Our story so far: A new phase of construction arrived with spring as we renovated a 126-year-old Methodist church into our home.
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The renovation phases in our project didn’t always have clearly defined beginnings and endings. Phase One, demolition, clearly began the day we purchased the church, but it continued into the mechanicals phase and beyond as we discovered new walls, windows and cubbies that required dismantling before we installed something new.
Similarly, Phase Three of drywall, paint and flooring began as soon as the drywallers finished demoing the sanctuary ceiling. They immediately drywalled and painted it, and the ceiling simply overlooked all the work being done during Phase Two of framing and mechanicals.
But we treasured a clear marker at the end of framing and mechanicals. The building inspector officially approved our rough-in. Approval! This was necessary in order to proceed with covering the studded walls which contained all the precious and expensive—but unimaginative—plumbing, wiring and HVAC ducting. Finally, the dirty demolition phase and boring mechanicals phase were behind us. Let the fun begin!
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Tomorrow: Measures of our success. Read about them here.
Our story so far: While Tyler built walls and ceilings, the HVAC guys, the plumber and the electrician worked their magic in the 126-year-old Methodist church we were turning into our dream home.
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Chapter 23
Notwithstanding a late-spring snowstorm that left inches of heavy, wet snow behind in Old Man Winter’s ridiculously long wake, spring arrived and so did Phase Three of our renovation: Drywall, Paint & Flooring.
Could those be tulips growing in my yard?
Long, sunshiny days replaced months of gray skies. Slivers of green poked through dirty snow. Though strange to hear birds singing as I tramped over snowy sidewalks no one bothered to shovel because they knew it would melt soon enough, I shed my fleece scarf as I inhaled the frosty air on my way from the rental house to the church in the morning. Spring was my favorite season of the year, and ever-widening sidewalks were as distinctive a turning point to me as robins. Growing up, I walked to school in north-central Minnesota; in winter, it was a slippery trudge in boots, but in springtime, I could skip over clean concrete in my Nike tennies.
You can see the sap dripping from this cut in our maple tree.
Earlier, before the snowstorm, Tyler made note of the maple tree in our front yard that was dripping sap like mad. In another spring when we weren’t so preoccupied by construction, he planned to tap the tree for its sweet syrup. Leafy green perennials in every corner of the yard toughed out the white stuff. It looked like we’d have blooms of some sort soon. Tyler’s hired man St. Johnny spread a load of mulch around trees and over the flower bed once tended by members of the church.
Our freshly mulched flower garden.
Soon, we would have to mow. Tyler also snapped up a deal on eBay for a riding lawnmower he intended to teach me to use. I preferred the push variety, and I scoffed that we’d have any yard left after he poured concrete for the driveway and garage, but I couldn’t complain too long. The practically new mower was a good deal, and we picked it up from the seller less than forty minutes away.
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Tomorrow: We pass the test. Read more 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 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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As demoralizing as it was to see snow in April, it was nice to see how long it lasted on our well-insulated roof.
With the assistance of Reroofer, our agile roof walker, we pumped a thousand dollars of blow-in-insulation into the roof of the 126-year-old Methodist church. The proof was in the pudding, or in this case, in a late spring blizzard. Thanks to all that insulation keeping the heat inside, our house was the last one in the neighborhood with snow on the north roof.
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Tomorrow: We return to the real-time memoir with the opening of Chapter 23. Finally, spring arrives. Read 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 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.
