True Grit

Hello, friend! Thank you for joining me here.

When last I wrote, we were poised for the removal of bat guano from our attic. I thought it would be messy, and it was, but I had no idea that that mess was only the beginning.

Our pest control company showed up on a brisk and snowy November morning to suck all the insulation and critter droppings out of the attic of our 1887 farmhouse. The reason for this, beyond it just feeling nasty to know you are living with filth above your head, was so that we could run new electricity from the attic to the second floor. As I mentioned in my last post, we could not start the attic clean out until bat mating season ended in early fall. Really, you can’t make this stuff up. Bats are protected in Minnesota, and there are rules about messing with their habitats, even if those habitats include your house. I am grateful every day that I have yet to see a live bat anywhere on our property, but they have made a hefty impression, nonetheless. Judging by the sheer volume of guano (a fancy word for bat poop), they must’ve had some wild times up there. Come to find out, the bats were inclusive in their entertaining; the party invites extended to mice and rats, with nests aplenty. Can you picture it? I’m pretty sure that the woman who lived here for half a century before us stayed downstairs for most of her final years. Those varmints had it all to themselves! I wonder how far the word spread? Did they come from miles away for bacchanalian revelries in the peak of the blue house by the park? There was plenty of grubby insulation to make them feel cozy, and ample entrances to avoid lines. I bet it was legendary. But when the massive dumpster arrived and our pest crew donned their hazmat suits, the party, so to speak, was over.

I had worked hard to prepare for that day. I cleared the hallway of boxes and moved anything that might sustain injury or contamination. Once the operation got underway, almost all the overhead gunk whooshed out the tiny attic windows through huge, gray, accordion hoses and into the big, blue dumpster below. Even so, it gave me pause to see the bits of debris that made their way onto the drop cloth beneath their ladder. That evidence was more than enough to convince me that these folks were earning their gargantuan paycheck. 

On top of the gross factor, the work was uncomfortable in other ways. The attic itself is more of a crawl space due to the peaked roof, and I cannot fathom how physically awkward the job must’ve been. There were times when it sounded like they were going to crash through the attic floor and fall right onto our daughter’s bed, a la Chevy Chase in Christmas Vacation. In addition to all the banging around, the industrial vacuum they used was so loud that the two men had to constantly yell to each other as they negotiated the work. I’m pretty sure they couldn’t see that well either, what with all the debris flying around and heavy, fly-face googles blocking out peripheral vision. Basically, they were blind, deaf and dirty. Add attic clean out to your list of worst jobs on the planet.

The awesome news is that this taxing undertaking was finished in one day! That almost never happens around here. Most contractors wind up hanging around much longer than expected, so we were feeling pretty good as the pest peeps drove away. As and added bonus, they left the dumpster to be picked up later and said we could add other construction materials for disposal. Immediately, I asked if we could deposit the two toilets that have been on our lawn since Finley and I got here in August. You heard me. TOILETS ON THE LAWN. David had pulled out the toilet that was here when we bought the house and replaced it with a new one, setting the former out by the barn. In addition, there was another random toilet left outside by the previous owners. I mean, they said they were selling “As Is,” but I was not expecting that. It seems they got rid of a lot before closing: we found a hand-painted, metal Yard Sale sign left in the driveway. Sadly, they sold off or took the farm’s wonderful windmill that was so much a part of the romantic narrative in my head about the place, but they left us a toilet. I do not feel that was a fair trade off. So, when we confirmed that toilets were considered construction material, I was thrilled!! David took a mallet to those suckers, and I gleefully filmed him smashing and tossing them away. Things were looking up! We were finally guano and lawn-toilet free and set to bring power to the second floor.

Now, I was a little unclear about how to prepare for the electricians. To date, they’d stayed mostly outside. They’d done a small amount of work in the gutted downstairs bathroom, and replaced a few outlets in the living room and library. The two times they’d been inside since I’d arrived were pretty stress free, other than my nervously keeping track of masks and disinfecting surfaces after they left. The first floor of the farmhouse had power when we moved in, but it needed an upgrade. We’d already gotten a new panel outside, trenched the wires and brought them into the basement. All the downstairs outlets and lights will be slowly upgraded as we tackle each room, but that will just be a matter of replacing what is already there. Upstairs was a whole different situation. 

When we moved in, there were 6 outlets in our daughter’s room, including one placed bizarrely at eye level in the middle of a dormer wall. Our bedroom and my office had none. The back bedroom, the smallest of the spaces upstairs which will eventually become a large bathroom, had one. All the second floor rooms were lit by pull chain overhead lights—most sporting bare bulbs. We’d been moving around like moles up there for months, linking extension cords down the hall to charge phones at night. I was excited by the prospect of light switches and outlets. Our daughter had been begging for a new overhead light that she could turn on by herself since we got here; she even had a sweet bunny switch plate cover from her grandma all ready to install. We were all looking forward to this change. However, in the two days between the end of the attic clean out and the start of the electrical work, I realized how unprepared I actually was for strangers to be working in the rooms up there. 

I basically ignored my poor child once Seesaw learning was over; I was a woman on a mission to clear walls, cover up clothing racks (no, the closets are not done), and put back into boxes all the worldly goods that lay strewn about the future bathroom/current storage hellhole. Sorry to swear, but that room is a dump. Seriously, when the movers were here, you cannot imagine how many boxes I sheepishly directed up there. Because this house is in flux and there are few spaces ready to receive their true and final contents, I just sent it all to die in that empty white room. I tried to unpack a lot of what was there, but none of it could really go anywhere else. Here I was faced with all this stuff that I had to re-stuff into the same boxes and push into different corners—all the while knowing my child’s brain was downstairs frying on Doc McStuffins. It became even more stressful when David asked where I wanted all the outlets and light fixtures in that future bathroom. I looked around at the overflowing piles of possessions I now wanted to burn and felt utterly paralyzed. When in the world would I have had time between distance learning, parenting, battling the constantly tracked-in farm dirt, cooking, laundry, unpacking, goat herding, contractors and toilet disposal to dream about a room whose evolution is at least a year in the future?? No, that didn’t cause conflict at all. Ha! He pointed out that we had to run the wires now because new insulation would be blown into the attic after the electrical work was complete. Once that happened, it would be very difficult to add more wires. I wish I’d know that a month earlier. You know how people have knowledge and they assume because they know it, everyone knows it? Yeah, that. I did NOT know all this until the afternoon before the work was to commence. I frantically searched Pinterest for visuals of double vanity bathroom lighting. Being an actor and having clear thoughts about lighting both for makeup application and flattery, I quickly decided on side lights, as opposed to lights hung up high over the mirror(s). There is a reason theatres and film sets have makeup mirrors with lightbulbs all the way around. Downcast lighting does no one any favors, and I’d rather not start the day feeling depressed about my face. I told David where the sconces would go. I also decided on a whim that I wanted a chandelier hung in front of the future clawfoot tub, which will be placed under the windows—the focal point of the room. I finished up the repacking and decision making just in time to make my kid’s dinner, so I called it a win (despite the fact that she was slightly bleary eyed from so much screen time). I went to bed feeling quite pleased with myself and looking forward to a bedside lamp come the morrow. 

Bright and early the next day, the electricians arrived. The snow had partially melted, leaving squishy patches of mud for them to track into the house. They brought in a drop cloth for the new living room rug, and I made an assumption that they were also covering the floors upstairs. A golden piece of advice when you are going through a renovation: when it comes to contractors, do not ever make assumptions. Don’t trust, and always verify. Our two man electric team moved upstairs like a small hurricane and made it clear they preferred us out of the way. I was supervising kindergarten Zoom class and David was at a doctor’s appointment, so the guys were on their own. I did call upstairs and request that if they needed to move anything, to please let me know and I would help. I assumed (again) that that settled that. I relaxed a little and set about my day of parenting and chipping away at projects downstairs. 

Here’s how the day went up there from my perspective: loud and frustrating. Every time I heard them yell to each other, I flinched. It seems that many contractors are yellers. I am not a fan of raised voices—especially male raised voices—but I figured out that (like with the pest guys) it came with the territory. Dan, the head electrician, was in the attic a lot and had to call to his assistant, Logan, sometimes through walls. Like their voices, the wires needed to snake through the old plaster, and there were often impediments. I also heard the walls being cut into and quite a bit of swearing. Dan was NOT happy with the pest company’s clean out. He said we should request a refund because it certainly wasn’t finished. He said for the price we paid, that attic should have been spotless. I worried for a few minutes that he was going to refuse to work up there. It seemed to me that the pest guys had killed themselves getting things clean, and it was disheartening to hear otherwise. Later in the day, David sent off an email to Joe asking about what Dan had found. Joe answered that they were not supposed to touch or move ductwork in the abatement process and that the mess Dan was referring to fell into those areas. David explained that he will be re-doing the ductwork, so Joe agreed to bring a HEPA vac to complete the missed spots before they blow in the new attic insulation. Wait—did I forget to clarify the insulation situation? With the attic cleaned out, we had none. Until the electric work and new ductwork was complete, we would be without any insulation in the attic. Do you know how much heat is lost through the attic? All of it. And we are in Minnesota. And, of course, the bedrooms are upstairs. Yeah. We really, really needed Dan and Logan to succeed, and fast.

As the day went on, things did not improve. The guys went in and out of the house, and in and out of the mud, seeking solutions from their equipment laden trucks for what they were encountering. At one point, I asked Dan how it was going. “Terrible,” he muttered. Later, he told me that one good thing had come from the day: he had had an epiphany. He said, “I will never, ever work on an old house like this again.” Our house was so hard to install wires in that this professional of 25+ years was soured on old homes forever. I felt bad. I apologized. He said it wasn’t our fault, but the mood was pretty bleak. At 3PM, they gave up for the day. It was a Friday, and they don’t work on weekends. The plan was for them to return refreshed on Monday and start anew. I looked at the weather forecast. It would be 18 degrees on Sunday night, and with no insulation, that was going to be rough. What I hadn’t realized, however, was that on top of having no insulation, they were also leaving us with no power upstairs. They’d turned it off and it would have to stay that way until the work was done. So let’s recount: no pull-chain lights, no outlets, and basically no heat. I wasn’t expecting that. However, those challenges were childsplay compared to what I found after they left.

Friend, it was a DISASTER area. There were jagged holes all over the walls, as if we’d hosted a bar fight. In the air hung a thin, white haze. Have you ever seen plaster dust? Do you know about the chaos created when breaking into ancient walls? I certainly did not. The beautifully refinished maple floors were covered in soft, pale soot and a scattering of itty-bitty, ragged rocks. It seemed they had not used drop cloths up there. They had, however moved most of our furniture and belongings, despite my asking them to let me do so. Ironically, they had pushed up the rugs to keep them clean, but rolled them right back down over the rubble. By the time I discovered all this, it was nearing 4PM. Post daylight savings, at the top of the Northern hemisphere, that means darkness was near upon us. As the light ebbed away, I dashed downstairs and out the back door, calling to David as he chatted amiably with Dan. I tried to keep alarm out of my voice, asking casually for David to help me. He sauntered in after waving the guys off for the weekend. My panic was full blown; we had no lights and no power up there, and there were three rooms, plus a hallway, in shambles. David was as surprised as I was, but there wasn’t time to discuss. We quickly focused on the areas we needed to walk on to get our child and ourselves into bed that night. We tried sweeping, which kicked up fine clouds of dust and scraped the little rocks along the once perfect floors. We ran a vacuum with the one extension cord we had, coiled through the banister from the first floor, but regular vacuums won't pick up plaster—the dust is too fine and the larger pieces just break apart and get spit back out. It was almost night. We used iPhone flashlights leaned against walls. It was a losing battle. I had to feed our child. I left David to clean up as much as possible and escaped downstairs.

The next morning, in the very cold, uninsulated light of day, I looked around in dismay. We had barely made a dent in the clean-up. I knew how I would have to spend the weekend. On Saturday, I cleaned up the mess as best I could through some serious trial and error. Every conventional method of dirt removal failed. I employed two vacuums, several types of brooms, a Swiffer, a squeeze mop, a Bona floor cleaner system, baby wipes, and finally, my bare hands. The layers of micro pebbles seemed endless. Wispy scrapes glared across the finish of the floors. It felt like breathing would leave scratches. The only way to get the most stubborn, almost invisible rocks up was to press my palms gently on the wood and carefully lift my hands, meticulously disposing of the villains. I repeated this on every inch of floor. All day. As I did so, I really tried to find a lesson. I had the time. But I couldn’t come up with much. I went through a series of emotions including several levels of anger, some overblown depression and a lasting, numb acceptance. It simply had to get clean. And then, I had to prep for Monday like a military operation. Fool me once, friend. Once. Let’s call Sunday ‘The Great Cover Up.’ I laid down rosin paper with painters tape. I found old blankets and sheets to go over any and everything in sight. If it was within 10 feet of where they might be working, it got shrouded. The effect was of those dormant estate rooms you see in old movies, just before the housekeepers scurry in to open the rooms for the family’s return. It was a bit gloomy, but I felt prepared.

On Monday, the electrical work continued. I was out of the house for much of the day, which was probably for the best. David told Dan about the floors, and he was sincerely apologetic. He had not known they’d just been redone, and he promised to make it right. Everyone felt bad about all of it—how hard the work was, how messy, how long, how cold and dark. They continued through Wednesday. The prep work we’d done helped keep additional damage at bay. The weather was dryer, so there was less mud. We got our light switches, though the plaster surrounding them must be repaired and repainted. Logan spent a good while hanging Finley’s new rainbow chandelier, even donning the special dust gloves that came with the fixture to place each candy-colored crystal. We got some of the outlets we’d hoped for, but there were walls that simply refused entrance to wires of any kind. This house is not easy. She has stubborn tendencies. We are learning about each other bit by bit, and the relationship is complicated. 

I see clearly now the difference between working on new construction and historical houses. I understand why Dan got so frustrated. It’s not supposed to be like this. This house was never meant to have modern wires in the walls. We are forcing change. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. A lot of people look at this house on this plot of land and think only of tearing it down to build six new homes and sell them off at a profit. That sure would have made sense financially. And there are days when I think those folks were probably right. I don’t know. When I was on my hands and knees, picking up crumbs from the ancient floor boards, I did feel like I was saving something, and I don’t mean the pretty refinishing. It was kind of like diffusing tiny bombs, careful and precise. It felt like the house had been maligned, and I had to defend her, and clean her, and protect her from further harm. The pieces of plaster were so tiny that the act of removing them was almost intimate. I lay on my stomach, turning my head to the side with my cheek hovering just above the floor to spy stragglers. I gathered the bad things and ushered them out. I cleansed the hurt spots to let them heal. I nursed those floors. I mothered our ground. We are bonded now, and I am glad for that. But, I am also glad for the lights and for the power. We needed those. This house really did not want to be dragged into this century by way of hammers and hard wires. I did not want that for her. The electricians could have done a much better job of protecting things, but they did need to destroy certain spots, to invade them, in order to wrestle our modern needs into place. If this house is to last another 150 years, these changes had to happen. We did not want six shiny new builder homes that all looked alike, boasting ease but lacking soul. We wanted this home. And we are learning the hard way what that takes. 

I have had people in my life who gave me the gift of patiently showing up again and again, through obstacles and frustration, over years, waiting for me to appreciate and return their love. I pushed that kind of attention away repeatedly. Thankfully, I did eventually recognize that trying again and again to connect, despite difficulties and failures, is one of the most genuine loves around. It can be thankless for the giver, sometimes for a long time, sometimes for forever. You have to be pretty sure of yourself to chose to care for someone or something that seems to want to be left alone. I admire the people I have known who weren’t deterred by that with me. I’ve always wondered what kind of magic sight they had to see that underneath, I so very much wanted them there. I am trying to find that kind of vision, that keen perception of what’s down deep. I am looking at this baby blue farmhouse and seeking signs that she sees us trying, and that she does not actually want us to go away. I summon the persistence of the people who taught it to me, and I know that I will wait for her. The lesson wasn’t in the mess on the floor. It was in the walls.

Old House, Lovely Lady: we are here. I know it’s loud and different and some of our attention feels like an attack. Please believe me, Sweet Girl, we are here to make you shine again. We see something special in you, and we aren’t going to give up. My goodness it’s not easy, but love never is, is it? It’s messy and painful and insane and completely, totally, 100% worth the fight. I am determined to love you, My Dear. Enough to remove the bats, and the shag carpet, and your understandable resistance. I know how hard it is to have your walls broken down. I’ve suffered the same. But like your walls, I have grit in me. You can show me all you want how impossible it’s gonna be to love you. Go on. I get it. I really do understand. But now it is my turn to persist. Nevertheless. 

Because that is what true grit looks like.