Our story so far: We worked ten months to make the old Methodist church habitable, and now Tyler turned his attention to the garage in order to get it done before winter.
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Chapter 42
How to build a garage in ten easy steps:
Pour concrete.
Nail together and erect two-by-six walls.
Sheet walls with plywood and wrap with air-and-water repellent building wrap.
Order roof trusses.
Hire crane to set roof trusses.
Sheet roof with plywood, roof felt and ice-and-water barrier.
Shingle.
Install soffit and fascia.
Install doors and windows.
Install siding.
If it were as easy to do as it was to write about it, everyone would build their own garage. Not everyone does. But Tyler was not everyone.
As he prepared to turn his attention to his garage, Tyler discussed the project with You-Can-Call-Me-Al, the man whose experience and execution skills had turned him into Tyler’s right-hand man. You-Can-Call-Me-Al, who had been willing through months of construction to work without written plans, was nonetheless more comfortable using them.
“Don’t you have blueprints for the garage?” You-Can-Call-Me-Al asked.
“No,” Tyler said. “I’ve never had plans for any other garage I’ve built.”
Tyler and I joked later than I should draw his ideas on a piece of notebook paper with blue ink, hand them to You-Can-Call-Me-Al and say, “Here’s our blue prints.”
Thus, Tyler and crew embarked on forming a garage from the ether of ideas.
Here’s how the back yard of the church looked when we bought it. That little shed by the chimney? Tyler resurrected it to store tools through the spring and summer, but Tyler spared it of an inferiority complex by razing it when he started building the garage.
Our story so far: We reinforced the pilings on the belfry of the old Methodist church we’d turned into a residence so that we could safely ring the church bell. Which we did, much to our delight.
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Here’s our bell rope from our belfry hanging down to the second floor.
We had a lot of leftover rope, which I asked Tyler about. I wondered if this was his typical “go big or go home” approach to buying in abundance or something else. He said he was pondering threading the rope through the closet to the main level.
The bell pull is about a foot long, with another eight inches of fringe. You can see the door to the belfry in the background.Close-up on the “crown.”
At some point, he intended to attach to the end of the rope an ornate bell pull he’d found on Ebay. The designer, a sailor with a knack for knots, lived in the United Kingdom and had fashioned a crown at the top of the elaborate bell pull. “This particular crown most resembles the King George crown having six legs and an ermine fur cuff,” he wrote in his description. All of it was made of nylon rope, some of it painted. It would be a dignified ornament for our bell rope.
Outside on the belfry, we had determined that we would reroof the tip-top of the structure, replace the second-story window and install siding either later in the season (if Mother Nature cooperated) or, more likely, in the spring.
For now, Tyler wanted to concentrate on a different project: The garage.
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Tomorrow: Chapter 42 opens, and it all about the garage. Read about it here.
Our story so far: A team of men shored up the pilings of the belfry on the old Methodist church we had converted into a residence.
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Reroofer now went to work in what he specialized—finishing the flat roof beneath the bell. He performed this work once already, back in the autumn, but all that had been pulled apart to repair the pilings. He spent a solid week traipsing up the ladder with various construction materials—plywood, aluminum, waterproof sheeting and more—to do whatever a good and proper roofer does. He dodged a recalcitrant squirrel who’d taken possession of the nook above the bell and insisted Reroofer was trespassing. For the most part, Reroofer simply ignored the squirrel’s chattering, but he made a note to himself and to us that the roof above the bell would have to be filled in to deter squatters.
Reroofer also attached the rope to the wheel of the bell so one did not have to stand on the roof to ring it. The day he did this, a pair of my friends paid me a visit so I celebrated by inviting them to ring it with me. They demurred. “You really ought to be the one to ring it the first time,” one said.
I yanked on the rope once, and I could feel that it wasn’t hard enough to get the clapper to make contact. I was too timid.
“Do it again!” they said.
I pulled again, this time with gusto, and the bell rang out. My eyes grew as wide as my grin, to the delight of my friends.
Later that day, Tyler climbed the steps to the second floor with a single intention: To ring the bell himself. He was not so timid as I had been. He pulled the rope and rang the bell three or four times, satisfied with all the work that got him to this reward.
Here’s a shot of our belfry after sheathing the pilings and after Reroofer finished the flat roof beneath the bell. You can also see our front door with the new lighting and street number.
Church bells, of course, are not usually rung just for fun. In the strictest sense, the primary purpose of ringing a church bell is to call parishioners to services. “In a broader sense the bells produce a pure musical sound that stirs the hearts of all who hear them,” according to an FAQ I found on the internet about ringing bells. “The uplifting sound transcends any artificial boundaries of sect or religion. Most of us love to hear them whatever our beliefs—because they stir something deep, perhaps something deeply spiritual, in all of us. And we are grateful and want to continue the tradition.”
Since it was the sort of signal that could be heard across town, I felt as though I ought to develop some sort of guidelines for ringing our bell. Traditionally, bell ringing was used to announce or signal special events such a weekly services, according to the FAQ. They were also used as flood or fire warnings, messages to douse fires for the evening, warn that the town water supply had been polluted (perhaps by a drowned animal), or to signal the harvest or new year. Bells also were used to announce times of great joy, such as weddings, or to express sorrow, such as at funerals. I thought perhaps we could get away with ringing the bell in welcome to visitors (so we could show it off, of course), for family birthdays (though I wasn’t sure I trusted ringing it once for every year—I had a 103-year-old grandmother after all) and for new year’s (because that could be expected).
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Today’s headline is a partial quote from Tony award-winning songwriter Oscar Hammerstein, who said, “A bell’s not a bell ’til you ring it. A song’s not a song ’til you sing it. Love in your heart wasn’t put there to stay. Love isn’t love ’til you give it away!”
Tomorrow: Chapter 41 wraps up with future plans for the belfry. Read about them here.
Our story so far: After moving into the old Methodist church we had converted into a home, we mounted repairs to the belfry with the intention of ringing the bell, which had sat silent for some time because parts of the tower were rotted.
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That’s a wrap.
The following day, You-Can-Call-Me-Al and Reroofer climbed back up into the belfry to wrap the now heftier pilings in waterproof net. And as long as he was up there, You-Can-Call-Me-Al decided to test the heft by ringing the bell.
If you can’t find it on Amazon or eBay, you don’t need it.
Reroofer rang the bell when he was repairing the roof beneath it the previous fall, but he did it carefully and by hitting the stationary bell. Now, You-Can-Call-Me-Al stood on the ledge of the bell tower, grabbed the circular crank and pulled (this is the mechanism to which a rope is usually tied—we removed the worn-out old rope intending to replace it with a new one of impressive diameter). The bell swung, and the clapper made contact.
Tyler and I stood on the ground, watching to see if the tower swayed. Standing on the tower and confident of his work, You-Can-Call-Me-Al assured us it was solid.
He rang the bell wildly.
The tower stood immovable.
Our bell sounded full and melodious. It was lovely. I watched, smiling widely.
A passersby on a nearby sidewalk asked me if we planned to ring the bell at three o’clock in the morning. Maybe she was worried.
“No,” I said. “But maybe at midnight on New Year’s Eve.”
“That would be OK,” she said.
OK? That would be awesome!
You-Can-Call-Me-Al tested our bell a few more times. No police showed up, so the neighbors must have been either happy to hear it or willing to bear it.
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Tomorrow: You-Can-Call-Me-Al shouldn’t have all the fun. Read about our first bell-ringing here.
Our story so far: Having moved into the old Methodist church we’d renovated into our home, my husband Tyler worked to make the belfry winter-ready.
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Oh, happy day!
A nice, warmish day in September, Day Three of the belfry reconstruction project dawned with a lumber delivery. A truck with a crane dropped a literal ton of lumber in our back yard, most of it for building the garage but some of it for the belfry.
The goal of the day was to sheath the eight pilings of the belfry with new lumber, thereby reinforcing them and adding back the strength sapped by decades of weather and animals.
Coming right up! Tyler and St. Johnny on the ground, You-Can-Call-Me-Al and Reroofer up top.This is a little blurry, but it’s probably because You-Can-Call-Me-Al working on that ledge was making me nervous. You can see the bricklayer’s pulley hanging off that horizontal board.
This was a four-man job. You-Can-Call-Me-Al was Nail Man. Standing on the narrow ledge outside the bell tower with a nail gun, he called measurements down to Tyler. Tyler was Cut Man. He cut lengths of wood with a table saw on the ground. He then attached these pieces of lumber to a rope on a bricklayer’s wheel acquired and installed by You-Can-Call-Me-Al. You-Can-Call-Me-Al pulled up the planks and attached them at the top of the pilings. Meanwhile, Reroofer was the Middle Man. He stood on the ladder all day attaching the planks inside the belfry. St. Johnny helped Tyler on the ground and frequently ran smaller items and tools that couldn’t be hoisted up to the second-floor, where Reroofer retrieved them.
At some point in the afternoon, Tyler sent me to the hardware store to buy more bolts, enormous pieces of metal bigger and longer than my fingers. I paid more for each bolt than I would have for most fancy drinks at Starbucks. These were substantial fasteners that meant business.
This is an inside view of a sheathed piling. You can see one of those $4.50 bolts in the center there.
None of the men sat for more than a few minutes all day. You-Can-Call-Me-Al balanced on the narrow ledge, Reroofer stood on a ladder, Tyler maneuvered mighty planks on the ground and St. Johnny scurried around, picking up after them.
Four o’clock, the customary quitting time, came and went. Five o’clock came and went. These guys had a system going, and they were determined to finish the job. Six o’clock, and my stomach rumbled. Even I, who had been sitting at a desk most of the day handling arcane paperwork, was hungry.
The men wrapped things up about half past six. All eight pilings now sported new sheathing all the way around. The belfry had a new-car smell about it.
I attended an evening class nearby and returned an hour later. I found evidence that Tyler had fixed himself his favorite comfort food—macaroni and cheese—and I peeked in the bedroom: Tyler was snoring softly.
Our story so far: After moving into the mostly finished old church we had renovated into a home, we turned our attention back to the belfry which had decades-old structural issues—and a beautiful facade—under the newer aluminum siding.
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You-Can-Call-Me-Al snapped this picture of an old squirrel’s nest and an old squirrel (or possibly some other creature) in the belfry before he vacuumed it up.
On Day 2 of belfry reconstruction, You-Can-Call-Me-Al spent the entire day vacuuming up decades of animal carcasses, nesting material and animal feces in the space between the interior ceiling on the second floor (where the trap door was, above the window) and the roof beneath the bell that Reroofer repaired the autumn before. You-Can-Call-Me-Al filled bag after bag of gross detritus. In every single corner, animals and insects had lived and died. This is where Stan the Squirrel—the mummified resident Tyler found when he first inspected the belfry—had lived and died. Many boards had been chewed away.
This cleaning was necessary so the men could see what they had to work with and what needed repair. They would also be using the floor in this anteroom as a staging area for tools, nails and lumber.
I climbed the ladder into the belfry after the place had been vacuumed and tools have been moved in. You can see how some of the boards supporting the structure had been chewed away.
Our story so far: We could not focus on the fine details of finishing the interior of the old Methodist church we had turned into a home because winter was coming. The belfry required attention and the garage needed to be built, and time was limited.
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This photo of the belfry was taken during Reroofer’s initial work on the roof beneath the bell in November 2017.
The day the movers helped me move the stove and boxes into our home, Reroofer arrived, too. Reroofer, the bearded man who secured the roof beneath the bell on the first days we owned the church, was no longer bearded but still willing to work on our belfry. He climbed up inside the tower and began tearing off siding from the top down to reveal the real problems—and the real beauty—of our belfry.
Beneath the aluminum siding was the beautiful original diagonal wood siding and decoratively detailed cedar-like shakes—and the window we could always see from the inside but which had been covered by aluminum on the exterior. Reroofer also revealed the truth of the structural problems so we could see clearly what we were had and how to address it. The belfry never look so naked and the pilings holding up the bell looked as spindly as a wet dog after a bath; from afar, the 126-year-old four-by-fours looked like toothpicks, and they didn’t look so great up close either.
Here’s how the belfry appeared after Reroofer removed all the aluminum siding.
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Today’s headline is a quote from Esther Pauline “Eppie” Lederer, better known by the pen name Ann Landers, an American newspaper advice columnist.
Tomorrow: The gross interior of the belfry. See it here.
Our story so far: After months of dirty demolition and exhausting reconstruction, my husband and I moved into the 126-year-old Methodist church we had turned into our home. But our to-do list was still long.
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Chapter 41
With “move in” checked off the list, Tyler eyed the calendar and began work on the belfry and shortly thereafter, the Garage Mahal.
See, our move in was very unlike any you would ever see on any episode of HGTV. The big reveal on those home improvement programs features flowers on the countertop and pictures on the wall. The project is done done.
A drawer is pretty difficult to use without a way to open it.
Our move-in included none of those chocolates-on-the-pillow touches. We had no switch plates. We had no floor registers. We had no cabinet knobs. If we had door knobs, it was only because they were still attached to an original door (of which there were few). Many cabinets and closets had no shelves, and if you’ve ever really bothered to consider your cabinets and closets, they’re pretty useless without shelves. Every vase, every piece of wall art, every basket and organizer I owned was packed in a box or a bin, which were tucked into every available corner waiting to be unpacked.
Tyler chose distinctive black floor registers for most of the rooms in the church now home. Here’s one that actually got installed.
But Tyler couldn’t concentrate on these details, at least not yet. October was looming large. The days were getting noticeably shorter and cooler. One day, You-Can-Call-Me-Al, who’d worn denim shorts to work on the church all summer, showed up in jeans, and he looked like a different person. The belfry required attention and the garage needed to be built, and Tyler had limited time to get these projects accomplished.
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Tomorrow: Day One of belfry reconstruction. Read about it here.
Our story so far: Bit by bit, we moved the essentials into the old church we renovated into our home.
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Tyler made a huge vat of spaghetti for dinner, our first opportunity to entertain—truly entertain, during which drinks were offered and we sat in chairs around a table—in the church, now our home. As usual, he made enough for an army even though it was just my stepdaughter and her husband (my granddaughter was eating solid food, but certainly not spaghetti). So we recycled the leftover sauce over spinach lasagna roll-ups when his mother and her significant other joined us for dinner a couple of days later. It made me so happy to sit around the table, mostly relaxed, enjoying the company of family.
My autumn centerpiece. The candles smell like toasted marshmallows.
The next night, Tyler cousin and her husband joined us for dinner. This couple graciously hosted us in their yard during the lingering weeks it took us to close on the church the autumn before. His cousin brought me a gift: Miniature decorative pumpkins she’d picked out of her patch that afternoon; I tucked them around my impromptu tray of candles to create a seasonal centerpiece. Instead of sitting around the table, we dined casually at the tongue of the island, where the hanging seeded-glass pendants splashed light over us as we enjoyed steak and each other’s company.
Family, food and fellowship—exactly what I imagined we would be doing in our new home.
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Today’s headline comes from Hebrews 13:2.
Tomorrow: Chapter 41 opens. And we’re back where we began. Read about it here.
Our story so far: Room by room, the old Methodist church we’d renovated into our home was taking shape.
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Once the movers completed their work, boxes literally everywhere surrounded me. I chose to start unpacking in the dining corner of our great room because we expected visitors: My stepdaughter, our son-in-law and our granddaughter were coming for dinner, and I wanted to entertain on new dining room table.
The table and a china hutch had been delivered a week before. Both were enormous, and I was glad I wasn’t one of the guys hauling it inside. We found them at a nearby importer situated on a farm in the middle of nowhere. Most of their goods were imported from Asia, so the farm had a wide selection of stone Buddas and Hindi gods, but it also offered unique jewelry, colorful dishware, one-of-a-kind furniture, hand-woven rugs and cotton bedding.
We’ll call this the dining corner, instead of the dining room.Pay no attention to the furniture pads acting as temporary rugs in the dining corner.
When we moved out of our old house, we’d vowed never to buy new unupholstered furniture again after selling off so many pieces for chump change, but the legs on the teak table at the importer were just the unique touch we wanted in a rustic table. We’d never find something so cool on Craig’s List.
This is the grand sight that greets me every morning as I walk out of my bedroom, and it impresses me still.My china has the flowers; grandma’s has the simple silver rim.
Ditto for the china cabinet which was the perfect size for the corner of the great room. I’d never owned a piece of furniture like it, and I longed to display the china I inherited from my grandmother when she moved out of her home. As I unpacked the box of her china, a box of my own china and a box of pink Depression glassware my mother gifted me, I realized: This was a big china hutch. I had more than enough display space.
We found six dining room chairs on sale at a nearby mass market retailer. Tyler picked them out, and I was amazed at how well these chairs matched our teak table, which I dressed in table runners my mother sewed just for this purpose and a tray of candles I found among my packed dishes.
Church Sweet Home 