Switched At Birth

Flight of the Winged Intruder

Saturday morning I was wandering about the cottage, toothbrush in mouth, when I heard odd banging noises coming from the new (under construction) part of the house. I thought it was wind coming in from the open windows upstairs and blowing some of the HVAC shaft pieces around. "Bam!" No, too loud for that. It sounded intentional.

"Someone's out there!" I muttered, taking cover and peering around the front door through a window.

Then I saw it. Wings. Black wings. In the see-through fireplace. A big, noisy, unhappy crow.

I opened the door. He flew, banging against a pane of glass, angry but unharmed. Buck came out, looked over the situation and came up with a simple, yet elegant solution. "Let's go to lunch. He'll be gone when we get back."

And so we went down to the recently re-opened Jamie's French Restaurant in the historic district. Their quaint little house was slammed by Hurricane Ivan, and the young couple who owns it (the Scarritts) have only just been able to start serving again. It was great to be there. We both order the fish special, a luscious fresh local grouper sauteed with a caper cream sauce.

When we got home, the winged intruder had made good his escape.

Meanwhile, the HVAC guys have continued their meticulous work on our home's infrastructure. Tomorrow, our good friend and electrician, Bob Johnson, will be on scene to begin work on the lighting schematic. 

Here are a couple of photo updates:

Those black rubber tubes are used to insulate copper pipes.

Solatubes, Plumbing and HVAC

A flash of white went by the window. There it is again! A timid knock on the door got me out of my chair and moving. A mild-mannered young man with longish dark hair, sideburns, a baseball style cap and the "put it where the sun don't shine" Solatube logo printed neatly on his t-shirt stood on the threshold.

"I'm Justin." The white flash was his friend Rocky, an English bulldog. They had arrived to cut holes in the roof for several solar tube skylights. Rocky's loose-jointed ranginess carried him up and down the stairs, round and round the house. I liked them both immediately, and stepped back inside to fetch a dog treat for Rocky.

Justin went to work on the roof while Larry Pugh, our plumbing contractor and his crew, and Gary Mooneyham's HVAC pros worked inside the house.

Rocky moved too fast for an amateur paparozzi such as myself to click off a picture, but here are a few shots of the other guys at work.

This work isn't glamorous. It doesn't have the "oooh" factor that the initial framing does. But it's the guts and circulatory system of the house, if not its heart and soul. And these guys are meticulous craftsmen.

Justin's about to climb onto the roof to cut in skylights.

Sunrise Sunset Tile

Buck and I have searched for a tile we can use in our bathroom that has the colors of a Santa Fe sunset and a Smoky Mountains sunrise. We believe we have found it in Premier's India series. There are some drawbacks. It only comes in one size, so we'll have to work around this with other tiles. Not a problem. We'll take boxes of each color in the series and mix them together randomly.

Maybe I should have cropped out my foot?

Floor Tile

Twelve weeks and counting. . . . the framers are still here. They're building us a good house, but without a doubt, we will all be happy to wave bye-bye to each other.

Meanwhile, Buck and I are visiting plumbing supply houses, learning about structured wiring, deciding if and where we want cased openings and short walls, poring over trim catalogs, and lugging tile samples around.

We're going to use ceramic tile in the kitchen and bathrooms. It's kind of like going into a Baskin & Robbins ice cream shop. Just when you fall in love with comfortable Peaches and Cream, along comes exotic Jamoca Almond Fudge to steal your affection.

For the kitchen, number one in the top five for this week is Daltile's Calais Springs, in their Villa Valleta series. The tiles have alot of color variation and are designed to mimic the look of slate.

The kitchen cabinets will be stained a sort of mahogany with a tiny bit of cherry -- the same stain used throughout the house. Most of the counter tops will be a matte black laminate. We've used it several times before. It works well for us, and makes a great backdrop for food photographs! We saved so much money on the front doors that we're going to have one chunk of granite in the kitchen, on the island cooktop and bar. It's called Peacock Gold. I scanned our sample, and it came out amazingly well.

For the bathrooms, we're looking at Daltile's French Quarter series, either Mardi Gras or Cobblestone.

Daltile's French Quarter Series, Mardi Gras.

Daltile's French Quarter Series, Cobblestone

They have a stone like look and feel, friendly to bare feet.

Front Door Epiphany

There's a 96 inch by 96 inch hole in the front of our house that needs a front door, or, as the catalogs put it, an entry system. We have learned that "entry systems" are exponentially more expensive than "mere" doors.

We have searched and pondered, scoured web sites and catalogs, visited door sellers and spent hours on the phone.

We found a beautiful set of carved mahogany double doors with twin sidelights. They would even have passed Florida's newest, more stringent post-2004 hurricane season wind code. And for $17,000 plus tax, shipping and installation, the manufacturer would have been delighted to sell them to us. Ha.

That was early on in the process. Now we have the equivalent of a college degree in door buying, and have some advice: don't fall in love with a look until you know the ballpark price; go in with a sharp pencil in your hand, not stars in your eyes; do your homework on the advantages and disadvantages of wood, fiberglass, clad, or steel; and think philosophically about what you really want in a door -- is it privacy, the illusion of security, aesthetic considerations, or utilitarian aspects such as low maintenance?

Last Sunday afternoon, Buck and I had spent several hours with brooms and the shop vac, stacking up lumber, picking up debris and cleaning up sawdust. My hands were stiff and sore, and I felt hungry and just plain out of gas. We sat at the old glass top picnic table still sitting in it's place in the former screened porch -- now the future dining room. Despite warm temperatures, the north south breeze was blowing in from the open hole where a front door will eventually go. It swept in and refreshed us while we ate hummus, pita toasts and a marinated veggie salad.

Almost simultaneously, we had a front door epiphany: 8 foot black clad full glass in-swing french doors (no muntins) with hinged screen doors. Most new homes are built to be highly insulated and very buttoned up. Living in the woods, we were able to design a house that's both contemporary and old-fashioned. The dimensions, angles and window placement are turning out to be a dream for fresh air ventilation. The carport roof and covered breezeway will shade a good portion of the front of the house, diluting the summer sun considerably. Having screened doors in that air tunnel at the front will mean fresh air and less air conditioning.

This option also turned out to be the least expensive of any others we had examined,  a happy bonus.

Best of all, I'll be able to hear the night birds sing.

See Through The Fireplace

More Romance arrived yesterday in a large, rumbling truck from Coastal Insulation: a see-through fireplace. Piping will go up through the roof and the framers will build a wooden case around it. Later on, a few marble tiles will frame the surround and a simple wooden mantle will be added.

Tonight we watched the sunset through the see-through. (Try saying that three times fast!)

The original cottage is through the red door. It's a sweet spot.

Sanctuary

The small hip roof over the bathroom windows was sheathed today, along with three sides of the carport. The ultimate facade showed itself to me today, and I can now imagine what it will look like six months from now.

Serenity at Longleaf Preserve is what we originally planned to call our home. But it is clear that the serenity we hope for will not come from the triumph of hope over experience, nor from the paliative of mere optimism. No. What we are crafting here is a sanctuary, a place for healing and strength building, not mindless hiding. A place for full-out living each moment allotted to us. A place for children, friends, and wayfarers to read, talk, sing, love, share meals and take gentle care of the land and other creatures who have also found their way here.

A romantic notion?

You bet.

Carport and Breezeway

Carports and breezeways were once common features of the American residential landscape. But homeowners associations, smaller lots, and the perceived need for ever larger garages to hold all our "stuff" has caused carports to follow the route of the passenger pigeon.

I have happy memories of time spent in carports that were used for picnic tables, ping pong games, and playing hopscotch.

And what a luxury in a summer rain to park in the carport, and walk through a covered breezeway into the house, still feeling the breeze and smelling that heavy, rich rain smell, hair curling from the humidity but remaining dry.

The framers -- John, Paul and Daniel -- started building our carport and breezeway yesterday. Buck and I watched as they started with the bare slab, wondering how on earth they would make it happen. It sounded like something large and angry with a mouth full of teeth when they cut through the corner of the existing house to attach the breezeway post and beam. That's the corner right by my desk, where I was trying to enjoy a breakfast of toasted whole wheat English muffin and fresh blackberries!

On Monday, the guys will raise those trusses to form a hip style roof, with a rather high peak.

Wiry Paul tugs on a truss.

Ping pong, anyone?

Things Unseen

David and Tim arrive quietly every morning in their panelled van from Mooneyham Heating and Air. Neat and polite, they are installing the duct work for our heating and air conditioning system. Many Augusts from now, when the heat and humidity are oppressive outside, I will remember them and imagine their work underneath wood, sheetrock and paint, the cool air whooshing efficiently through its silver foil channels, keeping us comfortable.

Watching this home as it is being built cell by cell, I think of our own human bodies, and how the unseen parts make them work. We are all beautiful, amazing and perfect, especially in our imperfection. I think, too, of the invisible hot core of our planet home. And our hearts, our souls, whatever it is that makes us us, mysterious, ineffable and worthy of love.

Pella! Pella! Pella!

It was 6:45 last Thursday morning when the big Pella truck arrived, carrying our windows and sliding glass doors.The driver went round and round, trying to find the closest access point to unload his heavy cargo.

I found a book for Buck to use as a makeshift clip board for the bill of lading checklist. Five of the casement windows for the porch were missing. Not to worry. Delayed, not lost.

The next morning, the framers discovered they had made a mistake in framing five of the windows on the front of the house. They framed them for casements rather than the double hung style called for in the plan. Frustrating for everyone, but this is part of the gauntlet of everyday life. Small stuff, really.

The big picture is the mushy lovely feeling I get looking at the window wall in the living room. Feels like we're in a tree house, even at flat land ground level.

Fancy Bathtub For A Simple Country Girl

Buck and I spent yesterday afternoon with Bobby Exum at Architectural Accents on the corner of Lee Street and 9th Avenue, poring over the catalogs of front door suppliers. Seemed like a simple thing, to pick out a front door. Huh.

Anyway, we finally ran out of day and came on back home. After supper, we went back out to walk around the new part of the house. Looking through the front door -- that is, the place where a front door will be once we get one -- I saw a big white blob out on the red clay.

"Is that our b-b-bathtub?"  I stuttered, unbelieving. 

"I do believe it is." Buck headed out to look.

"When did somebody come along and throw my fancy new bathtub out on the red clay?" I still could hardly accept what my eyes were telling me.

But there it was.

This morning some of the boys carried it into the house, where it is now at rest, waiting patiently in the pretty morning light for Larry Pugh, the plumbing contractor.

The Tapestry Creates Its Own Design

I am learning that at some point in the realization of a dream, the Big Idea achieves a consciousness of its own, and begins to unfold and reveal itself to the dreamers. It surprises, confounds, delights, and suggests or sometimes demands changes unforeseen in the written plan.

While Buck wrestles with the intricacies of fireplace place and front door selection -- intricate in large measure because of new code requirements -- I am dreaming of fig trees, grape arbors and rose gardens.

Concrete was poured last Friday afternoon for the carport and the breezeway which connects it to the front door of the house.

It was exciting to see Gary Mooneyham's heating and air conditioning crew arrive to begin their work Monday morning. The framers are concentrating on punching out of the main structure so the other trades can come in next week.

Tomorrow a big truck will bring all of our windows and sliding glass doors. That will be a watershed moment for me, and I'm quite certain I'll be hopping up and down like an excited child.

The full moon this past weekend was astonishing as it washed through the open structure like a beneficent search light. I have never experienced the moon as appearing so near that I could imagine it coming right down to rest at my feet. We turned our faces to it in silent wonder.

Meanwhile, with the prodigious energy of survivors, the longleafs, ferns and wildflowers are putting on a show, making my morning walks an exercise in contemplative ecstasy, here in this post-modern Garden of Eden.

Cha-Cha-Cha-Changes

Morning.

Afternoon.

Simply the best.

Morning Room

This room is at the back of the house, just off the kitchen. In fact, there's a pass-through between the two rooms as well as a door. The three windows you see face east. It's a sunrise room. The wall between this room and the kitchen will have a counter top with bookshelves underneath. A small fireplace will be in the southwest corner, next to a set of sliding glass doors.

Sheathed and mostly felted on the back side of the house. This week promises good weather for at least the first three days. The framing contractor believes he will be out of here in three weeks.

Depot Mania vs. Rural Artistry

Home Depot, Office Depot, Cabinet Depot, Ceramic Tile Depot, Ceramic Depot, Carpet Depot, Flooring Depot, Hot Tub Depot, Hardware Depot, Bar Stool Depot, Lighting Depot, AAAARRGGHH!!

The meaning of "depot" according to Merriam-Webster.

Main Entry: de·pot
Pronunciation: 1 & 2 are 'de-(")pO also 'dE-, 3 is 'dE- sometimes 'de-
Function: noun
Etymology: French dépôt, from Middle French depost, from Medieval Latin depositum, from Latin, neuter of depositus
Date: 1795
1 a : a place for storing goods or motor vehicles b : STORE, CACHE
2 a : a place for the storage of military supplies b : a place for the reception and forwarding of military replacements
3 : a building for railroad or bus passengers or freight

Depot gets my vote for the most over-used, mostly imappropriately used, word out there in retail land today.

Whether it's a "big box" retail store, a cookie-cutter franchise, or a tiny hole-in-the-wall outfit, the word "depot" is ubiquitous in the business names out there. The only way that word is mellifluous to my ears is when I think, nostalgically, of old train stations in small town America, as in "down at the depot."

Okay. No more ranting and raving. Here's something wonderful, instead.

Discouraged by assembly line kitchen cabinets and distressed by post-Ivan prices, Buck and I drilled deeper, and heard about a family-owned and operated cabinet and furniture maker just over the Florida line in Alabama, about an hour from Pensacola. We took a nice drive in the country, and found the Country Pine Furniture Company in Flomaton, Alabama.

The Carden family and their staff are artisans. A thick layer of sawdust has settled into the walls, giving a yellowish, old book feel to the place. A shaft of light showers motes onto the head of a young man working with wood, shaping and smoothing it. It's quiet here at this hour of the late afternoon. Something about the atmosphere reminds me of the good feeling I get being in a library with time to just soak in the waters.

Mr. Carden had to leave us for a few minutes to sign for a delivery. Buck said, "Well, I've seen all I need to see." When Buck speaks those words, it's a clear thumbs up or thumbs down. "He's got all the equipment to make us some beautiful cabinets." Ah, good. He agrees with me!

I love the thought of being able to "visit" our cabinets as they are being made, run my hands over the smooth curving wood, and dream of Thanksgiving.

Cranes and Girders and Trusses, Oh My!

The big red crane looked like a man-sized version of a favorite child's toy. The fellow driving it looked a little like Wayne Newton, although a white ten-gallon hat almost covered up his long sideburns. His somewhat triangular shape attested to many hours of sitting in the operator's seat.

Everyone gets excited when a crane shows up on the scene and begins to lift girders into the air, swinging them around like toothpicks.

The chances of getting any non-housebuilding work done around here these days are slim and none. Here was my view from the window last Friday.

The crew came out yesterday, even though it was Saturday, trying to catch a few hours of welcome sunshine to begin sheathing the main roof. They got a good start. Won't be long now until we're fully dried in.

At the moment, this amazing skeletal structure looks to me like a dinosaur's spine, or a super contemporary skylight.

Home by Thanksgiving!

The merger of old and new is beginning to look more natural here in this view from the back. The framing seems to be going on forever. There have been some weather difficulties and high turnover amongst the framing contractor's crew. But to be fair, this is a complicated job, having several small roofs with smaller trusses and then a large roof with trusses requiring a crane cover an open area two stories high. The crane arrives today or tomorrow. Then the trusses can be covered with plywood and felt, and the finished profile will emerge.

Richard arrived yesterday, full of good cheer and a great personality. But the vibration of his jack hammer knocking off the stone ribbon and concrete block step from the former screened porch just about rattled my ancient tooth fillings out of my head. Buck and I went to lunch!

Sweat Equity

A week ago today, Buck and I were out back with our orange metal dibbles, planting more trees. Because of storm forecasts, the framers were at another project today, one that is already dried in, so they could work indoors. The framing contractor had rigged up a sort of tent out of heavy plastic, to cover the open seams on the second floor where they had cut into the existing roof, leaving our westerly exterior wall vulnerable to rain.  Planting our trees, we could hear the sounds made by the brisk wind as it was getting under the plastic tent. It sounded like sails flapping at a marina. We had already gotten rained on once, and the darkening sky seemed to promise more.

With a loud ripping sound, a strong gust split the plastic tent.  Buck and I watched as our protection blew off the roof. "That's it for the tree planting today," Buck said to me. "Now we have a different problem." And so, expecting a deluge any minute which would pour water into the open seam of our little home, Buck began to do what he does so well: that is, to protect his own. I served as carpenter's helper, digging discarded small nails -- the kind that are pushed through a red plastic circle -- out of the clay around the foundation, large nails scattered about the floor, and various sizes of cut 2 x 4 wood, as Buck got on an eight foot ladder, and fashioned a weatherproof seal out of large sheets of plastic, pulling it tight and securing it so that the wind couldn't find a place to get back in.

I kept looking at the sky, dark and rumbling. As Buck worked feverishly, I noticed that it began to change. Off in the west behind the darkness overhead, was a starkly contrasting cerulean sky. At first I thought it was a reflection, or a mirage. But no -- by the time Buck had finished his work, my neck and shoulders were roasting in a sunburn befitting a sophmore on spring break. We got lucky, and the crisis was averted.

Rough weather returned over the weekend. By this time, the north wall of the existing house was put in jeopardy. The framers ran out of plastic covering on Friday afternoon, and by the time we realized they were several feet short of protecting the house, everyone was gone, it was the weekend, and rain started on Saturday morning. Buck to the rescue again. This was more complicated, and required cutting plastic, duct tape, flashlights, and rain in the eyes, but he got it done, and we ended up with only half a pot and four towels worth of water in the house.

On Sunday morning, Buck secured the remaining leaking areas, which was a good thing, because it came a flood. Later in the afternoon when the rain stopped, he swept all the water off the plywood on the second floor, while I took a push broom to the standing water on the slab below. It was like rolling small waves with the broom. Kind of fun, actually. I would get a head start, push the water, run after it and push some more until it flopped off the edge.

Weather forecasts predicted rain until after midnight Sunday, but a strong wind blew the storm system out late Sunday afternoon, and we've had bright sunshine and brilliant stars ever since.

Little by little and bit by bit.

Extreme Homebuilding

More dangerous than heli-skiing; more exciting than the Snake River in an inner tube; more scatological than a Lenny Bruce monologue.

Dreams realized are bigger than we think.

All that, plus spring has come to Longleaf. I'm either on the roof or in the woods.

Photos tomorrow, in between whipping up a pan of Lasagne Marguerite for a sunset supper in the new dining room. We don't need no stinkin' walls!

Cioppino

With good friends, you don't worry about sawdust and nails on the floor. You just welcome them with open arms and a big pot of cioppino.

We had hoped to drag some chairs and a table up the unfinished plywood stairs and dine by sunset and candlelight, but the wind was blowing like a son of a gun, a chilling wind at that. So we gave our friends the 5 cent tour of the construction, then came in to the low lights and comfort of the cottage for drinks and dinner.

Our friends fixed up their own gin martinis, and pulled up to the kitchen island to munch on marinated crab claws with Buck and me. Buck sipped on a dirty vodka martini, while I enjoyed a wee dram of The Grouse while finishing preparations for the cioppino.

What an amazing dish. I hadn't thought of it in years, or that dimly lit Fisherman's Wharf restaurant in San Franciso when I first encountered cioppino, a fish/shellfish tomato- based stew, redolent with garlic, onions, peppers, herbs and wine.

Early Saturday morning, I trolled the fresh offerings from Joe Patti's Seafood. Cioppino is like the proverbial kitchen sink. It's highly forgiving about your specific choice of fish or shellfish, as long as you toss in what's freshest from the lot. This day, I went a little crazy and bought small portions of firm pink-tinged red snapper, Gulf shrimp, sea scallops, cocktail crab claws and Cedar Key little neck clams. I bought enough crab claws to marinate a few in garlic, olive oil, red wine vinegar, fresh basil and parsley and a good twist of black pepper to serve as appetizers.

Before heading back out to the woods, I stopped by Pitzman's Bakery to pick up a couple of Parisian baguettes. Hot, crusty bread is an essential accompaniment to the cioppino to sop up the broth.

In its first rendition on Saturday night, we ate the cioppino with a spinach, mushroom and heart of palm salad, dressed with a tarragon dijon vinaigrette. I was having such a good time with Buck and our friends that I forgot to take any pictures, so the one below is from our leftovers supper tonight.

We shared dinner with some other friends recently whose home was literally blown to bits during Hurrican Ivan. They are living in a tiny FEMA (Federal Office of Emergency Management) travel trailer right now. These folks are treasures in our community, curators of our zoo. They spent the night of the storm and many thereafter, at the zoo. It is in their natures to rescue and preserve, to think of themselves last.

Many in our community are still without replacement homes, businesses gone forever, relationships breached in the trauma. We are connected to the tsunami-ravaged countries, and all other places in peril,each one of us reaching across oceans to touch fingertips. Even as I spend the evening well fed and comfortable, I am not smothered or made numb by my own comfort, knowing it to be temporary anyway, but humbled that we are all linked, the ripples generated by our thoughts, actions, energy and perhaps prayer yoking us to one another in common destiny.

Fantasy Becomes Reality

. . . and the new bones connected to the old bones.Them bones them bones gonna walk around, them bones them bones gonna walk around. Them bones them bones gonna walk around. Now hear the word of the Lord.

It was 2:45 this afternoon when I left the house in all its noisy, bodacious creativity. Buck stayed to meet with a cabinet man from Flomaton, Alabama driving over to bid on the project, while I drove downtown for the weekly caring ministry class at Christ Episcopal Church.

I drove from rapidly developing country property into town land in decline. The most striking scenery was a vacant pasture recently turned into grazing land for actual cattle – Black Angus by the look of them, many little calves enlivening the view. Their eventual fate may not be so bucolic, but on this afternoon, I wanted to pull over, slip under the fence and set a spell in their presence.

Later, driving the 35 minutes home from town, happy that I had made a vat of spaghetti sauce earlier in the day, and that a loving man and a glass of mellow red awaited my arrival, I almost ran off the road gawking at the sunset. I at first thought, “Damn, I wish I had my camera,” and then, “Damn, a real writer would know how to describe the high, scattered clouds decorating the lush coral sunset melting like a copper ingot in the impossibly blue sky.” Me, I need my camera.

Our framer, John, told me he would have a set of stairs built to the second floor before he left today.  Driving home from town, pushing slightly over the speed limit, hoping to get there before the sunset made its final curtain for the day, my mouth was dry, thinking of what it must look like, up those plywood stairs to the raised platform, unguarded by any borders. I hoped Buck was already up there, taking in the scene.

But when I opened the gate and bumped all the way to the house, driving too fast for a smooth ride on that dirt road, I saw a strange pick-up truck, and knew the cabinet man was still there. Maggie met me at the car. I stuck my head in the door to say hello. Buck knew I was hot to run up the new steps. His eyes held mine as he said, “Be careful. There isn’t a rail.”

I feel like Jonah, in the belly of the whale. There is an organic process at work here, a digestion. The dead opposite of boredom.

Is there anything more exciting than a newly built stairway to the stars?

Every great house has a surprise or two. One of them here is Buck's design for a bridge spanning the distance between two undeclared spaces on the second floor.

Going down? The elevator is mainly a concession to the optimistic hope that we will get old enough to need it. That, plus it seems like a rediculously fun gadget in the meantime to carry us and a supper cart up to the second floor terrace for sunset, moon and star gazing.

Restocking The Pantry

Time to get "organizized" for the long days of framer watching, dancing to the oldies while they work, and hanging from the newly nailed up rafters. I picked up the ingredients today to make up a big cauldron of spicy spaghetti sauce full of garlic, peppers and red wine that I can divide into small freezer containers so we can have something decent to eat at the end of these busy days.

Tonight I grilled a pork tenderloin for our supper. It was good tonight with a sweet potato and an okra, corn, tomato and jalapeno mix.

The framers started putting up the sheathing today, and continued working on the second floor joists. We may have a little rain tonight, but the red sky at sunset bodes well for tomorrow's work day.

Chapel In The Woods

It's "just" a series of second story floor joists. Maybe it's the sunset light. I don't know. To me, it looks like an avant garde chapel in the woods. I almost wish we could leave it just as it looks in this photograph. Almost.

Placemarkers

These photos are a placemarker for words to come. In a few minutes, the boys will arrive to cut into the front wall and connect beams. Buck and I have furniture to move somewhere. When we lived in the stunning Smoky Mountains, I used to move from window to window, staring in fascination as snow covered up the mountainside and pasture below. I was reminded of that yesterday, as I moved from window to window here, hopping from one foot to the other in excitement as the bright orange forklift handed off floor joists to the framers to form the base for the second story of our home.

And in the afternoon I walked the woods. It was that special time just before a thunderstorm, when the air is fragrant and moist. Dewberries are beginning to form on the bushes down by the stream. New palmetto beds are emerging from the sand hills. Moss spores have begun to fruit, and the pines are sending out growth tips. I returned home refreshed, my hair a mass of wind-made curls.

Here, then, a few photos before I get to work!

Truck doors are slamming outside. Gotta go!

The Paws That Refreshes

"Your dog is smart," he said.

"What did she do?" I asked.

"Well, she got into my truck and ate my potato chips," he continued.

"Maggie's got a good nose, that's for sure," I replied.

"Yeah, but the thing is, she got them out of a sealed plastic container and ate them without biting the plastic." He grinned crookedly, apparently admiring her technique.

Guess she wanted some cola to go along with her chips. . .

Sometime after the guys left Saturday, I went out to the garage to feed Maggie her supper. I needn't have bothered. She had shoved another purloined plastic food storage container in through her doggie door. Leftover pizza. Just beside her dish, I found a half eaten snack-size bag of salted sunflower seeds.

This morning, I was looking out over the worksite when something caught the corner of my eye. It was the tip end of a furry brown tail, waiving enthusiastically from inside the orange rectangular construction dumpster. Maggie. Trolling for leftovers.

Man, sometimes she is such a dog.

Piney Woods Gymnast

Lithe grace on the balance beam, creation without a safety net. For John, it's all in a day's work. Buck captured these shots when the crew was working Saturday.

Whole Lotta Shakin'

The first clue I had that the framers had cracked into the old roof to attach a new wall was when I was almost hit in the head by a flying duck.  The porcelain critter had slid off its wooden base from a shelf above the sink. In a flash I grabbed a step ladder and began removing dishes from cabinets along the wall where all the commotion was going on. My late mother-in-law would never forgive me if I let her pretty dishes fall off on the floor. I climbed onto the sink to reach the shelf above it from whence the flying duck had fallen, handing down tall old steins to Buck's waiting arms below. The old turkey platter was vulnerable on it's stand on the top shelf, so it came down, too. The noise level was deafening as the guys cut into the roof. Then with a big "heave, ho" three of them pushed the wall framing from where it was lying flat on the concrete up to a standing position, where it will form the exterior wall of the new laundry room and half bath.

Bam!

Rain Day

Walls change everything. Sometimes for good. Sometimes for ill. They divide and block. They enclose and secure. They provide perspective, shelter and a vantage point.

Framers worked from 7:30 to 5 yesterday, assembling and lifting walls. Most of the day, it was only John and Scott. Jason joined them in the early afternoon. John lost part of his crew to other jobs temporarily because of a several day delay in pouring the foundation. These guys have to work. They can't afford the luxury of laying out, waiting. Time literally is money, and they feel it on payday every Friday afternoon.

The sun went away in the afternoon, dissolving into a grey chill with a stiff wind. I put a thermos of hot coffee and a basket of warm chocolate chip cookies by the door. Scott, who had never made eye contact or spoken to me so far, stopped in his tracks, jerked up his chin, looked straight at me and said, "Thanks. I could sure use some coffee." Turns out he's the only coffee drinker of the three, but when I pulled the basket back inside later, the cookies were gone.

It's not easy to keep a framing crew together. The leader of the pack, John, a master framer, has to get his workers a solid forty hours. He tries to have three or four major projects going on at the same time, at different stages. I heard his red and silver truck rumble up at 7:10 this morning, doors slamming and gutteral exchanges among the men. Steady rain had been falling for several hours. I wondered what would happen next.

It didn't take long to find out. The talk stopped. Doors slammed again. John gunned the red and silver truck. It sounded like a political statement, a rude gesture to the weather. He is hot to get this project dried in. Then the rain won't matter. I hope they have another dried in house to go to and work today.

My own experience of the rain this morning is quite different. My raft in life's river is in a quiescent spot at the moment, a smooth ride. I have it easy, curled up like a fat tabby cat in a corner of the sofa, munching on dates and a warm whole grain seeded bun with a couple of thin slices of buttery Havarti cheese, sipping on a mug of coffee that I whisked up with milk and cinnamon. Buck is working at his desk. Maggie is snoring gently in front of the fireplace.

I am always aware that life's river is moving, carrying me to a different spot, and that where I am today is just that: where I am today. A snapshot. For today, it's comfortable, sweet and precious.

The Lintel Blessing

Coming home from an expedition in search of an exterior front door, we were surprised to see a bold, black scrawl of words written on a piece of framing. We were even a little uneasy, at least at first. The words, "God bless this house with spiritual growth and love," were written on the lintel of what will be the opening to the front door of the new house. The frame containing the lintel piece has not been nailed into place yet, and is lying flat on the concrete slab.

It was late afternoon, one of those crispy blue moments when everything is seen in sharp relief, breezy and fresh. Quiet.

We opened the door, went inside and Buck asked me for a marking pen. I found one, and he added his own addendum to the message: "And God bless all who built it," with our names and the date.

I have an idea who wrote the blessing. And I have an image of that person finding himself alone at the job site this afternoon doing a bit of work. I even have a sense that he may have found a space for spiritual communion here among the longleafs. Maybe it didn't happen that way, but not everything needs to be fully explained. A little mystery along adds depth to the richness of our tapestries, and allows for the open moment of possibility, a respite.

First Wall

The framing team arrived at 7:10 this morning and were measuring, sawing and assembling when Buck and I left the house mid-morning to go to various supply houses researching tile, granite, and carpet. "Witchy Woman" was playing on their radio when we pulled out of the driveway.

We fondled so many pieces of tile I feel like my fingerprints have been nearly worn off. When this is all over, I could probably get a day job as a safecracker. We looked at huge slabs of the most extraordinary, over the top granite in an outdoors supply yard, with names like Peacock Gold (it's actually black with grey blue chunks and gold speckles), African Waves, Ubatuba, Rojo Alicante and Blue Pearl.

Returning home, gratefully contemplating the pot of chicken soup made last night, our framers were still working, racing the setting sun. It was thrilling to see the first wall.

Maggie's world is changing every day, too, and like me, she loves a good sunset - - and aren't they all?

Last thing Framer John said today as he was packing away his tools: "You'll need to move that tv, your computer and all that stuff in the corner over there before morning." He went on to explain how he would be taking a chain saw to the remainder of the I- beam hanging out several feet into the space where the screened porch was. Then he will be removing the siding on the exterior wall between our office area and the old porch, preparing to build new walls and connect the existing structure with the new one. To protect existing windows on that wall, the crew will board them up with plywood.

I asked Buck if we would have a hole in the wall on the side where we're living tomorrow. Buck said, "I don't think so, but we might. All I know is, whatever John's going to do tomorrow, he's fixing to rise hell out there."  Uh hum.

I learned in Psychology 101 that flexibility is the hallmark of the healthy personality. Keep reminding me of that, would you?

Life At The Construction Site

The upturned root structure of one of the giant longleaf pines felled by Hurricane Ivan has become a gentrified bungalow for some critter family.

I almost didn't see the five wild turkeys feeding in the early morning fog. Maggie froze, one foot up in a point. The big birds saw us, too. "Whuh, whuh, whuh," their wings carried them slowly into the tree cover.

Seeing this broken tree, I was amazed by its resemblance to the concrete truck boom here last Saturday.

This has been a whirlwind week, the new realities of living in the midst of a construction site becoming ever more evident. Our cottage has become headquarters for a stream of suppliers and would-be suppliers, branch office for our builder, and coffee shop. One day our builder came in the door at 7:45, a tile guy with a proposal at 10 and Todd Oliver, the Pella fella, to discuss the window and sliding glass door order at Noon. Buck and I scarfed down half a tuna sandwich, then headed to town to look at fireplaces and insulation.

The framer came in on Wednesday to go over the plans and clear up a few last minutes changes, then was back again on Thursday to mark up the slab. Friday brought truckloads of trusses, hundreds of 2x6 inch studs, and yet another pile of red clay -- this one for the porte cocherre (a fancy car port) foundation. The framer, John, and his crew spent all day Friday sawing and moving the studs into counted-out piles in stacks laid out at the various spots on the slabs where they will be needed. Saw horses were built and are in place for the hammering and nailing to begin on Monday morning.

John will be annoyed that the dump truck spilled all that red clay so close to the pretty trusses.

Meanwhile, Buck and I are beginning to long for a cool, dark cave to hole up in. . . . maybe we'll find a Holiday Inn room, king leisure, down and out.

Plain Vanilla?

Vanilla Steam

Lyndhurst Gallery Beige

Free Wheeling

Riviera Dune

Desert Fortress

Mesa Tumbleweed

Churchill Hotel Navajo White

Muslin Wrap

Polished Ivory

Whispering Wind

Quill

Stormy Weather

Homestead Resort Cameo White

Thistle Seed

Ivory Lace

White Light

Raw Linen

Cloth

White Smoke

Pale Silk

Pale Chamois

Gypsum

Dusty Sands

Cassia

Courtyard Tan

Warm Buff

Milk Paint

Stone

Latte

Bay Oyster

Garlic Clove

Cafe Cream

Pecan

Quail Egg

We're collecting paint chips. The search is on for that perfect neutral -- not stark white, not yellow, not tan, not tinged with blue, pink or peach.

Plain vanilla. One would think it would be ubiquitous in the paint department, but alas, not so.

This is more confusing than wine tasting or perfume testing.

"And you, sir/madam, what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a recovering blogger*. Now I have a real job. I think up names for paint chips."

"Ah."

* An homage to Tom Montag, The Middlewesterner.

Value

Most of us spend money on junk. Junk food, junk magazines, junk gadgets, junk clothes, filling up our minds, bellies, homes and cars. Junk.

Yesterday, I watched men work from 5:30 in the morning until after 4:00 in the afternoon, mindfully pouring and perfecting the foundation for our home. They slogged in wet concrete up past their ankles, so thick it almost sucked their rubber boots off. Trucks came and went, transferring their loads into the pumping truck with its high boom. I brought out thermal carafes of coffee and hot biscuits with thin ham tucked inside, but these mostly went to the drivers and bystanders. 

Buck and a couple of USA Pensacola Ready Mix drivers are good-natured with the paparazza (that would be me. . .)

Mike, Eddie, Reggie, Bob and Mario -- the artisans working against time, contending with a hot sun and drying concrete -- were feverishly pushing and smoothing, so busy they never ate even a bite of lunch until after two o'clock.

Here's Reggie and Bob just as the pouring was about to begin.

Mario lays down his trowel for just a moment to pose, still smiling after nine straight hours of hard work.

Eddie (in blue) and the other guys in their rubber boots in a sea of concrete.

The last step was to run their finishing machines, a sort of mechanical buffer, over the entire surface, smoothing it to a glassy finish. Buck and I took Maggie for a long walk, then returned to grill a chicken on the patio -- what used to be the screened porch -- and enjoy our first sunset on the slab.

What these guys created is the antithesis of junk. The word that keeps returning to my mind over and over is value. We watched the raw materials arrive, and we watched as these skilled workers turned it into a strong, solid foundation. We observed their physical labor, and sensed their pride. It was beautiful to experience.

What a day. What an incredible day. I am one seriously lucky woman.

It's Happening

I woke up at 4:00 a.m., more excited than a kid going to the fair.The huge concrete pumping truck arrived at 5:30. The young driver spent the next 25 minutes walking over the foundation, carrying a remote control joy stick device, and practicing moving the boom with its concrete delivery tube that looks like an enormous elephant trunk. His truck remains stationery, with individual concrete trucks arriving to fill and refill as needed. The boom is forty or fifty feet up in the air, and must move in all directions over the foundation, with Mike and his crew guiding the flow of gunmetal grey wet concrete.  Unbelievable. Here are a few quick pics.

I Keep Yawning

A big white truck rolled up to the building site about 6:15 this morning. Last night, Buck and I had celebrated our 21st anniversary with an extra glass of cabernet and some dark chocolate (health food),and I didn't spring out of bed this morning with my usual alacrity.

Grabbing for my jeans and chambray work shirt, I cracked open the bedroom door, and went to the kitchen counter to grind some coffee beans. The driver of the big white truck popped up in the kitchen window and greeted me with a big grin. He was here to spray a treatment for termite prevention on the slab. I have learned that these guys can be exposed to my unadorned early morning face and live.

By the time he was finished, Mike Whitacre and his crew had arrived to spread out the polyethelene moisture barrier. For a moment I thought Christo had chosen our longleaf woods for his next artistic wrapping project. Once the opaque plastic was unrolled, the guys topped it with metal mesh strips. Completed, it looked like some vast high tech game board.

Buck and I spent most of the day looking at flooring and counter tops. Our dining table, desk, counter bar, coffee table, desk, floor and bed are littered with brochures and torn out magazine pages.

God willing and the creek don't rise, the slab will get poured tomorrow. By Sunday evening, I hope to be dining on shrimp scampi on the slab at sunset. Meanwhile, here's a picture Buck took of me crouching in the spot where the bathtub will be!

Imagine

Okay, okay. I know it doesn't look like much, now. But just close your eyes, and imagine that red clay covered up with concrete, and some gorgeous hardwood. That pipe sticking up out of the clay holds the electrical wire that will become a plug for a brass piano lamp with a square black marble base. The lamp will sit on the grand piano (a/k/a The Sexy Beast). If you have a really good imagination, you should be able to hear the strains of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, first movement. Is it working?

Tomorrow the termite treatment is sprayed onto the clay, then wire mesh and plastic will be put down in preparation for pouring the slab. If all goes well, concrete trucks will start rumbling through the gate about 6:30 Saturday morning!

The Plumber's Craft

White pvc pipes are sticking up out of the red clay base now. The plumbing contractor and his crew worked all day yesterday laying the pipes, inserting coils of shiny copper tubing -- too beautiful for burying -- then sliding blue and bright pink plastic sleeves over the exposed portion of the copper tubing. I asked our builder, Ron, about the colored sleeves. He told me they serve two purposes: one is to identify cold or hot water; the other is to keep the copper from touching any concrete. Apparently, direct contact with concrete has a corrosive effect on the copper.

Various inspectors come out to say grace over each step of the project. One is due today to inspect the plumbing work. Once that approval has been obtained, the red clay base will be covered over with wire mesh and plastic, in preparation for pouring concrete next week.

Performance Art

My mind is taking it all in and making record of this most extraordinary performance art. It is like watching time-lapse photography or archeology in reverse, as the layers of sand, gravel, block, clay, piping, rebar, steel mesh, concrete, wood, and glass pile one on top of the other, sandwiched in functional layers to provide strength and a permanence that will outlast our lives and imagination for the time when it all returns to the forest.

I didn't know what to expect from these first waves of workers. What I have found so far is a vibrant workspace, with highly skilled, hard-working individuals, from the guys hauling clay in their noisy dump trucks giving me a smiling thumbs up as they expertly backed in and filled the big hole with clay, to the framers tearing up the old screened porch, wiry, strong and limber, clambering over the roof like a troupe of gymnasts. And the foundation crew -- when they show up before first light, it's to work hard and get the job done.

We have seen young Jesse, pride in his fine Kubota tractor sticking out all over, as he conquered the irregular red clay hills and smoothed them out across the entire foundation. It reminded me of how my mother used to ice a cake. I watched her with awe, too.

On Friday, Larry Pugh came with his plumbing crew to dig trenches and lay pipe in that red clay cake. We've been told by several people that Larry is "the best in the business" and I believe it. He and our builder, Ron, sat around the dining table with Buck and I going over all the details of where sinks, toilets, bathtubs, outside faucets and anything else requiring a water source will be. Larry's the kind of guy that wants to get it right the first time.

And then there's Ron Parker, our builder. Ron is low key and genial, with a deep, rumbling laugh. But don't be fooled altogether. He's a sharp-eyed hawk, too, and a leader of men, appearing to be casual as he oversees how the details of the plan are unfolding, steering the subs to do their best ever, without getting in their faces. It's obvious they respect him.

There's a perception in some quarters of our culture that construction workers just put in their time, doing sloppy work unless the boss is watching, then drinking up the profits on payday. There's some of that up, down and across the working world, from college professor to ditch digger to corporate executive -- even writers! But here, every day, I am seeing guys with pride in their craft, working for that young girl of theirs in her first year of college or the new baby on the way or the sheer joy of creating.

And they seem to be happy to have us around to bear witness to their work. As for us, it's an honor.

Curious Deer

The regular hunting season for deer will end here February 15. Buck goes to the woods to contemplate shooting a deer several times a week, taking along his binoculars and a good book. There is no venison stockpiled in our freezer. We feed the deer year round. The herd grows.

Nonetheless, I stay out of the woods during hunting season, mostly out of respect for the deer, who are reproducing, and also a native caution in the event of a careless bow hunting poacher hidden away somewhere in a secret tree stand. I don't necessarily begrudge the poacher meat if it's needed to feed his family, and that's more common than we comfortable folk might think, but I don't want Maggie or me to accidentally run afoul of danger. Hurricane Ivan made the poacher's task more difficult. There are places at the swamp's edge where a human can only travel on hands and knees, so many trees are down, the debris formidable.

But I miss the deep woods, and look forward to daily explorations beginning again in a few days. I will look for lichens, fruiting spores, budding pitcher plants and the young longleaf pines reaching, reaching.

Standing at the kitchen sink this morning, I watched a healthy young doe walk right up to the edge of the house foundation, sniffing at the block and the red clay. For a moment, I thought she might leap up the three feet or so to walk around on the surface. Instead, she found a patch of green shoots to munch on nearby, then moved gradually back into the woods, where I could see the big ears of another, taller deer.

This is a very poor photo, I know. Here is where knowing something (anything) about camera settings and how to take a picture at a distance would have made a difference. I promise to learn. But perhaps -- I hope -- you can sense the sweetness of the moment in this dim outline.

Inspector Maggie

So Much For Modesty

At 6:15 this morning, slipping out in my nightgown, I figured I would have 45 minutes to write and think all to myself. Ha. At 6:25 I saw headlights in the dark. Mike and his crew, arriving to finish their foundation work. They brought me the newspaper.

They've fired up the concrete mixer and are moving around like hooded wraiths, trowelling cement and stacking blocks.

As the foundation work continues, Buck and I have been meeting around the dining room table with window and door suppliers. The materials list includes 26 windows,  six sliding glass doors, and two exterior doors, so our pencils have to be sharp.

We've also been making final decisions on aspects of the heating/air conditioning system. The one we'll be using is called "Evolution" by Bryant.

Gary Mooneyham, of Mooneyham Heating and Air and Ken Ford, the Bryant representative, review the system with us.

A couple of days ago, several of the guys working on our project were standing under a narrow eave -- what's left after the screened porch was demolished -- trying to get out of the rain late in the afternoon, talking about the project, about bowling, and chuckling together. Most of these fellows have been working together for a long time, and it shows. It's a prettier sound to me than wind chimes.

The Photo Op That Got Away

I opened our bedroom door about 6:30 this morning to a dim ambient light. It looked like the drizzling rain was set in. There would be no further work on the house foundation this day.

Looking out at the small hills of clay piled up inside the foundation blocks, I did a double take. Each of the three largest hillocks was topped by a sturdy robin, looking for all the world as though they were playing a game of Capture The Flag.

The sharp-eyed birds caught my movement as I reached for a camera. As one, they moved their tiny feet in quicktime down the hills, then flew.

If the weather clears tomorrow, as predicted, these clay hills will be pushed smooth by Jesse Arden and his Kubota tractor, preparing the ground for Larry Pugh, the plumber, and Bob Johnson, the electrician, to do their necessary preliminary work before the slab is poured early next week.

Bathtub Shopping

Have you been bathtub shopping lately? Buck and I have to decide what type of bathtubs we want in the new house. One is easy: it's a tile shower, no tub. The second will be a plain shower/tub fiberglass unit. But the third. Ah, there's the rub. . . a dub dub.

The third will be in the master bath  -- or is it the mistress bath? Well, anyway, the big one, designed for such sybaritic pleasures undreamt of by mere mortals such as I. We planned to splurge on a nice big tub, long enough to stretch out full length with knee caps submerged.

But when I started looking at brochures and on-line sites for Lasco, Kohler, American Standard, and Jacuzzi, among others, I discovered something astonishing. People no longer take baths! What? That's right. Mere baths may cleanse our physical bodies of the day's dust and grime, but what about the wear and tear on our psyches? What about our emotional well-being?

How will the nicks and cuts inflicted by the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune be healed?  For that, my friends, one must purchase a bathing experience.

In this rough and tumble world of ours, a basic tub is insufficient and a traditional whirlpool may be too rough on our existential bruises. Not to worry! There is a bathing experience for every need, and if the photo layouts can be believed, a bottle of champagne and at least two glasses come with every tub, er, bathing experience.

Speaking of champagne, Lasco offers the Champagne Bubbler. It's a bathtub, sort of, where you can experience "what luxury feels like: it's the sensation of weightless suspension as thousands of warm bubbles from heated air rise from the bottom of our Champagne Bubbler. They refresh your skin, massage your body, and rejuvenate your spirit. They caress, tickle and delight. With the touch of a button, you control the massage options, including constant bubble action, wave mode and pulse mode, each with variable speeds."  My goodness gracious. That bathing experience sounds like it might be illegal in at least three states, although I must admit it sounds pretty dee-lite-full.

MTI Whirlpools, a manufacturer of luxury bathing experiences, says it best in one of their brochures: "It's all about you. What you like; what you need. Select the number and position of jets, and the hydrotherapy you want: whirlpool, thermo-air massage, neither or both. Even enhance your experience with soothing chromatherapy provided by underwater LED lighting effects." Chromotherapy. Far out.

Acryline USA has a clever approach. They tailor their "masseur" systems to the bather's personality and fitness level. For example, the "Aquamasseur System" is the equivalent of Lasco's Champagne Bubbler, immersing bathers in a "flood of massaging bubbles." Sort of like glamorous Scrubbing Bubbles, I guess. This is for bathers who are "stressed and hurried people who need to release the emotional burden of their day and free their spirit."  For hardier souls, Acryline provides the "Healthmassuer System" with a "free-flowing warm air channel" which "creates a tremendous air velocity that results in an intermediate to highly vigorous massage. Bathers who choose this experience are typically very athletic or involved in an occupation that daily fatigues their body and they need to release the tension within their muscles as they free their spirit." This one sounds like being Rolfed.

And finally, for the peak bathing experience, there is a unit offered by Jacuzzi that I have nicknamed The Primal Scream Bathing Experience. Instead of champagne on the side, it boasts an elegant sterling silver tray holding a bottle of tranquilizers on a handmade linen napkin. Jacuzzi calls this wonder the "Vizion" -- and with good reason. It's a sight to behold. According to their brochure's copy, "while being massaged by 10 strategically placed hydrotherapy jets, bathers will be treated to a state-of-the-art entertainment center, complete with a high-definition, 10.4 inch flat screen television, DVD/CD player, AM/FM stereo and four surround-sound speakers. Furthermore, a unique floating remote control offers fingertip control of the jet system, television and underwater lighting."  Really, you've got to check this one out. Click here.

Damnation, that's great stuff. But the sad truth is, after twenty minutes in hot water, I turn into a wrinkled prune. That tends to affect my mood negatively and I'm afraid I might get all stressed out again. A prune in colored lights is still a prune.

Sanctioned Destruction

I was witness to the jubilation of sanctioned destruction today. The crew of skilled craftsmen who will frame the addition first had to remove the screened porch since it will be the joining spot for the two structures. Industrial strength radio music went through phases, changing stations as the process grew more intense.

On Friday, the work was relatively low key, and the guys tossed off shingles to the strains of crossover country. They left early in the afternoon to go hunting. It's that time of year, and the Alabama season closes on January 31st. During their work session this morning, the radio started out country, moved to soft rock, then medium. But this afternoon, it was all heavy metal, sledge hammers swinging, the wiry guys balanced like gymnasts on the trusses, stomping what was left of the ceiling plywood down through the floor.

I watched from a few feet away, separated only by ordinary windows. Several times I got edgy and moved back into the living room area or the kitchen. Once a type of light fixture known as a "can" fell right off a beam and came careening toward the window. I was frozen in place, watching. Fortunately, it was attached by a disabled electrical cord and stopped inches away.

Sometime this afternoon, observing John, Paul and Daniel as they methodically took down the trusses, handling them carefully so they can be reused in building a barn, it finally dawned on me that their skill in taking the porch apart comes from knowing how to build it to begin with. They didn't come along and knock it down haphazardly, but disassembled it piece by piece quite elegantly.

Along the way, there was some whooping, hollering, and edgy laughter, the julbilant dance of sanctioned destruction.

Concrete Wind Chimes

It sounded at first like the deep musical tones one can coax out of an empty soda bottle, only much louder.

I froze, leaning into the open window, one leg cocked flamingo style.

There it was again -- only this time I could hear a whole range of tones, almost like a partial scale. Beautiful, but strange.

It reminded me of the space ship music from the movie E. T.

I looked and listened, listened and looked. What was producing that sound? Finally, I focused on the piles of concrete block stacked all around the construction site. The wind was getting under the block and singing its way out through the holes in the block. Fantastic. Buck and I sat across from each other at lunch time. He ate a bowl of bean soup. I ate half a cheese sandwich and a carrot. Not even in Santa Fe, New Mexico, with its many street musicians playing their hauntingly lovely wood flutes, were we serenaded by concrete wind chimes.

Art In The Everyday World

The foundation crew began this day anonymously, the hoods of their sweatshirts pulled tight as protection against the morning chill, covering all but a small oval of face, and that unseen as they bent to the task of setting up for the work day ahead.

They arrived on the job shortly after 7:00 a.m., in time to meet the convoy of cement trucks . The big blimp-shaped trucks positioned themselves so that a hydraulically connected, telescoping trough-like shute could carry the wet cement fifteen feet or more into the waiting two foot by two foot trenches.

This is Jerry Campbell, owner of the concrete company. His wife is Celeste, our builder's aide de camp, the one who quietly works behind the scenes to make things happen seamlessly. Jerry's no slouch, either.

The trenches are two foot by two foot, rebar and concrete filled. Code requires they be 16 inches, but these are 24. Jerry said that's the way he built his house, that it's much more solid that way. We think he and our builder, Ron, collaborated and decided to go the extra mile for us here. It's a good feeling to see that wide concrete base knowing it's built to hold heavy I-beam trusses and the weight of a twenty foot high roof.

Few homeowners are privileged to see their home built every step along the way. Hardly anyone sees the footings dug and the foundation prepared. I generally think about art in a simplistic way, and divide it up into nature-made and human-made. But in considering art created by humans, my mind goes to galleries, exhibitions and collections, or the art of music or poetry. But you know what? The work done here with mud, cement, rebar and shovels feels to my heart like artistic achievement. The fact that it will be covered over soon only means the exhibition was dynamic, one place in the life of a moving river.

Mike, Eddie, Mario, Leon and Reggie are plein air artists.

Sculpting a Home

Mike Whittacre's big burgundy pick-up truck eased quietly off the dirt road, parking near his pile of foundation building supplies. It was 7 a.m., a sunny 28 degrees. He kindly dropped off the morning newspaper at our front door, walked around looking at all the ditches cut by his man's machine the day before, then retreated to the warmth of his truck to await his crew's arrival.

By the time I had shucked my flannel nightgown, thrown on some jeans and brewed coffee, the sun was bright, the guys were building a good-sized bonfire, and getting their marching orders from Mike. The open tunnels had to be spaded smooth, even and to a uniform depth, before the rebar and rebar chairs could be fitted into the foundation ditches. Watching Eddie Rivers, Mario Perry, Reggie Kennedy and Leon Davis as they worked made me think of a troupe of well-choreographed dancers who have done a particular number together many times. There was a rhythmn to their cadence, as they stood in the trenches of the house foundation, spades and metal measuring tape in hand, stepping back to scoop, forward to smooth, bending to measure. They worked together like a multilegged creature, jointed and segmented, but with one mind to accomplish their essential work.

Foundation guys don't get a lot of respect. Their work gets completely covered up. But we all know what can happen in our lives and in our homes when we try to go out into the world and work without a net. Our foundations give us strength or contribute to our crumbling. Often, through no fault of our own, we have to go all the way back into our own foundations, digging out the rotted weak spots with a dull teaspoon; sometimes we have to become our own parents, our own mentors. Once done, however, that solid foundation gives us wings to fly.

I am grateful to these foundation guys, and I respect them. Their work seems to me the very essence of honest labor.

REBAR is a concrete reinforcing rod. A rebar chair is a device for spacing a rebar from a concrete form. This photo shows part of the future exterior front wall.

Let Us, Then Be Up And Doing

Let us, then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
US poet (1807 - 1882)

I am pointing to the southwest corner of the addition.  Starting from that corner on the front side,  a bedroom, study, and living room will join up to a dining room (the existing screened porch). Can you see the line made with builder's sand inside the "corral"?

This morning a man and his young son arrived with an impressive digging machine. The father followed that sand line and dug a big trench where the footings will be poured.  The little boy jumped in and out of the trenches and ran in circles around the growing piles of dirt.

We are into a period of great weather for building: sunny and cool.

Building something,  digging in the dirt, or even moving rocks from one place to another are all great antidotes to overthinking and the anxiety it often produces. We all have a lot to be anxious and fearful about, whether on a conscious level or lurking below the surface. Sometimes it's the fear of failure, but more often our nemesis may be fear of change or even of success. Buck has a great saying about fear -- that it is "paralysis at the brainstem level." Physical labor, hard play, even doing an unexpected -- perhaps even uncharacteristic -- kindness for someone, are ways to break up the bubbles we construct around ourselves, and help us free ourselves from ourselves so we can go do that great thing that's in our destinies.

Deconstruction/Construction

The foundation fellows arrived at 7:40 yesterday morning, bundled in sweatshirts, hoodie zip-ups and denim jackets. It was no longer raining. Luckily, the sandy soil had absorbed all that water from Thursday. A north wind blowing 15 to 20 mph further helped to dry out the top layers of the bulldozed building site.

If you have ever seen a building crew at the job site on a chilly morning, you know the first thing they do is to build a small bonfire. Sure as the world, within minutes a fire was blazing and two guys were picking up pieces of wood from the ground at the edge of the woods. One went further afield, searching for a lighterd knot like a pig hunting a truffle.

Meanwhile, the boss, Mike Whittacre, unfurled the plan on the glass-topped table out on the screened porch, setting a cast iron lantern on one end to keep the pages from blowing. Mike is a solid guy, intense and fast talking in the way of certain Cajun folk from the bayous. Mike strikes me as being smart as a tree full of owls.

I had started out liking Mike. That is, until he took a sledge hammer to the porch. Well, actually it was a necessary first act so that he could square up the edge to connect it with the new to-be-built part of the house.

Then the jackhammers came out.  All of the stone base affixed to the block of the screen porch area and around back from the dining room to the kitchen had to be removed. We're saving it all in a big pile. Possibly some can be reused in the new structure, but most likely it will be mine to play with to make garden paths.

Sitting in our usual workday spaces, side by side, duelling laptops, Buck and I had front row seats to the show. We watched as they sawed two by fours into strips and built what looked like a corral, then strung string according to Mike's instructions. He was constantly on the move, talking into his cell phone, waving his arms, and every now and then shouting "Hey!" to one of his workers, a loud instruction that caused the worker to stop whatever he was doing, look up smartly, and await further word.

Our builder, Ron, came around to observe the proceedings. He stood by the warming bonfire, which quickly became command central. Ron gave us the word that the electrician will need to come on quickly now and remove all the electrical work in the existing screened porch so they can go ahead and complete its deconstruction and bring on the framers as soon as the slab is poured and ready. Ron's guys will board up the six windows between the existing structure and the screened porch to avoid the possibility of objects crashing through them.

And so, very soon, Buck and I will sit at our work table, our front row seats a close-up of plywood covered windows, blind but not deaf to the mellifluous tones of skill saws, hammers, power nail drivers, and Willie and the boys on the radio.

The Privy

It rained all day and into the night, turning the ground bulldozed smooth into a slick , puddle-filled mud flat. Wind gusts rearranged the lawn furniture on the screened porch.

The portable toilet was delivered late Wednesday afternoon.That could only mean one thing: soon a small army of smokin', cussin', hard-working construction subcontractors would arrive and split the silence of our woods with their hammering, pickup truck door slamming and radios.

Maggie and I went out early yesterday morning, before the rains came, to get a first-hand, close-up look at the portable toilet.

I think she likes it.

Breaking Ground

I understand life is short, that trees planted today may grow to maturity in some other person's prime. That I may have moved on to some other plane of existence by then.

We are building a home which will outlast us. Is it vanity to make such a dream reality during our short tenure here?  Ah, well, that is a question for someone wiser, or more philosophical anyway, than I.

Here is what I know: the bulldozer came to Longleaf today, and the kinetic excitement it wrought, with its earthmoving power, its growling tiger paws, made my heart beat faster. I jumped all around, camera in hand, as the operator, Mack Godwin (Harvey's son), pushed down the damaged pine just in front of the current structure, and pushed down the cluster of three scraggly blackjack trees too close to the future porte cocherre (a lovely French word for car port).

Mack brought the huge blade over to the remaining juniper plants in harm's way. It glinted darkly silver in the afternoon sun and slid smoothly under the plants, lifting them from their moorings while his assistant, Chuck Jansky, grasped the large prickly plants at their base and tugged them free. Once the juniper bed was cleared, the dozer began clearing and smoothing the house expansion's footprint. Big Foot.

Buck herded the dozer like it was a rogue bull, pointing and shouting when necessary, making sure Mack didn't accidentally run over any young pines when he pulled forward into the rough to turn around.

Mack and Chuck left about 5:30. In the growing dark, the bulldozer on the flatbed disappeared completely down the dirt road toward the gate, a rumbling chimera.

Buck and I looked at one another and at the smooth dirt surface one step off the screened porch, its sweet fragrance wafting in on the evening breeze. "We've done it, now!" Buck said. We laughed and went inside to fix a celebration supper.

Early this morning, I drove into town and picked up some fresh scamp fillets for dinner, plus a special treat of jumbo lump crab meat. and a baguette of warm sourdough bread. Scamp is a type of grouper, really a lovely fish. I baked it in my favorite of the moment Greek-style with onions, tomatoes and oregano. This time I added a garnish of Honey Bell tangelo segments. The crabmeat was warmed carefully with a mixture of butter, lemon juice, Old Bay seasoning, and Worcestershire sauce. 

We're really not champagne fans, but a gift bottle of Dom Perignon from some close friends had been chilling in the fridge for months and we decided to pop the cork. It was remarkably good with the fish and crabmeat. Pretty good with chocolate ice cream, too!

Tomorrow morning a different bunch will come to shoot their angles and pour the footings. We'll have a pot of coffee and the gate will be open.

Permit!

Celeste called first thing yesterday morning to give us the word that she had finally wrested a building permit away from the county. With no further questions or issues forthcoming from the planners, zoners or health department, she packed a lunch and went to the county office early Friday morning and took a number. Hers was #57.

Late in the afternoon Celeste emerged, permit in hand, tired like a person gets from sitting and waiting all day when you have a world of work back at the office. What a woman!

Ron came over to our place mid-day with Mr. Harvey Godwin, the bulldozer man. Harvey will be back this morning with his machine to blade off and smooth the area so that footings can be poured on Wednesday.

Buck and I did our dance of joy, and then realized that two rose bushes, a small cedar tree and a world of thriving junipers were right in the path of progress. We spent some time with shovels yesterday afternoon before dark digging up the plants. Buck put the disk on his old Case tractor and made some nice furrows in the rich earth out back where the plants can rest undisturbed for awhile, and we moved them. The ground where he had cut through with the disk was damp, soft and sweet smelling. I didn't wear gloves, as usual, but just kneeled down in it to cover up  roots as we rested the plants there.

I stood on one foot like a flamingo by the bed last night. It was past midnight and I needed to go to sleep. Tomorrow will be a big day.  Finally, grinning, I told Buck that I know sleep is essential, so we'll have energy for the tasks ahead, but it seems like a waste of time when there are so many exciting things I could be doing if I didn't have to sleep!

Cast and Crew

Working at my desk the other day, my peripheral vision caught the movement of something through the wooden shades on the front windows. Two young fellows, one in shorts and one in blue jeans, were wandering about. I hadn't heard a door slam, and was surprised. "Who's that?" I looked at Buck, and he was out the door like a shot.

The mild-mannered young guys explained that they are part of the house framing crew that will be arriving shortly to frame out our house expansion. They wanted to look at the site, but when they ran into a locked gate out front, they walked the third of a mile in anyway. The main speaker was Jim, and his younger companion Daniel. Jim said the framing part of the project will take about two months, and will take it all the way to the black felt roofing preparation. The roofer will come in right behind them to complete that task. Their boss will bring in a construction trailer to leave on site so they can keep all their tools and supplies, making it easier to come and go each day.

Buck and I have a great feeling about the cast and crew being assembled for this project. Most of the subs have been working for our builder, Ron Parker, for many years. In sit-down meetings with the heat/air-conditioning professional, Gary Mooneyham, and the plumber, Larry Pugh, we have been impressed with their knowledge, experience and attitude. A good friend of ours, Bob Johnson, along with his associate, Shane, will be doing all the wiring.

Buck designed the house, working hard for more than a year to turn our dreams into a buildable plan. He can visualize, think in 3D, and knows the rules of spatial arrangement and construction realities well enough to bend them creatively. I stand amazed. 

Chuck Lee drew out all the plans, engineered the trusses, and had the plans certified by a structural engineer for wind loads.

Ron Parker, Parker Custom Built Homes, is the General Contractor.

This is Celeste Campbell. She works for Ron, and makes the trains run on time with energy and great good humor.

Buck and I feel like everyone we have met so far who will be associated with this dream realization project is excited to be a part of it and wants to do their very best. All we're waiting on now is final approval of the plans by the county so we can get that magic permit.

Guess I had better buy an industrial-sized coffee urn. Does Krispy Kreme or Dunkin' Donuts deliver?

Decoding Da Vinci

It seemed like a good idea at the time, when Buck and I said we would go to the 3:30 Chrismas Eve communion service at Christ Church downtown. This service, called "Family Christmas Eucharist and Blessing of the Creche," is known as the "child friendly" service amongst the four held on Christmas Eve. But as we rushed around the house all morning and early afternoon, assembling the lasagna and putting up garlands, we began to feel the press of time.

Showered up and bundled, we walked out the door just as an icy rain began to fall.

Perservering, Buck got us safely to a parking space near the church, and by hustling a bit, we made it inside just in time for the first verse of "O Come All Ye Faithful," sliding into the spaces saved for us by Adele, Richard, Andie, Julia and Darryl. Young Alex was up front in the children's chorus, the Canterbury Choir.

The old church was filled to the gills with children of all ages. It was noisy, with cries, squeals, coughs, sneezes and laughter, the background noise a constant drone threatening to drown out the rector. One baby, about nine months old, stole the show with her beauty and apparent joy. She was dressed in an ivory satin gown, and wore a Santa-type red and white cap. Her face glowed in that perfect way of warm baby skin. She pushed herself upright on her dad's knee and made happy baby gurgling sounds. She was the perfect icon of exuberant possibility.

Another child, a boy of about six, felt differently about the situation. His anguished cry broke through in a quiet moment. "But I don't want to see the baby Jesus!!" Quite naturally, an easy laugh rippled through the room.

My eyes shone, seeng five year old Julia in her soft, shiny red dress with stockings and shoes to match, and Andie was quite the young lady in her lavender and black ensemble. When eight year old Alex was called from the choir loft to assist Father Russell in his magic tricks -- oh, the magic tricks done in church are the subject of a separate post! -- I could feel Alex's thrill all the way to our pew.

Buck and I looked at each other and mouthed the words, "this was worth the effort" to each other.

We all converged in the woods after the service, joined by other kids and cousins. Adele brought the marinated shrimp appetizer, Sharon a Greek-style salad, and we matched them up with the lasagna, meatballs and hot bread. Maggie was a one dog welcoming committee.

Over good talk and gift sharing by the fire, we decoded Da Vinci Chianti, and found the meaning of life.

Transformation

Some time between Thanksgiving and Christmas last year I went to the dilapidated looking K-Mart store on 9-Mile Road looking for a roll of wrapping paper. It's in one of those strip shopping centers that always looks about six months away from demolition. I remember a thin, sallow young woman in a Santa suit defeatedly ringing a bell for the Salvation Army near the store's entrance.

Wandering through the aisles of Christmas decorations, nose itching from the heavy chemical residues of spray paint and ersatz snow, I paused at a display of battery operated candles. I laughed. What a silly idea! Walked on. Stopped. Returned to the display. Giggled again. Put a dozen of them in my cart. Six red, six green, all with shiny brass bases and clear decorative candle type bulbs. Their cheap price was escalated by the two AA batteries required by each.

One family member, when I told her about the tacky, battery operated candles, intoned "What on earth were you thinking?"

But when these ersatz candles were placed, one by one, into each window, plus two on the old piano, surrounded by magnolia leaves, the little cottage glowed in the darkness with friendliness and the promise of shelter, a warm genuine fire inside, and the transformation of self through love on this evening when the better angels of our natures rule the roost.

Just before going to bed last night, I stood in the kitchen, unscrewing the small brass rings on each of the fake candles, replacing the batteries in each one. Before we leave the house this afternoon, Buck and I will put the candles in the windows, turning them on just before we go out the door.

We're attending communion services at Christ Church this afternoon. Young Alex will be singing in the Canterbury Choir. His mom will be a chalice bearer. It's known as the "most child friendly" of the Christmas Eve services today, short, filled with music and a manger scene. I plan to sneak in a basket of miniature cinnamon muffins to share with our clan and those nearby just after the last song is sung.

Then we will all head for the lovely pine forest, unlatch the gate, over the creek and through the woods, to the cottage, and oh! It will seem as though grandma is waiting for each of us. See the candles in the window?

Merry Christmas, all y'all, and thanks for enriching my life. My cup runneth over, and I wish the same for each of you.

Wednesday Before Christmas

Landscape notes. Dark morning, drizzle of rain. The sky lightens to an oyster grey. Tall pine silhouettes become visible, their downed companions brown now, becoming the ground, feeding the babies.

The storm loosened screen walls of the porch billow in the southerly breeze. They will be coming down soon enough, as construction turns them into walls, windows and cased openings, and the porch becomes a dining room.

Three days ago, a bright orange spray-painted rectangle appeared on a tree slightly to the northwest of the flags outlining the addition's footprint. It signifies the county health department visited and has decreed where the new septic tank must go. There is no sewer system out here in the back of beyond, but there is an area so sandy it won't hold water, just the ticket for a septic system.

I can hear the rain now. The sky is light in patches, with dark clouds moving quickly across it. Today's warm rain and thunderstorms are drum majors for a Christmas Eve parade of drizzly cold which may include snow or ice pellets, depending on which weather service one reads. Whatever snow may really be, a Florida Christmas with a little snow sounds more romantic and appealing than one with ice pellets.

Some children I know went to the post office with me two days ago, where my status as an "interesting person" was recertified when a package from Wales was fished out from the stack of mail. The kids, Harry Potterites all, were highly intrigued by the elegant script, stamp, and idiosyncratic address. They were downright dazzled, as was I, by the contents: a hand-crafted card and woven star from a good friend.

  "The promise of light is always fulfilled on solstice morn. May you know a promise kept!"  (A portion of the text from my friend's gift.)

The kids and I then went to a place I know where there is a pond. We ran around on the grass and scared ourselves as the short floating dock swayed. A curious turtle swam our way.

Then we went to lunch. It was "kid's choice" -- I was surprised when their number one "please can we go there" was IHOP. Somehow, I thought the International House of Pancakes had become anachronistic. Could it be the continuing lure of chocolate chip pancakes and root beer for lunch?

The rain has ended for now. I see a brilliant red cardinal sitting in the feeder, holding court with five prosperous looking doves, a popular rector amongst his parishioners.

Mise en Place

{Ecotone writers are posting today! Read all about it here. The topic changes every two weeks. Check it out!}

We met with our builder today. I made extensive notes on a legal pad about county permits, footing and slab pourings, plumbing fixtures, roof trusses, wind load engineering, appliances, driveway configurations, windows,  and when to expect the bulldoziers.

Fixing dinner tonight, I found myself thinking about the culinary concept of mise en place. It means having all  your ingredients measured, chopped and ready before you start cooking.

Applying that concept to building a house helps me to understand it better. As I squeezed lemon juice into my favorite bowl -- it's a wide cream colored Italian pasta bowl -- and whisked in a teaspoon of Dijon mustard, a pressed garlic clove, a sprinkle of kosher salt and some just ground black pepper, I began to think of the foundation, the plumbing, the electrical system, the roof, the framing, the cabinets and so on, as discrete elements, all in their own beautiful bowls, mise en place.

While the indoor grill heated, I brushed a chunk of salmon with olive oil and sprinkled it with salt and pepper, then put white wine, balsamic vinegar, lemon juice and dark brown sugar into a small saucepan, reducing at a high heat for about 13 minutes, until it became a shiny glaze.

When Buck and I travel, we usually find a place to stay with a kitchen, so I have put together a travelling portfolio of herbs and spices. They are mise en place on the instant, assembled in a watch repairman's kit, visible and aesthetically pleasing. The curiousity of small children is aroused by their sight and mingled fragrance, exotic and warmly inviting.

Buck and I are about to embark on the homebuilding project of a lifetime. In fact, when we say it is the house we will live in until we die, this is the way we have approached the planning of it. That sounds grim until you understand our perspective. This home is larger than we need, but it is a space for living in the present, dreaming of the future, and remembering the past. It is a launchpad for other adventures, and perhaps other satellite outposts in other magnificent spots in the world. It is a place for adults kids, grandchildren, and great-grands yet to be to assemble and talk about Big Ideas, to learn to go undaunted into the wider world. A place to watch over our longleaf forest, add a pond, more native trees, and see many sunsets.

And so, as we build this dream, it has practical aspects, too, in terms of universal design, which will make it possible for us to stay here in our own home no matter how old or possibly infirm we may get -- many years down the road, one hopes.

Mise en place: what a concept.

Dreambuilding

Grandchildren were visiting, and over waffles and hot chocolate Sunday morning they asked when the house expansion would be done. Filling my coffee mug, I said, "About ten months."

"Ten months!", they wailed. "We can't wait that long!" Buck and I agreed. Neither can we. . . but six sets of final plans will be disgorged any day now from the draftsman, then they will be checked by a structural engineer for wind load, and then three sets will be delivered to the county office where workers will review the plans with a fine-toothed comb. Once the plans are approved, the dirt can begin to fly.

This project has captured the g-kids imaginations, whose own homes are nearby. Sunday's conversation with one set of them, ages 5, 8 and 12, was animated. "I want my room to be painted pink with black puppy dog paw prints stamped all over the walls. And I want half of it to be a Princess room and half of it to be a Care Bear room. And it should have its own bathroom so when I have to go in the nighttime I don't trip over my brother." This rapidly delivered wish list was from the five year old, waffle bite waving around on her fork for emphasis.

"A game arcade and a movie theater," offered the 8 year old, his grey eyes lighting up.

"Ooh," breathed the 12 year old budding writer, "can we have some boulders in the pond with a waterfall and a fountain with colored lights?"

All agreed that a waterslide park is a must.

And for the adults, of course, a primal scream room.

It's fun to dream. The reality won't be quite as over the top as some of these colorful ideas. . . but the window wall Buck designed for the study looks like a dream come true to me.