Our story so far: As reality has caught up with this blog about converting a 126-year-old Methodist church into our home, I’ve run across a few odds and ends that occurred after I wrote about the subject initially. That’s how it goes with a real-time memoir. Sometimes stuff happens after publication. So this week, I’m sharing a few little stories that will ultimately be integrated into the relevant location in the memoir. Think of this as the time in the novel—especially a mystery novel—when you page back to reread a few passages to remind yourself about what’s going on. Here’s an update for Chapter 21.
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To wrap up the balcony, Tyler constructed cross joists from the pergola to the north and south walls of the church. These were narrower than the center part of the balcony in order to clear the spiral stairway on the north side and the front window on the south. With the science part complete, a bit of art was necessary to draw the main part of the balcony together with the narrow part; Tyler planned a dramatic scallop and swoop to soften the edges of the balcony.
You-Can-Call-Me-Al was an even better carpenter than he was tiler. He picked up in execution where Tyler’s grand plans left off, and he built the most graceful sweeps constructed of wood you’ve ever seen.
South scallop and swoop.View of the sweeping balcony from the north.
Our story so far: As reality has caught up with this blog about converting a 126-year-old Methodist church into our home, I’ve run across a few odds and ends that occurred after I wrote about the subject initially. That’s how it goes with a real-time memoir. Sometimes stuff happens after publication. So this week, I’m sharing a few little stories that will ultimately be integrated into the relevant location in the memoir. Think of this as the time in the novel—especially a mystery novel—when you page back to reread a few passages to remind yourself about what’s going on. Here’s an update for Chapter 20.
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Those cute niches flippers always build into the shower wall on HGTV look so pretty when the house is staged with candlelight and floral arrangements, but in practical use the shower niche is an eyesore of mismatched face wash and deep conditioners.
This image of the shower-in-the-rough is taken from the bathroom doorway. Initially, the shampoo niche was planned for the wall hidden by the floor-to-ceiling partial wall.
In the initial design of our custom shower, we intended to hide our extra-large shower niche in the corner, mostly hidden by the wall to which the glass door would be attached. At least our shampoo would be mostly obscured to looky-loos poking their heads inside our master bath to get a look.
Instead, the shower niche (extra large, of course) would be hidden inside the partial wall, completely hidden from the bathroom doorway.
But then we discovered the pre-engineered insets wouldn’t fit between the studs on that wall. You-Can-Call-me-Al offered to create a custom niche, which was a reasonable solution until Tyler discovered the inserts would fit neatly inside the glass-door wall. Even better, our niche would only be visible from the shower. Ta-da! No more ugly shampoo cluttering the impressive view of the shower.
Happy accident.
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Tomorrow: What do you mean, balcony swoop? Check it out here.
Our story so far: As reality has caught up with this blog about converting a 126-year-old Methodist church into our home, I’ve run across a few odds and ends that occurred after I wrote about the subject initially. That’s how it goes with a real-time memoir. Sometimes stuff happens after publication. So this week, I’m sharing a few little stories that will ultimately be integrated into the relevant location in the memoir. Think of this as the time in the novel—especially a mystery novel—when you page back to reread a few passages to remind yourself about what’s going on. Here’s a little more for the story in Chapter 20.
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The tiler I met at the post office, You-Can-Call-Me-Al suggested we buy our tile from a Big Box home improvement store so if he ran short we could easily and quickly resupply him. So the tile I chose was off the shelf. Only our nearest Home Depot did not have enough of the shower floor tile on its shelf, so I ordered the twenty-four tiles we needed from the warehouse to arrive Monday.
The basketweave pattern for the shower base was elusive.
They didn’t arrive Monday. And it didn’t arrive the following Monday either. By now, You-Can-Call-Me-Me-Al was assembling the foundation and waterproofing for the shower. He couldn’t begin tiling until he had the shower floor tile. The entire project was about to come to a standstill because the warehouse couldn’t deliver on the promise.
Tyler bawled out the store manager who ultimately offered us a 20 percent discount on another choice of tile. But we didn’t want another choice. Some pointed questioning led us to discover nearby Home Depots carried the tile but none of them had the volume we needed.
But a brief trip to Minnesota to visit family during a rare spring blizzard offered up an answer. I visited four Home Depots in the Twin Cities metro area to piece together enough square footage to keep You-Can-Call-Me-Al in tile for the duration of the project.
Our timeline was saved by mass production and suburban convenience.
Our story so far: As reality has caught up with this blog about converting a 126-year-old Methodist church into our home, I’ve run across a few odds and ends that occurred after I wrote about the subject initially. That’s how it goes with a real-time memoir. Sometimes stuff happens after publication. So this week, I’m sharing a few little stories that will ultimately be integrated into the relevant location in the memoir. Think of this as the time in the novel—especially a mystery novel—when you page back to reread a few passages to remind yourself about what’s going on. Here’s an update for Chapter 19.
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The floor plan for the main floor required Tyler to close off the exterior side entry which was unnecessary in our master bedroom and build a new doorway. The new doorway in the north wall of the church in an area Tyler called the mudroom would someday lead to the garage.
Back entry in imagination.
In February, this door was just a little spray paint and imagination but in April, Tyler installed and one of his skilled laborers installed the actual door, a modern piece with a little leaded glass detail. At this point, it still lead to nowhere, but now the drywallers could work around it.
Our story so far: As reality has caught up with this blog about converting a 126-year-old Methodist church into our home, I’ve run across a few odds and ends that occurred after I wrote about the subject initially. That’s how it goes with a real-time memoir. Sometimes stuff happens after publication. So this week, I’m sharing a few little stories that will ultimately be integrated into the relevant location in the memoir. Think of this as the time in the novel—especially a mystery novel—when you page back to reread a few passages to remind yourself about what’s going on. Here’s a tidbit for Chapter 18.
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We ordered samples of rigid polyurethane foam beams, and we were duly impressed. Lighter and more durable than actual wood beams and more affordable, these faux beams would be installed on the ceiling of the sanctuary-cum-great room. After getting a look at samples of pecan and antique cherry, we decided to go with antique cherry, and Tyler’s fingers flew across his keyboard getting them ordered.
This ain’t no ordinary delivery, nosiree, this is freight.
About ten days later, a semi-truck slowly turned into the street in front of the church. Delivery men (and they were invariably male) frequently looked confused when they compared the address on their clipboards to the building to which they were about to deliver a bath tub, a hearth stone or a bunch of faux beams. When he’d confirmed he was indeed at the right place, he opened the back of the truck to reveal a pile of very long boxes, all with reinforced corners. These foam beams were packaged like crystal wine glasses; the packaging was heavier than the beams themselves. A little team work got the beams of assorted lengths inside the sanctuary, and now we would sidestep them for several weeks until after all the drywall was installed.
Our story so far: As reality has caught up with this blog about converting a 126-year-old Methodist church into our home, I’ve run across a few odds and ends that occurred after I wrote about the subject initially. That’s how it goes with a real-time memoir. Sometimes stuff happens after publication. So this week, I’m sharing a few little stories that will ultimately be integrated into the relevant location in the memoir. Think of this as the time in the novel—especially a mystery novel—when you page back to reread a few passages to remind yourself about what’s going on. Here’s a tidbit for Chapter 18.
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Tyler was a man with a mission to build his home solidly, and as with many efforts in his life, that meant cooking for eight when only two people were eating dinner.
Our doors would, of course, be solid wood, not hollow core. The church came with a number solid wood doors, so this wasn’t difficult to achieve.
As for drywall, only 5/8-inch would do. In his opinion, standard half-inch drywall did not hang flat or stand up to wear and tear.
Insulation, for all its cotton candy fluff, was another way we built solidly. Besides the attic eaves I insulated and the blow-in insulation Reroofer sprayed in the roof, I spent days rolling the pink stuff between wall studs to keep the cold out, protect pipes and provide a sound barrier between us and the outside world. I imagined us living in a muffled pink cloud bank.
Tyler even gave thought to the connective elements of the church.
Glue, for example, is a pansy in terms of connectivity. If one’s house is glued together, the Big Bad Wolf could blow it down even the morning after a bender that involved copious amounts of cigarettes and whiskey. Nails, well now you’re talking power in terms of connecting solid surfaces. But if you really want two surfaces to stay together, you use screws.
Don’t screw around with one of these.
But the big daddy of connective devices is the TimberLok. A TimberLok is a coarse-threaded screw, usually used on larger timbers (as the name implies). In most cases, these expensive babies are not sold by the case; one buys them in a box of twenty at a time. These are not screws to leave in one’s pockets as one’s pants go through the wash. Tyler used TimberLoks in the kitchen header, in the columns holding up the balcony and in whatever warped pieces of lumber he encountered to straighten them out. If a tornado hit the church, we might lose the roof to Kansas but the two-foot thick foundation and the balcony would remain attached to the terra firma.
And then there was the blocking.
At the end of framing, Tyler spent long, boring days nailing blocking between the wall studs and ceiling joists. Blocking creates the sort of solid structures that resist barroom brawls.
More than once, Tyler returned to Home Depot to buy more lumber. “I can’t believe we used all that wood,” he’d mutter.
Those shorter boards there between the floor joists? That’s blocking.
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Tomorrow: How do you fit a sixteen-foot-long beam into a box for shipping? Read how here.
Our story so far: As reality has caught up with this blog about converting a 126-year-old Methodist church into our home, I’ve run across a few odds and ends that occurred after I wrote about the subject initially. That’s how it goes with a real-time memoir. Sometimes stuff happens after publication. This week I’m sharing a few little stories that will ultimately be integrated into the relevant location in the memoir. Think of this as the time in the novel—especially a mystery novel—when you page back to reread a few passages to remind yourself about what’s going on. Here’s a conclusion for Chapter 15.
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Remember the solitary bat that appeared out of nowhere at the end of demolition? We chased it around fruitlessly until it ducked into the furnace room and disappeared?
Bat hole. Repaired with duct tape.
A few weeks later, I noticed a quarter-size hole in one of the basement windows. Tyler chose the time-honored redneck method of repairing it with duct tape. While he was kneeling in the mud outside the window, he found the bat—dead on the ground. We surmised he may have escaped through the hole but succumbed to the elements once outside.
But at least he wasn’t in our furnace room.
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Tomorrow: What “built solidly” means. Read about it here.
Our story so far: As reality has caught up with this blog about converting a 126-year-old Methodist church into our home, I’ve run across a few odds and ends that occurred after I wrote about the subject initially. That’s how it goes with a real-time memoir. Sometimes stuff happens after publication. So for the next week or so, I’ll be sharing a few little stories that will ultimately be integrated into the relevant location in the memoir. Think of this as the time in the novel—especially a mystery novel—when you page back to reread a few passages to remind yourself about what’s going on. Here’s a tidbit for Chapter 13, in which I described our design style.
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The mission statement for our design style was this:
We strive to create a comfortable sanctuary in the modern world, built solidly and maintained orderly.
Comfort was the first adjective for a reason; we didn’t want an art house that required ramrod posture and scared visitors away, and it was an important element of how we intended to decorate our home. I drew some of my inspiration from a book I read about Danish hygge, pronounced hooga.
“Hygge is about an atmosphere and an experience, rather than about things,” writes Meik Wiking in The Little Book of Hygge: Danish Secrets to Happy Living. “It is about being with the people we love. A feeling of home.”
Wiking goes on to write about the coziness factor of candles, tea, comfort food and being present in the moment. As for décor: “Anything hand-crafted—objects created out of wood, ceramics, wool, leather and so on—is hyggeligt… . The rustic, organic surface of something imperfect or something that has been or will be affected by age appeals to the touch of hygge.” That’s that I wanted in our new home: Hygge.
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Tomorrow: Whatever became of the bat from Chapter 15? Read about it here.
Our story so far: As reality has caught up with this blog about converting a 126-year-old Methodist church into our home, I’ve run across a few odds and ends that occurred after I wrote about the subject initially. That’s how it goes with a real-time memoir. Sometimes stuff happens after publication. So for the next week or so, I’ll be sharing a few little stories that will ultimately be integrated into the relevant location in the memoir. Think of this as the time in the novel—especially a mystery novel—when you page back to reread a few passages to remind yourself about what’s going on. Here’s a tidbit for Chapter 11.
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If we couldn’t repurpose a material ourselves, there were three ways to get rid of items in the church we had no use for: Throw it away, give it away, sell it.
The giving away involved a lot of trips to Goodwill and elsewhere. When volunteers offered to haul stuff away for us, well, all the better.
See the French doors, there on the right?
We found what were certainly the original French doors on the 1940s entrance to the sanctuary of the church. They were stored above the back entry to the basement along with a bunch of parts to pews and what looked like an old barn door that had been used as a table.
At first, I was excited, because we intended to put French doors on the doorway to our bedroom to replace the hollow-core doors there now. But upon inspection, I determined they could not be saved with any amount of sanding, stripping and painting. The wood was beginning to rot, and the peeling paint was probably lead based.
What might have been a sad end for a grand pair of doors.
So we put them with the trash, crossing our fingers the garbage man would take them. No go. We leaned them up against the back of the church while we pondered our options.
One day, a lady drove by while I was changing the church sign. She slowed to a stop, poked her head out her car window and asked if she could have our windows.
I gave her a puzzled look. “Windows?”
“In back. The windows leaning against the building.”
“Oh! Those are French doors. They’re in tough shape. You should look at them before you decide to take them.”
“Oh, I’ll be back tomorrow morning,” she said. “I’ll drive my van so I have room for them.”
“OK,” I said. “They’re yours if you want them. Just take them, even if we’re not here.”
Sure enough, they were gone the next day.
I don’t know what she did with them—some sort of craft project, I hoped. But I was happy these historical doors didn’t meet their end in the landfill. And that I didn’t have to haul them away.
Our story so far: As reality has caught up with this blog about converting a 126-year-old Methodist church into our home, I’ve run across a few odds and ends that occurred after I wrote about the subject initially. That’s how it goes with a real-time memoir. Sometimes stuff happens after publication. So for the next week or so, I’ll be sharing a few little stories that will ultimately be integrated into the relevant location in the memoir. Think of this as the time in the novel—especially a mystery novel—when you page back to reread a few passages to remind yourself about what’s going on. Today, a tidbit for Chapter 9.
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Don’t miss how unique this is. All-caps unique.
Amusing things one finds in a 126-year-old Methodist church: Along with an assortment of pots of pans, a wooden box labeled TNT and a 1969 map of Palestine, Tyler found the owner’s manual for The Excelsior UNIQUE Oil Burning Air Conditioner in the furnace room.
An oil-burning air conditioner?
A careful reading of the manual from the Exelsior Steel Furnace Company revealed the air being conditioned was probably for heat, not cooling. There is no date on the manual, but I guessed it was at least sixty years old. Excelsior Steel Furnace was founded in 1886 and, based on the existence of an operational website, National Excelsior Company was apparently still in operation as an HVAC supplier. The oil furnace in the church had been replaced at some point by gas forced air.
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Today’s headline comes from Woody Allen’s character Harry Block in “Deconstructing Harry.”
Tomorrow: What happened to the French doors we found. Read about it here.
Church Sweet Home 