So we’re in the middle of finishing that house that came down the road to our little valley at the end of December. And by finishing, I mean, we’re the ones responsible for the little things…like a floor, doors, steps, a master bedroom/bathroom and, well, a ceiling…pretty much all the basics that one might need to actually LIVE in a house.
No big deal right? I mean, I should have known when I said “I do” to a man who was raised with a father who had a collection of lawnmowers/washers and dryers/stoves/boats/kitchen sinks in his back yard in case he needed a part for the one that was currently in use in the house.
I should have known when my own washing machine went out that the options were not “get a new one,” but “call dad and see if he has any extra motors laying around.”
Four of them.
And I think three of them might still be in the basement.
Anyway, that’s how things are around here. If you want something done and still want to be able to afford to buy Cheerios for breakfast, we do it ourselves.I’ve come to terms with this concept after completing a full out, strip down, shag carpet, hot-tub in the living room remodel that brought a 1974 Brady Bunch house up to the times of hardwood flooring and, well, no hot tubs in the living room. Yup, 200 hours of staining and varnishing, three hundred less brain cells and one head stuck in a ladder later, I was convinced.
I am the wife of a handyman.
So I went into it with a combination of confidence and dread. I mean, I knew my love in a tool belt (and oh how I love him in a tool belt) could get us living in a beautiful home designed by our two brains. I knew that under his direction I would hand him tools, saw a few boards, make lumber-yard runs, choose the paint colors, try to avoid my thumbs with the hammer, deliver sandwiches and beer and keep the music on the iPod flowing with motivational tunes. I had that covered. There are some things I can handle.
And really, it has been going good so far. If you ask my brave and fearlessly confident husband, he’s got this under control. Take out the minor incident where my three-year-old niece came to visit, decided she had to try out our new potty and plopped a little poopie in our unplumbed bathroom, and I’d say it’s been down right Bob Vila-esque around here.
So why have I spent that last month fighting off night terrors you ask? Well, I’ll tell ya. Some genius decided to build a house with 20 foot ceilings. And that genius, knowing full well who would be praying to Jesus, Mary and Joseph while trembling on an 8 foot ladder on top of 10 foot scaffolding with her arms above her head, fears heights the same way most people fear plummeting to a bone-crushing, back-breaking, neck-wrenching, bloody, mangled death.
That’s what I pictured each and every time I walked across that homemade scaffolding, boards creaking and bending, the sound of someone hyperventilating in my attempt to bring a nail-gun (the one I am always sure is going to go off randomly, shooting a 2 inch nail through the top of my foot without warning) to my dearly beloved who somehow thinks positioning his ladder on the tippy-toe edge of the ledge, standing at the very top rung and then leaning out into the abyss of death that is one day going to be our living room, is an acceptable risk to take just to ensure that a board is secure.
I scream “screw the board, save yourselves,” fling the nail gun and run to the corner of the house, the corner far away from any ledge and plummeting death.
It’s ridiculous, I’m aware. And I feel sorry for husband who is just trying to make our vision for a beautiful cedar ceiling a reality. I feel sorry for him because I come by it naturally. It’s a hereditary condition spawned from my roots of prairie people who passed up the terrifying mountains to come to live in houses with one floor, low ceilings and a basement.
I feel sorry for him because the only help he’s had at his disposal for this sky-scaping, death-defying, circus-act of a job is the two prairie people with the worst case of vertigo in the family.
Yours truly, and her father.
Yup. Pops has it bad too, and frankly, I blame him for all of these undesirable qualities I’ve inherited. The big nose, the fuzzy hair, the tendency to ramble AND the crippling fear of high places. All him.
But the difference between Pops and me is this. I avoid, complain, sob, tremble, look away and repeatedly tell my significant other to “be careful, watch where you step, hold on, hold on, don’t lean…I’ve got the ladder…shit…don’t fall…don’t fall…don’t fall…you’re killing me…”
But Pops, he just sucks it up, wipes the sweat that forms uncontrollably on his brow, suffers in silence as his son in law dangles with one arm from the rafters while he leans over the ledge, and then goes home to have vivid nightmares about people falling off skyscrapers.
Which brings me to last weekend where, after weeks of this type of torture, the end of this dreaded ceiling project was in sight. I was feeling pretty good about the fact that we had managed to nail approximately thirty -thousand boards to the rafters without anyone losing a limb, shooting an eyeball with the nail gun, cutting a finger off, or, you know, plummeting to a gruesome death.
But we weren’t out of the woods yet. Nope. We still had one giant task that included raising and nailing a 15 foot beam to the very, tippy-top, peak of our the ceiling of our new home. This was to complete the job, make it look finished, give us a place to hang our chandelier and get us moving on to the next task that required shorter ladders.
So I suggested calling the National Guard.
Husband took the phone from my hand and told me to go find my pops.
And then did what I was told, because in the end practicality always wins over drama in my life.
I found Pops in the shop, on solid ground, working on his beloved 4-wheeler. He followed me to the house to find husband waiting for us on the damned, creaky scaffolding equipped with two ladders and a nail gun.
The task? Hold the beam up to the top of the 20 foot ceiling while husband climbs and dangles and runs and jumps and back flips to get the damn thing to hold.
I trembled and felt a little of that morning’s eggs hit my throat. I held my breath and as Pops held the beam on one ladder I stayed on the scaffolding holding a 10 foot 2×4 against the middle part of the beam.
And there we stood, the two of us conjuring up new nightmares and worst-case scenarios as my Bob Villa Ninja went from one near death position to the next. Pops told me not to watch as husband stretched his ladder across the stairway and stood with nothing but a thin board between him and a 15 foot fall.
So I didn’t watch. And neither did Pops.
We held it together, the two of us. We only hollered “be careful up there!” and “don’t fall!” like fifty-five times during the course of fifteen minutes (although I would have been more comfortable with a number in the hundreds.) And we thought we were out of the woods, everybody’s head in tact, when husband climbed down from the ladder and put his hands on his hips.
“Looks good,” he said.
“YES! IT DOES. GOOD WORK,” shrieked Pops and I.
“I just need to nail one more spot,” husband said scratching his head. “I wonder how the hell I’m going to get to it?”
We followed his eyes to where they rested on a piece of the beam that towered past the edge of the scaffolding, too high for a regular ladder to reach. 20 feet up there, un-reachable unless you had wings.
Pops used our best material to try and convince Husband that a nail in that particular location was not necessary. We suggested putting more nails in other places to make up for it. But Ninja Bob Villa wouldn’t have it and before we knew it he had his ladder on the ledge of the scaffolding, his feet on the top rung, his back bent at a 90 degree angle out over the stair case with a nail gun in his hand reaching for the ceiling.
And it seems we lost it.
I whimpered and squeezed back the tears as I grabbed the ladder. And while I was saying fifty prayers to Jesus, Pops threw down his tools and grabbed on to his son-in-law’s belt buckle as my husband leaned further back over the abyss.
“Son, if you fall it would be sure death,” my Pops declared.
“And if either of you tell anyone that I grabbed your belt, I’ll kill you both…”
Well, I guess we all have to die someday…If you need me I’ll be around here somewhere…hiding from Pops.
You’re all still alive – hallelujah! Your home rocks, seriously. Mine looks like the old homestead. Sorry to hear about the vertigo. My husband’s dad has that, too. Makes chores interesting some days…
I survived! Whew. Now on to the next thing 🙂
I always wondered why your pops wouldn’t stand in the back row of the choir–kidding. I’ve done some jobs where the pipe organs are in the 60′ and higher lofts in churches, and if I lean back it’s a straight shot to the main floor below. I try to avoid those. Your house looks beautiful and I think you will love it when it’s finished. I can smell the wood now.
Yup. Sometimes I have to go to another part of the house when my husband is doing some handyman chore, or I’ll worry so much (outloud) that it could cause an accident. I hate watching my loved ones on ladders.
Your house looks lovely. Best wishes.
I know it doesn’t help them when we give our advice, but if it makes us feel better, let’s keep doing it…while we cover our eyes 🙂
That is a really gorgeous house. I’ve definitely lived in the type of older dwelling you posted. I can only dream of your current work in progress. -kate
Thanks Kate! I am looking forward to the finished product, and am kind of enjoying the process…defiantly makes you appreciative and proud of the work anyway…Hope all is well with the sisters!
Looks like it’s a beautiful house and will look amazing when you’re finished! And then you can look at all your hard work (with a beer or glass of wine…or both) and be proud of living through the scary parts of the process and know it truly is YOUR home!
Same here. ‘Cept my man is 60 years old and he still insists on climbing onto ice-laden scaffolding right after a snowfall to patch a piece of roof before winter hits (that would be the end of September around here, before the scrawny leaves even get a chance to drop off the trees). He does abide by my rules, one being: NO BLUE TARPS!
From the pictures it looks like it’s worth the risks that come with being a do-it-yourselfer…besides, knowing “Pops,” I believe him to be a risk-taker anyway. 🙂
Enjoyed the story telling Jessie.
What an enchanting location for the new digs.I really like the way it looks in the wintery woods.Kinda warm and glowing. I know its crazy but even after several inches of rain here this week some things still make a person think of winter and fires and husbands and…..and……
Okey dokey then Good job Jess!!!
Looking beautiful my friend. I’m not a big fan of heights either..Are you and the hubby going to do rock, paper, scissors to see who is cleaning windows (taller one’s)? Lol, Hope to stop by sometime and see it 🙂 No nailing your foot to the ground. Nicole
I love the house. Hope it gives you many happy years. 🙂
Phew! Reminds me of the days of “hubby” building our house.
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Your house is finishing beautifully! It’s not often when we bring them out that we get to see the finishing stages and the end result. We enjoy following you through the process as well as the narrative along the way. Thanks for sharing with us!
Merry Christmas to you and yours with many wishes for a Blessed New Year!
~~~ June & Mike
PS ~ I think the ladder thing is a man thing … Hubby climbs them like a monkey while my knees buckle at the thought of it … They do have something for that though … I believe it’s called ‘Guys in Wranglers with Sqeegees’ … 😉
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