Thursday, November 19, 2015
And we're off!
Friday, June 12, 2015
An unexpected getaway
Life presented an impromptu opportunity for us last week. We were offered the chance to have two days off in a row! IN A ROW! That is a rare luxury in the horse business. There is no such thing as TGIF when you work with horses, no weekends "off", more often it's no days off for weeks at a time. It was a special offer, one not to waste. Jonathan suggested that we go to Savannah, do a little city time, then some beach time. I weighed the options of staying home vs. going away. I don't make split second decisions very well. I'm getting better with age, maybe by the time I'm 80 I can add spontaneous to my character traits, but not quite yet. I pictured us staying home with me feeling guilty for not vacuuming, or writing, or paying bills and that did it.
"Yes! Let's go to Savannah!"
Sunday morning we took to the road on a drive that drove us through the Savannah River Project, the super secret, supposedly defunct, hinky feeling nuclear facility that is buried deep in the SC wilderness. It was a very pleasant meandering road, with little to see except for woods and open fields. There were occasional residences and series of abandoned, dilapidated shacks and mobile homes, which is sadly common in SC. Poverty and abundance are separated by very little in the south. I always feel a little sad when we pass houses that are falling in, with masses of foliage growing all over the front yards, rusted cars and other detritus getting overtaken by vines with each passing day. Who lived there? And why did they just leave it all?
But that's not what this blog is about, so back to the trip.
Soon we were in sight of a giant, arching bridge that spanned the Savannah river itself. The bridge is something to see, with it's mid section peaking sky high to allow for very large boats to pass under it. Our GPS very nicely got us into town and since it was too early to check into our hotel we decided to hit the first stop on our tour, Bonaventure Cemetery. I realize a cemetery might not be an ideal place to visit while on vacation, but this cemetery is like no other I've ever been in. The grave sites are decorated with all manner of ornate sculptured marble, crosses, huge angels, obelisks, large tombs, cherubs, all are beautiful. Designed more like a park, people are encouraged to walk through the various sections, with certain grave sites being highlighted for various important historical figures. There are gigantic live oaks everywhere, with copious amounts of lacy Spanish moss draping from their limbs adding to an air of solemn mystery. A storm front crept in while we were there giving the atmosphere an ominous tone under a deep purple sky. As the first rain drops fell, we took our cue and headed out.
We located our hotel, the B Historic Hotel on the edge of downtown Savannah, and we were pleasantly surprised with it. A wicked deal on Hotwire had landed us a room for almost half price which made us raise our eyebrows a little, but this was an authentic, clean, well appointed hotel. Big score for Hotwire! When you visit Savannah the first thing you need to do is make sure that you're wearing comfortable shoes. It truly is a walking city and well worth the effort we made to walk the entire city. There are squares every third block, or so, set up like mini parks, with tall shady trees, benches and well tended gardens. We made sure to stop, sit and inhale the vibe more than once. The residential sections of Savannah are just stunning. The architecture is so beautiful, with stately Greek revival home fronts, hidden back gardens and secret alley ways. Passing a bed and breakfast that was up for sale had us dreaming of running a B & B for all of ten minutes, until I looked up the price and at $1 million bucks that'd be a lot of waffles to make before we saw any return. Maybe it's because we were away from real life for the first time in a long time, but Savannah seemed to be wooing us as a couple. It's urbane enough, without the actual grit of a bigger city, while maintaining a quaint, historical aspect that is reminiscent of the small New England towns we grew up in. Jonathan has always said how much he loves this city, and now I can say the same. A lazy early evening walk on the busy Savannah river showed us the tourist and local color. Another chance to have a seat and soak it in. A delicious dinner at a tapas based restaurant and a last stroll in dusky light ended our day.
After a restful night, we awoke the next morning and promptly headed off to Tybee Island, approximately 25 minutes from our hotel. Once we were in the car I began to whine about getting coffee, but Jonathan adopted a "Dad" approach and told me I'd just have to wait till we got there. I'm not one who does well in the morning without my first cup of dark brown brew, so my mood was less than cheery for the entire drive. A stop at a seedy diner buoyed my spirits with a styrofoam cup to go, and in no time we were parked at the beach. A breeze off of the ocean seasoned the air and kept us cool under the bright June sun. The beach was expansive, but not overly populated. Still we got in some excellent people watching, particularly from a rather squat woman in her mid 30's I'd guess, who stood talking non stop to an older woman seated beneath a vibrant blue umbrella. Her topics were wide and varied, from recipes, to Boy Scout trips, to various past vacations, which included restaurants and menus and who had ordered what. Her attention to detail was riveting and Jonathan and I kept bursting into giggles at the absurdity of it all. For me half of the fun of the beach is observing our fellow beachcombers. The various body styles and bathing suits, from the magnificent to the cringe worthy all mingle together in one unabashed group just there to have a good time and enjoy the experience. I absolutely love it.
After about two hours of enjoying the surf and sand, we decided it was time to head back to Aiken. I looked wistfully over my shoulder for a last glance at the ocean as I exited the boardwalk. It might've been one of the shortest vacations we've ever taken, but it certainly was one of the very best.
"Yes! Let's go to Savannah!"
Sunday morning we took to the road on a drive that drove us through the Savannah River Project, the super secret, supposedly defunct, hinky feeling nuclear facility that is buried deep in the SC wilderness. It was a very pleasant meandering road, with little to see except for woods and open fields. There were occasional residences and series of abandoned, dilapidated shacks and mobile homes, which is sadly common in SC. Poverty and abundance are separated by very little in the south. I always feel a little sad when we pass houses that are falling in, with masses of foliage growing all over the front yards, rusted cars and other detritus getting overtaken by vines with each passing day. Who lived there? And why did they just leave it all?
But that's not what this blog is about, so back to the trip.
Soon we were in sight of a giant, arching bridge that spanned the Savannah river itself. The bridge is something to see, with it's mid section peaking sky high to allow for very large boats to pass under it. Our GPS very nicely got us into town and since it was too early to check into our hotel we decided to hit the first stop on our tour, Bonaventure Cemetery. I realize a cemetery might not be an ideal place to visit while on vacation, but this cemetery is like no other I've ever been in. The grave sites are decorated with all manner of ornate sculptured marble, crosses, huge angels, obelisks, large tombs, cherubs, all are beautiful. Designed more like a park, people are encouraged to walk through the various sections, with certain grave sites being highlighted for various important historical figures. There are gigantic live oaks everywhere, with copious amounts of lacy Spanish moss draping from their limbs adding to an air of solemn mystery. A storm front crept in while we were there giving the atmosphere an ominous tone under a deep purple sky. As the first rain drops fell, we took our cue and headed out.
We located our hotel, the B Historic Hotel on the edge of downtown Savannah, and we were pleasantly surprised with it. A wicked deal on Hotwire had landed us a room for almost half price which made us raise our eyebrows a little, but this was an authentic, clean, well appointed hotel. Big score for Hotwire! When you visit Savannah the first thing you need to do is make sure that you're wearing comfortable shoes. It truly is a walking city and well worth the effort we made to walk the entire city. There are squares every third block, or so, set up like mini parks, with tall shady trees, benches and well tended gardens. We made sure to stop, sit and inhale the vibe more than once. The residential sections of Savannah are just stunning. The architecture is so beautiful, with stately Greek revival home fronts, hidden back gardens and secret alley ways. Passing a bed and breakfast that was up for sale had us dreaming of running a B & B for all of ten minutes, until I looked up the price and at $1 million bucks that'd be a lot of waffles to make before we saw any return. Maybe it's because we were away from real life for the first time in a long time, but Savannah seemed to be wooing us as a couple. It's urbane enough, without the actual grit of a bigger city, while maintaining a quaint, historical aspect that is reminiscent of the small New England towns we grew up in. Jonathan has always said how much he loves this city, and now I can say the same. A lazy early evening walk on the busy Savannah river showed us the tourist and local color. Another chance to have a seat and soak it in. A delicious dinner at a tapas based restaurant and a last stroll in dusky light ended our day.
After a restful night, we awoke the next morning and promptly headed off to Tybee Island, approximately 25 minutes from our hotel. Once we were in the car I began to whine about getting coffee, but Jonathan adopted a "Dad" approach and told me I'd just have to wait till we got there. I'm not one who does well in the morning without my first cup of dark brown brew, so my mood was less than cheery for the entire drive. A stop at a seedy diner buoyed my spirits with a styrofoam cup to go, and in no time we were parked at the beach. A breeze off of the ocean seasoned the air and kept us cool under the bright June sun. The beach was expansive, but not overly populated. Still we got in some excellent people watching, particularly from a rather squat woman in her mid 30's I'd guess, who stood talking non stop to an older woman seated beneath a vibrant blue umbrella. Her topics were wide and varied, from recipes, to Boy Scout trips, to various past vacations, which included restaurants and menus and who had ordered what. Her attention to detail was riveting and Jonathan and I kept bursting into giggles at the absurdity of it all. For me half of the fun of the beach is observing our fellow beachcombers. The various body styles and bathing suits, from the magnificent to the cringe worthy all mingle together in one unabashed group just there to have a good time and enjoy the experience. I absolutely love it.
After about two hours of enjoying the surf and sand, we decided it was time to head back to Aiken. I looked wistfully over my shoulder for a last glance at the ocean as I exited the boardwalk. It might've been one of the shortest vacations we've ever taken, but it certainly was one of the very best.
Saturday, November 8, 2014
Rockets Redglare
It was autumn in the year 1987. I was attending classes at UNH in pursuit of a degree in Animal Science that would never come to be, but at the time I was faithfully jotting notes and trotting around the campus from class to class, like a dutiful student. My horse had been newly moved to a large stable that was ten minutes from the main campus in Durham. This place was full of fancy horses and riders decked out in breeches and boots, with a head trainer who bellowed like a bull at his students. The trainer was so intimidating that I could hardly meet his gaze if I had to pass him in the barn aisles. Flashing a dazzling piano key rivaling smile, he'd say, "Hello, Dear!" at the top of his lungs and strut past with the silver taps on the heels of his boots clacking like castanets on the concrete. I would shrug out a soft, "Hi", and scuttle off to my horse's stall, visibly shaken by this larger than life man's brief acknowledgement.
The days fell into an easy routine as I adjusted to the more flexible schedule of a college gal. I found that I could ride in the mornings between classes on Tues. and Thurs., so at ten o'clock I'd dash off to my car and whiz to the barn. Ten, my Quarter Horse, was stabled in the long, dark back aisle that was adjacent to the indoor arena. The stalls were adequate, but this part of the barn was more or less akin to the land of misfit toys. The school horses lived in this aisle, along with various other odd and end horses that were made up of absentee boarders, or project types. I didn't care where Ten lived as long as it was safe and he was happy, both of which were working out just fine. One of these mornings I was grooming Ten in his stall when I heard footsteps coming down the aisle. Through the bars of the stall I watched a thin, blonde woman clad in beige breeches and tall rubber boots glide by. She looked really happy, almost radiant to be at the barn. I was instantly curious about her. That day while I rode I watched her from a distance as she took a lesson on a horse that I knew only as "Rockets". Rockets, who's full name was Rockets Redglare, was not particularly pretty, nor was he graceful, but he was kind and willing. He had large platter sized feet that belied his draft horse infusion and he was about as flexible as a piece of rebar. Granted my own horse was no picnic with a short, choppy step and flighty nature, but Rockets looked about as comfortable as riding a jackhammer. The blonde woman put him through his paces, carefully executing the exercises set out by the instructor and at the end of the lesson she collapsed on Rockets neck, hugging him broadly with both arms. "I love this horse!", she said with a grin. It was obvious that she really did.
Back at the barn we were both untacking and I decided to introduce myself.
"Hey," I said. "I'm Michele. I just moved here with my horse, Ten."
"Oh, I'm Kathy! And this is my horse, Rockets," she said patting him vigorously. "Nice to meet you!"
We engaged in some polite conversation, with the normal where are you from, etc. as we put away our horses and then it was time for her to go to work, she said. "Where's work?" I inquired.
"The hospital. I'm an anesthesiologist," she replied, waving goodbye.
From then on I met many new friends at the barn, and I'd run into Kathy on some of my morning rides, or occasionally see her on the weekends when she'd bring her two tiny, blonde toddler clones of herself out to feed Rockets carrots. I couldn't help but admire her sheer enthusiasm for coming to see her clunky, oafish horse. Her love for him was so absolute and true that it felt intrusive to watch her greet him.
One morning in late November, just before Thanksgiving, I was getting Ten tacked up for a ride. Kathy appeared in the barn, but instead of wearing her usual broad smile, her face was pale and drawn. I watched her let herself in Rockets stall and clasp her arms around his neck. Ten minutes later she came out, wiping her eyes with her sleeve and I wasn't sure if I should say anything, or just let her be. She walked over to me and Ten, letting out a long exhale.
"Ahhh, I really needed that," she said giving Ten a pat on the neck. "Today has been a super bad, horrible day."
"Trouble at work?" I ventured.
"No, it's not work. Today is a sad anniversary for me." She paused and her expression was pinched before she spoke again. "I lost the love of my life on this day, seventeen years ago. We were just kids really, but he was so special. Fucking Vietnam. It was his last mission before he was sent home."
I told her I was sorry for her loss, all the while feeling very uncomfortable with this sad version of my usually bubbly friend.
"Yeah, sometimes life just sucks, you know? John was a pilot. You know how pilots give themselves call names? His was Rockets Redglare. No one really knows about him, except for my family. I never even told my husband about him. I named Rockets in his memory."
This reveal of information hit me deep in my gut. It was raw and heartbreaking and profoundly sad. A painful piece of her past hiding under what I had perceived to be a happy woman leading a fantastic life, with a career, cute kids, the works. My young brain sought to process the complexity of such a tangle of emotions.
"That's cool that you named Rockets after him. I mean, it's obvious how much you love that horse and everything." It was the best I could come up with at the time.
Kathy nodded, biting her lip and then apologized for bumming me out.
She proceeded to tack up Rockets and the next time I saw her that day she was galloping full speed across the top field. Bending low over his neck they sped along. I remember thinking I was watching an image of pleasure running away from long buried pain.
All of these years later I can still see Kathy's face when she told me about John, her fallen pilot and lost love. I doubt that she remembers telling me the story, but it's one that I know I'll never forget.
The days fell into an easy routine as I adjusted to the more flexible schedule of a college gal. I found that I could ride in the mornings between classes on Tues. and Thurs., so at ten o'clock I'd dash off to my car and whiz to the barn. Ten, my Quarter Horse, was stabled in the long, dark back aisle that was adjacent to the indoor arena. The stalls were adequate, but this part of the barn was more or less akin to the land of misfit toys. The school horses lived in this aisle, along with various other odd and end horses that were made up of absentee boarders, or project types. I didn't care where Ten lived as long as it was safe and he was happy, both of which were working out just fine. One of these mornings I was grooming Ten in his stall when I heard footsteps coming down the aisle. Through the bars of the stall I watched a thin, blonde woman clad in beige breeches and tall rubber boots glide by. She looked really happy, almost radiant to be at the barn. I was instantly curious about her. That day while I rode I watched her from a distance as she took a lesson on a horse that I knew only as "Rockets". Rockets, who's full name was Rockets Redglare, was not particularly pretty, nor was he graceful, but he was kind and willing. He had large platter sized feet that belied his draft horse infusion and he was about as flexible as a piece of rebar. Granted my own horse was no picnic with a short, choppy step and flighty nature, but Rockets looked about as comfortable as riding a jackhammer. The blonde woman put him through his paces, carefully executing the exercises set out by the instructor and at the end of the lesson she collapsed on Rockets neck, hugging him broadly with both arms. "I love this horse!", she said with a grin. It was obvious that she really did.
Back at the barn we were both untacking and I decided to introduce myself.
"Hey," I said. "I'm Michele. I just moved here with my horse, Ten."
"Oh, I'm Kathy! And this is my horse, Rockets," she said patting him vigorously. "Nice to meet you!"
We engaged in some polite conversation, with the normal where are you from, etc. as we put away our horses and then it was time for her to go to work, she said. "Where's work?" I inquired.
"The hospital. I'm an anesthesiologist," she replied, waving goodbye.
From then on I met many new friends at the barn, and I'd run into Kathy on some of my morning rides, or occasionally see her on the weekends when she'd bring her two tiny, blonde toddler clones of herself out to feed Rockets carrots. I couldn't help but admire her sheer enthusiasm for coming to see her clunky, oafish horse. Her love for him was so absolute and true that it felt intrusive to watch her greet him.
One morning in late November, just before Thanksgiving, I was getting Ten tacked up for a ride. Kathy appeared in the barn, but instead of wearing her usual broad smile, her face was pale and drawn. I watched her let herself in Rockets stall and clasp her arms around his neck. Ten minutes later she came out, wiping her eyes with her sleeve and I wasn't sure if I should say anything, or just let her be. She walked over to me and Ten, letting out a long exhale.
"Ahhh, I really needed that," she said giving Ten a pat on the neck. "Today has been a super bad, horrible day."
"Trouble at work?" I ventured.
"No, it's not work. Today is a sad anniversary for me." She paused and her expression was pinched before she spoke again. "I lost the love of my life on this day, seventeen years ago. We were just kids really, but he was so special. Fucking Vietnam. It was his last mission before he was sent home."
I told her I was sorry for her loss, all the while feeling very uncomfortable with this sad version of my usually bubbly friend.
"Yeah, sometimes life just sucks, you know? John was a pilot. You know how pilots give themselves call names? His was Rockets Redglare. No one really knows about him, except for my family. I never even told my husband about him. I named Rockets in his memory."
This reveal of information hit me deep in my gut. It was raw and heartbreaking and profoundly sad. A painful piece of her past hiding under what I had perceived to be a happy woman leading a fantastic life, with a career, cute kids, the works. My young brain sought to process the complexity of such a tangle of emotions.
"That's cool that you named Rockets after him. I mean, it's obvious how much you love that horse and everything." It was the best I could come up with at the time.
Kathy nodded, biting her lip and then apologized for bumming me out.
She proceeded to tack up Rockets and the next time I saw her that day she was galloping full speed across the top field. Bending low over his neck they sped along. I remember thinking I was watching an image of pleasure running away from long buried pain.
All of these years later I can still see Kathy's face when she told me about John, her fallen pilot and lost love. I doubt that she remembers telling me the story, but it's one that I know I'll never forget.
Sunday, October 5, 2014
Back to the Blue House
"Who would cover this up?" we both mused. It was perfect, well except for the large chunks of tar that refused to be plied from it. We sweated and chipped at small sections, slowly gaining ground, but then Jonathan had an idea. He ran to Home Depot and returned with a hand planer, which ended up being the perfect foil for our tenacious tar issue. It was not a pretty job and it was painstakingly slow, but Jonathan was determined to get the hardwood floor back to its original condition.
About the same time that we were fighting with the kitchen floor we took on the first of the green rooms. Armed with a ten gallon bucket of primer we set out abolish the green. It took two solid coats to get that green to say "uncle". That evil, nuclear green that glowed thru the first coat of primer and still had a faint presence behind the second coat. "Don't worry," Jonathan assured me. "The color paint will cover it."
After taping off all of the chair rails, baseboards, doors, vertical accents, windows, ceiling and the fireplace I could almost sympathize with the former painter and their choice to say the hell with it and paint the whole damn thing one color. However, once the first coat of Killim Beige was on the walls, the transformation was jaw dropping. The house suddenly had a touch of class. Almost a museum quality to it. I'm not going to lie, this was basically the first time I felt any excitement over what we were doing at this place. All of the other jobs required a lot of lifting, moving, scraping, etc. and after they were done the place still looked like an unappealing interior nightmare. But the paint? The change was incredible! Wow, I was falling in love now. This room is meant to be an office/guest room and it's so bright and sunny for most of the day. The beige is a soothing, neutral shade that is so the polar opposite of the original color. I think the house actually sighed when we finished painting this room. I love hanging out on the love seat (which pulls out to a bed when needed) with a good book. This room holds a special place for me because it showed me that we hadn't made a mistake, but instead we had bought a piece of American history that we were in charge of restoring. We did make a mistake on our first attempt to re-finish the floor. After sanding it down with a rented belt sander, we applied a coat of stain that we were sure was "the one". After letting it dry overnight, it was a very disappointing unveiling as we both felt like it was too red, like a redwood deck kind of red. We decided to move onto another project and just leave the floor for the time being. I know you're not supposed to do that, but we'll get to it at some point and now that it's dulled I don't hate it quite as much.
The projects haven't slowed down, though we've gone through some lulls when we've just gotten too sick of painting to pick up a brush for a week, or two. I'm going to make a concerted effort to continue blogging until I'm up to date with where we are now. I never imagined that I'd enjoy doing this kind of work so much, but it's been a very fun process. One of the more fun parts is having people over who saw it when we first bought it. Most of them can't believe the difference and frankly, it is kind of mind blowing what a little paint, elbow grease and tenacity can do. On another note, I was thinking of a name for the blog, since I'm not really Musing in Millbrook these days. How about "The Blue House Blog", or "Blogging from the Blue House"?
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
Mysterious Figure
The old man walks with a ramrod straight back, arms at his sides, soft, sure steps with his moccasin covered feet, making him look like a soldier tip toeing up on his enemy. He has dark eyes and coffee colored skin that's etched with lines and crinkles. He doesn't say much and what he does say is spoken in rapid fire Spanish, his native language that he chooses not to abandon, despite the fact that he's lived in the U.S. for thirty some odd years. Known as Lucho he cuts a solitary figure living out his days in the groom's apartment at the farm, isolated at the end of a long dirt road. He's like an hourglass that ticks each day off as a grain of sand, one day closer to the inevitable. I wave to him and smile, sometimes I even say "Hola" when I see him slip in or out of his apartment, though his stealth often makes his comings and goings hard to catch. Moving like a ghost, he'll return my smile and give a weak wave. There are times when I think he comes out to be noticed on purpose and I'm there simply to reaffirm that he's still alive, human, a heart beating on a revolving planet while it's a million miles away from homeland, Chile.
There have been a few conversations with Lucho over the months I've been at this farm, all related to horses, and I utilize my meager vocabulary of high school Spanish to communicate with him. I'm sure I sound like a stunted four year old, often I'm apologizing for my poor grammar. He doesn't seem to care. I listen to him speaking with his 92 year old boss, the owner of the farm and a character who must've been larger than life as a young man. The two of them together, argue and complain. It's a familiar dance between them.
Lucho has two dogs, one he picked out many years ago and one that picked him 4 years ago. I learn this from Ed, the owner.
"He didn't want the younger one when she showed up here as a puppy, but I told him that was tough," Ed recalled with a wry smile. "She was here and he had to feed her. So he did."
The younger one, a rust colored bitch, who looks like a small chow cross, has a deep loyalty to her chosen person. She follows his truck when he goes to the local gas station to buy cigarettes, sitting outside on the curb, averting her gaze from all who pass her by. She has only one person in her life. I've been allowed to pet her twice and sometimes she'll give me a half hearted wag of her coiled tail, but mostly it's a look of quiet disdain through squinting, mistrustful eyes when I arrive at the farm. The old dog is an aging comic of Akita heritage, with a mottled, dull orange coat that is bare in places. His mouth curls up in a macabre grin exposing yellowed fangs as he patrols the yard, pausing to make water on anything in his path. Barking in a hoarse, repetitive fashion he can often be found upside down, itching his back to and fro with his legs spastically kicking and bicycling caught up in a moment of pure pleasure. He likes to have his head petted, which I do very gingerly whenever he swings by for a check up. The main concern for him is keeping my dogs from eating is Ol' Roy brand dog kibble. It's a full time job that he takes very seriously when we arrive each day and he's not afraid to stand up to my young bucks, even if he is balding and wobbly. The dogs never really get into it, though the bitch has grabbed both of mine and given them a good shake to prove her territory is strictly off limits. Gutsy move for a fox sized dog to pull, but it worked.
The other day Jonathan and I were teaching a young horse how to load in a two horse trailer. The horse wasn't being terribly cooperative, instead he preferred to stand halfway in the trailer with his hind feet still on the ground. Without a word, Lucho appeared with a large bucket of sweet feed and handed it to Jonathan. The lure of the tempting grain was enough to convince the horse that whatever fear he had of walking into the trailer was trumped by his appetite and on he went. I thanked Lucho for his participation and he gave me a little smile before retreating back to his apartment. My suspicion is that he watches everything that goes on around the barn, which is both creepy and comforting. Before we came in the barn was empty. When we got there I was concerned that we were going to be an unwelcome presence with our boisterous group of show horses, but instead I get the feeling that Lucho enjoys the added activity and the chance to lend a hand at times. By early fall we should have our own barn completed so our horses can move to our place. Once again the cavernous polo barn will be silent and still, except for Lucho's quiet footsteps.
There have been a few conversations with Lucho over the months I've been at this farm, all related to horses, and I utilize my meager vocabulary of high school Spanish to communicate with him. I'm sure I sound like a stunted four year old, often I'm apologizing for my poor grammar. He doesn't seem to care. I listen to him speaking with his 92 year old boss, the owner of the farm and a character who must've been larger than life as a young man. The two of them together, argue and complain. It's a familiar dance between them.
Lucho has two dogs, one he picked out many years ago and one that picked him 4 years ago. I learn this from Ed, the owner.
"He didn't want the younger one when she showed up here as a puppy, but I told him that was tough," Ed recalled with a wry smile. "She was here and he had to feed her. So he did."
The younger one, a rust colored bitch, who looks like a small chow cross, has a deep loyalty to her chosen person. She follows his truck when he goes to the local gas station to buy cigarettes, sitting outside on the curb, averting her gaze from all who pass her by. She has only one person in her life. I've been allowed to pet her twice and sometimes she'll give me a half hearted wag of her coiled tail, but mostly it's a look of quiet disdain through squinting, mistrustful eyes when I arrive at the farm. The old dog is an aging comic of Akita heritage, with a mottled, dull orange coat that is bare in places. His mouth curls up in a macabre grin exposing yellowed fangs as he patrols the yard, pausing to make water on anything in his path. Barking in a hoarse, repetitive fashion he can often be found upside down, itching his back to and fro with his legs spastically kicking and bicycling caught up in a moment of pure pleasure. He likes to have his head petted, which I do very gingerly whenever he swings by for a check up. The main concern for him is keeping my dogs from eating is Ol' Roy brand dog kibble. It's a full time job that he takes very seriously when we arrive each day and he's not afraid to stand up to my young bucks, even if he is balding and wobbly. The dogs never really get into it, though the bitch has grabbed both of mine and given them a good shake to prove her territory is strictly off limits. Gutsy move for a fox sized dog to pull, but it worked.
The other day Jonathan and I were teaching a young horse how to load in a two horse trailer. The horse wasn't being terribly cooperative, instead he preferred to stand halfway in the trailer with his hind feet still on the ground. Without a word, Lucho appeared with a large bucket of sweet feed and handed it to Jonathan. The lure of the tempting grain was enough to convince the horse that whatever fear he had of walking into the trailer was trumped by his appetite and on he went. I thanked Lucho for his participation and he gave me a little smile before retreating back to his apartment. My suspicion is that he watches everything that goes on around the barn, which is both creepy and comforting. Before we came in the barn was empty. When we got there I was concerned that we were going to be an unwelcome presence with our boisterous group of show horses, but instead I get the feeling that Lucho enjoys the added activity and the chance to lend a hand at times. By early fall we should have our own barn completed so our horses can move to our place. Once again the cavernous polo barn will be silent and still, except for Lucho's quiet footsteps.
Friday, June 6, 2014
A Minor Glitch
I'm going to veer off the timeline of the Blue House Project for a moment here. Today it dawned on me that I hadn't received a copy of my new home owner's insurance policy, which should've come last week. When we bought the house in January I secured a renovation policy on the house and property. The insurance agent I was using at the time informed me that once we moved in, we should be able to upgrade it to a normal home owner's policy. I had called her several times after we finally moved in, but she never called me back, so I decided to go with a different company. Setting up the new policy involved answering about a half hour worth of questions from a humorless wench, but I gritted my teeth and got through the process thinking how clever I was and it was one more thing I could check off my list. Ha! Steeling myself for another annoying series of questions, I rang up the new policy's hotline, punched in all the ridiculous touch tone responses, and an automated voice said to me, "Your policy will be cancelled on Sept. 7, 2014. This must be a mistake, I thought. What on earth? So, I dutifully pressed 0 to talk to a human and get to the bottom of what that statement meant. A woman named Laura answered, and I explained to her that I hadn't received my policy, nor had I received any bills and what did that automated voice mean when it said my policy was to be cancelled? She was quiet for a moment while she looked up the number and then she said, "Oh, it has to do with the inspection." I replied that I knew someone was coming out to do an outside inspection during the time we were away a week long horse show, but I hadn't heard anything about the status.
"Hmmm, that's strange," she said. "But I can see why you aren't eligible for this policy. You'll have until Sept. 7th to either make improvements, or get a new policy. Here, let me email you the report, complete with pictures."
I stalked into my office, and pulled up my email account. Her email promptly popped up so I could open the pdf file. I was pretty angry since I didn't have any idea what was going on and I felt they really had been remiss in not contacting me by mail, or phone. Pfft! How was I supposed to know what was going on??!! Was I supposed to be clairvoyant?? I imparted these thoughts to her and, I admit my tone was less than friendly. She apologized and proceeded to list off the reasons as to why our place wasn't considered acceptable to insure. Dry rot on moldings, unpainted eaves, open crawl space, the red barn has no foundation, etc., etc., the list went ON AND ON. By this point I had pulled up the report, complete with detailed photographs of our one hundred year old abode's insurance hazards. The pictures clearly showed all of the problems she'd listed to me in painful detail. I couldn't help it. I started to laugh.
"Wait," I said between giggles. "It's not that bad of a house! You should've seen it before we bought it! The pictures aren't showing all the work we've actually accomplished! It's a virtual showplace now!"
I think she was relieved to hear that I had changed my tune, so she chimed in, "It's actually really cute! I can see why you bought it, but it does need to have these improvements made before we can cover you past Sept. 7th."
"Are you kidding?" I guffawed. "These pictures make the house look like something out of Deliverance!!! What kind of an idiot would even buy this place??" By now, I was almost losing control with maniacal laughter. "The eaves aren't painted, because it's a NEW roof! Doesn't that count as a good thing?? And the red barn is charming, charming I tell you! It's a piece of southern history!"
Poor Laura. She endured my hysteria with good humor. I felt those pictures were incredibly unfair, but the fact of the matter is that there are some cosmetic issues that we have to take care of wether we like it, or not. Buying an older home that has been neglected isn't for the faint of heart. I wouldn't exactly call our house "ramshackle", but between its age and the southern heat it has suffered its share of exterior wear and tear.
"Okay, Laura. I understand. We'll start addressing the exterior problems," I said when I finally had my composure back.
I hung up and Jonathan called to me, "What the hell was that about?"
"Honey, brace yourself and come in here. I have some pictures to show you."
Just another little hitch in the Blue House Project, but at least I'm laughing about it. I kind of feel like Tom Hanks from The Money Pit. Remember that movie? He buys a gorgeous, falling down mansion and he fixes one thing and ten more things break. Oh well, off to see our friends at Lowes for the millionth time this year.
"Hmmm, that's strange," she said. "But I can see why you aren't eligible for this policy. You'll have until Sept. 7th to either make improvements, or get a new policy. Here, let me email you the report, complete with pictures."
I stalked into my office, and pulled up my email account. Her email promptly popped up so I could open the pdf file. I was pretty angry since I didn't have any idea what was going on and I felt they really had been remiss in not contacting me by mail, or phone. Pfft! How was I supposed to know what was going on??!! Was I supposed to be clairvoyant?? I imparted these thoughts to her and, I admit my tone was less than friendly. She apologized and proceeded to list off the reasons as to why our place wasn't considered acceptable to insure. Dry rot on moldings, unpainted eaves, open crawl space, the red barn has no foundation, etc., etc., the list went ON AND ON. By this point I had pulled up the report, complete with detailed photographs of our one hundred year old abode's insurance hazards. The pictures clearly showed all of the problems she'd listed to me in painful detail. I couldn't help it. I started to laugh.
"Wait," I said between giggles. "It's not that bad of a house! You should've seen it before we bought it! The pictures aren't showing all the work we've actually accomplished! It's a virtual showplace now!"
I think she was relieved to hear that I had changed my tune, so she chimed in, "It's actually really cute! I can see why you bought it, but it does need to have these improvements made before we can cover you past Sept. 7th."
"Are you kidding?" I guffawed. "These pictures make the house look like something out of Deliverance!!! What kind of an idiot would even buy this place??" By now, I was almost losing control with maniacal laughter. "The eaves aren't painted, because it's a NEW roof! Doesn't that count as a good thing?? And the red barn is charming, charming I tell you! It's a piece of southern history!"
Poor Laura. She endured my hysteria with good humor. I felt those pictures were incredibly unfair, but the fact of the matter is that there are some cosmetic issues that we have to take care of wether we like it, or not. Buying an older home that has been neglected isn't for the faint of heart. I wouldn't exactly call our house "ramshackle", but between its age and the southern heat it has suffered its share of exterior wear and tear.
"Okay, Laura. I understand. We'll start addressing the exterior problems," I said when I finally had my composure back.
I hung up and Jonathan called to me, "What the hell was that about?"
"Honey, brace yourself and come in here. I have some pictures to show you."
Just another little hitch in the Blue House Project, but at least I'm laughing about it. I kind of feel like Tom Hanks from The Money Pit. Remember that movie? He buys a gorgeous, falling down mansion and he fixes one thing and ten more things break. Oh well, off to see our friends at Lowes for the millionth time this year.
Saturday, May 31, 2014
Heave Ho!!!
Once I got over the initial buyer's remorse after we bought what we affectionately referred to as the "Blue House", it became clear that the first step was that we had to empty it out and clean it. I researched dumpsters in the area and finally found a company that would drop a 30 yard dumpster at our back porch for a week. The day it showed up Jonathan and I arrived wearing durable clothes, gloves and face masks. There wasn't a lot of mold, but we weren't taking any chances. For good measure I took off my eye glasses and put them on one of the mantles for safe keeping. My theory behind this move was that if I couldn't actually see what I was touching then it wasn't really in my hands. I know, irrational, but desperate times called for any measure of any kind to get the job done.
Anyone who knows Jonathan and I knows that as laid back as we can come across to folks, we can really work when we need to get a job finished. We were relentless with this project, though I got sidetracked now and then by old newspapers. It was fun to read what people were writing about in the 50's, until Jonathan would jolt me back to reality by barking at me to get back to work. We made trip after trip walking up and down the concrete back steps, like drones on a mission. Below is our lovely sun porch. It had a hole in the roof, and thanks to a few rain storms all of the stuff in the photo was soggy. It made the job just that much more fun.
This is our "Kitchen". I wasn't lying when I said that the house was painted in a spectacular shade of burn your eyeballs in their sockets green. The rest of the rooms weren't quite as full as these two, but they still provided a lot of trekking to and from the dumpster. The two car garage scared me to pieces, since I have a fear of creepy crawly things and it seemed to me like a brilliant first class hideout for all of the creepy crawlies in SC. However, when we'd finally gotten the house as empty as we could it was time to tackle the garage. Most of the time I was holding my breath while doing the garage portion of "evacuate the crap", so my memories of it are hazy due to oxygen deprivation. It was definitely better that way. One thing struck me while we were getting rid of all of this eccentric dead guy's garbage. I kept expecting to see a mouse, or a spider, cockroach, anything that would scuttle and cause me to leap to the ceiling. All I found for animal/insect evidence was a mummified bird, who had probably found it's way down the chimney by accident. I began to wonder if the house had some sort of curse on it that kept living creatures from being able to survive under it's roof and partially collapsed roof. Maybe it emitted a odorless gas that told the wildlife to stay away, but us dumb humans would suck it into our lungs and only realize what was going on right before paralysis set in. These aren't the sort of thoughts you should be having when you've just bought your first house, but this was the mood I was in on that first day of heaving out.
Now don't be jelly of our delightful claw footed tub! I guess the former owners couldn't bear to have any of that leftover green paint go to waste, so they gave the tubby a quick splash of it to ensure not one room would be spared the tasteful effect of this irresistible shade. Later, I discovered it's actually quite common in the period to paint the lower half of a claw foot tub, but I prefer to imagine the former owners just being cruel. My hatred for what they'd done to this house has spurned my work ethic immeasurably over the last few months.
Anyone who knows Jonathan and I knows that as laid back as we can come across to folks, we can really work when we need to get a job finished. We were relentless with this project, though I got sidetracked now and then by old newspapers. It was fun to read what people were writing about in the 50's, until Jonathan would jolt me back to reality by barking at me to get back to work. We made trip after trip walking up and down the concrete back steps, like drones on a mission. Below is our lovely sun porch. It had a hole in the roof, and thanks to a few rain storms all of the stuff in the photo was soggy. It made the job just that much more fun.
This is our "Kitchen". I wasn't lying when I said that the house was painted in a spectacular shade of burn your eyeballs in their sockets green. The rest of the rooms weren't quite as full as these two, but they still provided a lot of trekking to and from the dumpster. The two car garage scared me to pieces, since I have a fear of creepy crawly things and it seemed to me like a brilliant first class hideout for all of the creepy crawlies in SC. However, when we'd finally gotten the house as empty as we could it was time to tackle the garage. Most of the time I was holding my breath while doing the garage portion of "evacuate the crap", so my memories of it are hazy due to oxygen deprivation. It was definitely better that way. One thing struck me while we were getting rid of all of this eccentric dead guy's garbage. I kept expecting to see a mouse, or a spider, cockroach, anything that would scuttle and cause me to leap to the ceiling. All I found for animal/insect evidence was a mummified bird, who had probably found it's way down the chimney by accident. I began to wonder if the house had some sort of curse on it that kept living creatures from being able to survive under it's roof and partially collapsed roof. Maybe it emitted a odorless gas that told the wildlife to stay away, but us dumb humans would suck it into our lungs and only realize what was going on right before paralysis set in. These aren't the sort of thoughts you should be having when you've just bought your first house, but this was the mood I was in on that first day of heaving out. Now don't be jelly of our delightful claw footed tub! I guess the former owners couldn't bear to have any of that leftover green paint go to waste, so they gave the tubby a quick splash of it to ensure not one room would be spared the tasteful effect of this irresistible shade. Later, I discovered it's actually quite common in the period to paint the lower half of a claw foot tub, but I prefer to imagine the former owners just being cruel. My hatred for what they'd done to this house has spurned my work ethic immeasurably over the last few months.
Inside the tub you'll see the "linens". Ancient terry cloth towels that were tissue paper thin, crusty facecloths and set of sheer curtains, gray with age. All truly disgusting. It appeared that at one point the propane heater that was mounted at a jaunty angle behind the door had caught fire and done a fair amount of smoke damage in the tiny bathroom. The walls were smeared with soot and filth. It took me days before I could force myself to set foot onto the actual bathroom floor. There was a full set of gentleman's toiletries still intact on the shelves of the medicine cabinet. Aqua Velva, Pepto Bismol, Bryl-cream, even a toothbrush. It was as if the man decided on a whim one day that he would move out and he left the place as intact as a crime scene. It was eerie to say the least.
So there you have it. The first glimpses of our sweet little Shangri-la. I've provided photographic evidence to prove that I wasn't exaggerating about the extent of the mess inside this little gem of a home. It was a staggering job, but we eventually got it cleaned out to the last coat hanger. The dumpster sides nearly groaned outward, because we'd stuffed it so full. It felt really good to be able to navigate our way through the house without having to dodge boxes and bits of furniture. The sun porch proved to be a much bigger room than we had anticipated (see below). Things were starting to look up. A little bit. I still wasn't about to get carried away with glee, but I could see a pinprick of light at the end of what is proving to be an endless, yet entirely rewarding, tunnel.
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