxes ready to be distributed.

And smiled again, this time at the sight of boxes  of appliances.

Another sign of progress, even though they’re still waiting to be moved to their eventual destinations in Creek House (my new home) and Treehouse (the garage/studio).

I checked each one on my mental list and then walked across what will be the courtyard between the two buildings.

I started to go around to the back door of Creek House, and then remembered that those floors had just gotten their second coat of sealer. I peered in the living room window instead.

Concrete floors in Creek House, newly sealed. Concrete floors in Creek House, newly sealed.

And smiled yet again. Even through the dirt-splattered pane, the floor looked great.

The house floor–the thermal mass that will keep the house warm in winter and cool in summer–is simple concrete. The guys at A-1 Concrete carefully troweled it smooth; Verlin and crew of Natural Habitats sealed it with non-VOC-emitting Behr Concrete Sealer.

The subtle patterning is what happens as concrete is mixed, plus the soft marbling from the tarps laid over it as it cures–and a few random construction drips and splotches. It too, tells a story.

Later, as I was pulling and bagging the late-summer growth of invasive tumbleweed and kochia along the City Trail across the creek, in the process revealing clumps of wildflowers colonizing the edges of the trail, the sun slipped through a gap in the clouds.

A rainbow arches over Salida and Creek House. Surely a good sign. A rainbow arches over Salida and Creek House.

I looked up and spotted a rainbow. I straightened my stiff back, trotted across the temporary bridge over Ditch Creek, and climbed the ladder to the Treehouse deck.

As I shot a photo, a woman walked by on the trail, her back to the rainbow. On impulse, I cupped my hands and shouted, “Rainbow!” and pointed.

She popped the earbuds out of her ears, turned, and grinned, her smile at least as big as the one on my face.

“Thank you!” she called. “I would have missed it.”

“You’re welcome. It was too good to keep to myself.”

She waved, replaced the earbuds and headed on up the path. I climbed down the ladder, finished weeding, and lugged two heavy black plastic trash bags to the city can at the other end of the block.

The rain started again as I walked home, still smiling.

*****

Tonight, a stalled monsoon front continues to deluge Colorado’s Front Range (east of my mountain valley), causing hundred-year floods, and washing away highways, houses and cars. My heart goes out to all affected by this wild weather, especially ironic after years of withering drought. Stay safe!