Jeepers Creepers

Highland Ave is a pedestrian boulevard. Hundreds of people make their way, up and down every day, to and fro the bus they go . . . the high school, the hospital, UW campus, the businesses on University Ave to the north and Regent St to the south. It's also a handy street for parking, especially in the evening, for the restaurants a short block away.

The house is only nine feet from the city sidewalk, and there's no visual or physical barrier of any kind. No fence, no shrubbery. So the backyard feels like a vacant lot or public property, maybe a small city park. Folks walk their dogs in it. They pick the flowers. One recent evening, a man got out of his car, strolled into the yard, stood there for a couple of minutes, smoking a cigarette, peering inside, then went on his way to the Blue Moon.

Those days are over.

Picking privacy details is as vexing as making any other selection. If a fence: wood or vinyl or metal? what style? how high? what color? pickets? a solid wall? barbed wire?? electric?? If plants: trees or shrubs or perennials or grasses? how fast can they grow? hardiness zone? deciduous or evergreen? shade or sun? flowering? poisonous?? man-eating?? And what combo of these elements? What arrangement? How many and where? What's the sweet spot between privacy and aesthetics? And what does the city of Madison have to say about it?

The whole backyard plan had always been contingent on getting the drainage right. But I'm tired of not being able to open the curtains and let in all that southern-exposure sunshine. Add the fellow smoking a butt at the window, and I've decided it's okay if there's still a wee bit of bog in the back. Maybe there won't be. But if there is, we'll just put in a legacy koi pond.

So let's start with the fence.

Step 1: stake the post placement

Step 2: auger the post holes

Step 3: lay out the panels

Step 4: install the posts (check out that 3D level!)

Step 5: install panels as you go

Fence finished: no more peepers

Next spring: a hedge?

Backyard Pools

Back when this terra was called 311 Highland Ave, it was known around the neighborhood for its koi ponds. Like Madison itself, with a trio of lakes, the yard boasted three water features that were havens for fish, flora, and feathered friends.

May 2013

The ponds were removed during the building process, but water didn't get the memo. Spring rain pooled against the back wall of the new foundation (see "Lakefront Property" post, June 2013) as if the gray concrete were the stone banks it once lapped against. "Fear not," said Dan, "the Landscaping Guys will take care of that." But after we moved in, the first rainstorm showed us who still had the upper hand in the battle with Mother Nature:

October 2013

The Landscaping Guys came out to view the backyard lake last November, a year ago. They mumbled a bit, kicked a bit of mulch aside. Months passed. Winter, spring, summer. In September of this year, probably after a contentious debate or two with Dan, they finally brought in more dirt and regraded the soil. Then the rains fell. And lo! The lake was no longer against the house. Instead, it was about 10 feet away. Which is a great improvement for the foundation and basement. But I don't really want a swamp for a backyard.

So following the old saw "Change the things you can, accept the things you can't," I hired new Landscaping Guys who say they are "experts in drainage." As of this week, we have new topography, plus a sweet little patio bonus. Time (specifically, next spring) will tell.

The Library

In fifth grade, I had my first dream job: assistant to Mrs. Carroll, school librarian, on Tuesdays during lunch. This was 1968, when checking in and checking out involved a little card in a little pocket affixed to the inside of a book cover. I filed those little cards in the check-out drawer, returned them to their sturdy pockets, shelved books (after Mrs. C decided my alphabetization skills were up to snuff), and—most deliciously—got first peek at new books. The job cemented my love of whole new worlds contained between covers. When I grew up I became an editor, a writer, a librarian.

“Walking the stacks in a library, dragging your fingers across the spines – it's hard not to feel the presence of sleeping spirits.”—Robin Sloan

“In a good bookroom you feel in some mysterious way that you are absorbing the wisdom contained in all the books through your skin, without even opening them.”—Mark Twain

The early stages of designing a home are giddy, filled with what-ifs and maybes. For some: Maybe a swimming pool. Maybe a balcony. Maybe a workout room. Maybe an art studio. Maybe a Japanese garden. Maybe a horse barn. Maybe a kitchen with enough equipment to run a restaurant.

Maybe a library.

“A library is a good place to go when you feel unhappy, for there, in a book, you may find encouragement and comfort. A library is a good place to go when you feel bewildered or undecided, for there, in a book, you may have your question answered. Books are good company, in sad times and happy times, for books are people – people who have managed to stay alive by hiding between the covers of a book."—E.B. White

I have a lot of books. When you've work for publishers and libraries for three decades, and when you love the look and feel and smell and promise of a book, it's easy to amass thousands. While packing for the move to Madison, I weeded the collection, reducing it by more than half. Friends took bags of them, the Mary Riley Styles public library took boxes. Still, more than 50 cartons made it onto the van to Wisconsin.

Some of my what-ifs didn't make it to the finish. A screen porch. A front porch big and friendly enough for a table and a swing. But the library is there. It's the first thing you see when you come through the front door.

Evening View. Note the cool light effect and the requisite librarian's cardigan on the desk chair.

Mary Collins, 1930 - 2014

Mary, of next door's Bob and Mary, the best neighbors in the world, the nicest people on earth, died unexpectedly on Wednesday, February 5. As Bob said, she was a giant heart with a big smile.

Mary with Bob and Dinky, last May, at the old house:

Hell Freezes Over

My parents are laughing. "All that complaining you did about the cold when you were a kid, and now look at you! Wisconsin!"

I grew up in Colorado, where it snowed before Halloween and spring didn't come till the next May. One morning in June the year I graduated from high school (and left the state), it snowed four inches. The day I would choose a climate like this would be the day hell freezes over.

View of our street, 1973

So people change.

My brother Vince attended UW-Madison his sophomore year and because of the bitter cold called it the worst year of his life (note "year," singular form). My best friend from childhood spent just one semester here before she bailed. Another friend, one who came and stuck it out, described buying fur-lined boots one day for the sole purpose (heh-heh) of walking across a street. I knew all of this. And I came anyway.

January 6, 2014, was officially the coldest day of my life, with wind chills around 50 degrees below zero. Here's a photo of a bolt on the inside of the front door that morning:

Actually, I don't mind cold the way I did as a kid. It's convenient being able to use the garage as an auxiliary refrigerator. And sleeping at night in a frigid room, buried under quilts, is pretty great (although getting out of bed is admittedly less so). My husband Allen used to find the Colorado cold "exhilarating"; now I know what he means.

BUT. The snow is a different matter. And now, harking back to my Colorado childhood, I see history repeating itself.

The driveway back then was legendary. The house was perched on a mountain, accessed by a long driveway with a steep grade. It was flanked on each side not by grassy lawn or other terra firma, or even a protective curb, but by open air. More accurately, on each side of the driveway yawned a ravine filled with barbed-wire-like scrub oak and spear-like conifers. The driveway started its life as gravel; within a couple of years, thanks to the scrabbling of tires seeking purchase, it developed bumps and undulations that in winter became expert ski slope moguls. Eventually my parents had it smoothed out and paved. They had to.

The driveway, 1973

Regardless of season, regardless of surface, getting up the drive required both courage and skill. The successful ascent involved making a running start and maintaining speed all the way up. If you were tentative, the car would stall, and you would have to guide its dead weight backwards between the twin chasms. Heaven help you in winter. Many a car had to be hoisted out of the Ditch of Death, the Maw of Mayhem. Indeed, my parents bought an old Army jeep with a winch on the front for this purpose. I was the first to topple over the edge, and my parents were furious when they saw their Buick Skylark in the ditch, its hood pointing up at the sky as if trying to claim its eponymous destiny. But then visiting relatives did the very same thing the very next day ...

Fast forward 40 years. Although the driveway at 2425 Kendall Ave is shorter, it's about as steep as the one of my youth, and the stories are already accruing, the legend is forming. A couple weeks ago, Mary parked near the top of the drive, and an hour later when we glanced outside, her car was gone! Oh my god! It's been stolen! Um. Wait a sec. What's it doing halfway out in the street? Physics lesson: If the weight of an object exceeds the traction afforded by the surface on which it sits, gravity wins. Life lesson: Don't park in the driveway in winter. It's been snowing non-stop for two months now, and I've gone through so many bags of kitty litter, it's fair to say that the once-paved drive is now gravel, a reversal of family history. Thanks also to daily shoveling, the snowbanks on each side of the drive are so high it looks like a luge track. Call this an inversion of history. There's no way to slide off into the conifers.

The driveway, 2014: Olympic practice track?

Then there are the sidewalks. The City of Madison decrees that residents shall keep sidewalks free of snow and ice. Keeping the 110 linear feet on Highland, the 55 feet on Kendall, the two curb cutouts at the corner, and the fire hydrant in front of the house cleared of all signs of winter is the ultimate Sisyphean task. Every morning Lena and I shovel. Every inch, side to side, by law.

The Highland Ave side

The Kendall Ave side

And shoveling isn't always sufficient. Here's the warning I received when the sidewalks were shoveled edge to edge and sprinkled with salt and sand but not ENOUGH salt and sand:

The good news: Shoveling snow is a meditation practice—repetitive and peaceful, one stroke after another. And it keeps you buff, with trapezii of steel. These are the things we tell ourselves in Wisconsin when faced with the combined consequences of geography and season. Also, though it seems impossible today, we remind ourselves that one day we'll be able to open our windows again, and when that day comes, everyone will swarm onto the sidewalks, wearing bright colors and flip-flops, greeting one another like long-lost friends and lovers. It may be frozen now, but one day soon it will be like heaven.

Moving Day: October 11, 2013

The house:

The team:

Rooms ready to fill:

Scenes from the Interior

Selections (sel EK shuns, n.) Choices made during a building project, with regard to such matters as style, materials, color, size, brand, and features, that determine the ultimate appearance and function of the project. "Lighting selections are due August 14, flooring selections by August 21."

"There are always surprises," says Jenee. Something you selected ends up looking nothing like you thought it would. "Just remember the 90 Percent Rule: If you like 90 percent of it, the project is a 100-percent success."

Selections are concepts, theories, guesses. You compare little squares of this and that, trying to find combinations that are pleasing, that work. You're viewing them like a hand of cards: wood floor sample, carpet sample, stained wood sample for built-ins, painted trim sample, wall paint chip, countertop sample, tile sample. Throw in hardware samples, too. Do they go together? Who can say what that's all going to look like in a space larger than a two-inch square? It's a gamble. You cross your fingers, waiting for the day when the selections arrive and are installed. Waiting for the imaginary to become real. Waiting for surprises.

"Fun!" surprise: kitchen window light:

"Was nervous but it turned out much better than expected" surprise: fireplace tile:

"Delighted, practically gloating" surprise: "Autumn Oak" stain on cherry paired with natural red oak floor:

"Doh!" surprise: interior paint colors:

There was no time for purchasing cute little sample jars, slathering large pieces of paper with three colors under consideration, taping the sheets up and moving them around the walls, observing the effect of morning versus afternoon light on this color in that corner, etc. etc. etc. The master bath color came from the showroom display for the tile, and I thought it would be stunning. No. It looked more Army Bunker than Fresh Bath. Redo. And "Celery," which looked softly cheerful on the chip looked neon on the third bedroom walls. Redo. The bedrooms all look a bit like nursery colors. No redo, we'll all have sweet dreams. And the "Designer White" of all the doors and trim (window frames, baseboards, door frames, case openings) turned out to be more yellow than expected. Again, no redo. Not in my lifetime. Fortunately, it's nice. But a surprise. A warm neutral surprise.

Chivalry Copper in the hall bath, an unusual choice?

Filmy Green ... will it go with the carpet? Doh!

Waterscape walls and Designer White window bench:

Redo in progress, from Celery to Tradewind:

September 10: Final Pour

The last round of concrete was poured today.

7:00 a.m.: Forms up, rebar ready

10:30 a.m.: Concrete Guys in action

5:00 p.m.: Presto!

Guys

Garrison Keillor wrote a collection of short stories 20-ish years ago called The Book of Guys. I listened to Keillor narrate the audiobook during my daily commute into the city back in the DC days. One story, told from the point of view of the Greek god-guy Dionysus, nearly caused me to wreck the car. I couldn't see through tears (of mirth) to navigate the vehicle into the parking garage and swipe my access card. Details included a lanyard chain caught in the steering wheel, a horn stuck in blaring mode, and the distinct odor of fire. But I digress.

Mary and I had a handyman, Keith, now retired, who used to say, "A guy could ..." A guy could put in a window there. A guy could give you an outlet on that wall if you want. A guy could maybe put a TV over the fireplace. A guy could make a nice rounded shelf for that corner. We always thought that was so darn funny, so idiosyncratic, so uniquely Keith. We were wrong.

Dan has always referred to the gentleman who builds all of his cabinets as "the Amish Guy." The epithet seemed somehow disrespectful, so I asked if the Amish Guy has a name. (Turns out he does: William. But I digress.) Then last week, when I had the experience of working at the house for nine days while the wood floors were being installed, the trim was being cut and fit, the tile was being laid, and more, I learned that "Guy" is an honorific. The Trim Guy. The Wood Guy. The Tile Guy. The Siding Guys. All used among one another to express esteem, appreciation, camaraderie. (Contrast with The Tax Man, who walked in on me while I was painting the library. But I digress.) Nobody called me The Paint Guy last week, alas. I haven't earned it. In fact, I'm throwing in the shop towel and inviting real Paint Guys to finish up.

The Tile Guy and his niche:

The day after the Wood Guys:

The door delivery from the Lumber Guy:

Yesterday's delivery from the Amish Guy:

And today, Dan the Uber Guy started putting in the kitchen:

Puttin' on the Shorts

August 20-21: drywall seams taped and plastered by First Choice Drywall. August 22: walls textured ("orange peel") by FCD. August 23, 8:00 a.m.: ceilings and closets painted white with FCD's magic wand. August 23, 2:00 p.m.: the next team of professionals arrives to begin painting the interior. That would be myself and Lena. Painting the whole house.

In 1981, Allen and I bought our first home, a 1400-square-foot ranch in Falls Church, Virginia, that was covered head to toe with wallpaper. Every room had paper, some rooms a different pattern on every wall. I was six months pregnant when we moved in, and up to the last minute we were peeling paper and applying paint. Allen was enthusiastic about new undertakings, and always managed to find really good learning resources--before there was such a thing as the Internet. So together we learned how to remove paper and glue, how to prep surfaces, how to repair drywall, what tools to use, what paints to use, how to cut in, how to use a brush, how to roll. You don't just slap it up.

When I bought my second house, a row house down the street from the ranch, the first floor was painted chocolate brown, even the trim. That depressing brown had to go. During the 16 years we lived there, the house was like the Golden Gate Bridge. Practically as soon as I finished painting it, I'd start over with a new palette. My uniform included a striking pair of green seersucker shorts. Seth once said, "Uh-oh, Mom's wearing shorts. She's going to paint again."

This is one skill that I can bring to the 2425 Kendall Project and pass along to Lena at the same time. I can see that she'll be the kind of woman who will also be repainting her walls on a regular basis. She's an interior designer at heart. And this will be the easiest job ever. No prep. No floors and furniture to cover with dropcloths. No windows and doors and trim to cut around. We can make a MESS. Piece of cake. Time to break out the shorts.

Day 1, August 23: While I cut in at the ceiling, Lena brushes around the untrimmed windows, doors, outlets, and so forth. By the end of the day, we've gotten through the first floor, which has to be completely painted by Monday, when the wood floors are to be installed. We're surprised to find Dennis, the Trim Guy, at the site, though. The plan was to paint all the walls, then paint all the trim wood before Dennis put it up. Change of plans. Dennis is going to be on our heels, putting up trim in a room as soon as we get its walls done. Which means I'll have to paint the trim after it's up, not when it's on sawhorses. Dang. Add two days to the project. Minimum.

Day 2, August 24: Lena's pal Isabel joins the team. Note the brushwork around the sconce boxes and windows:

And the same scene nine hours later, after we finished the main level. Yay, Team!

Day 3, August 25: The heat index is supposed to be 100-ish. I text Dan, who is vacationing with his family in DC: "Can we power up the AC?" Dan responds immediately: "If there's a meter on the house, yes." We traipse outside, and there it is: the holy MG&E grail. Flipping the house main ON and turning the thermostat (installed yesterday) to COOL feels like launching the space shuttle. I wish I'd photographed the meter showing 0.

One by one, Lena and I open all the paint cans for the upstairs rooms: Waterscape, Filmy Green, Contented, Chivalry Copper, Celery, Hazel, and the ubiquitous Kilim Beige. As we paint, Dennis plays country music on the radio downstairs and Lena plays Pandora "French Cafe" from her iPhone upstairs. By the end of the day, colored lines and circles are everywhere, the master bath is done, and all of the windows downstairs are wearing poplar and pine caps.

Tomorrow: wood floors! Jon picked up the order a few days ago. It's been acclimating in the middle of the great room, waiting for the big day.

Next imperative: paint the bathrooms before Randy, the Tile Guy, comes on Wednesday. Oh, and stay ahead of Dennis! Did I actually say "piece of cake"...?

Curb Appeal, Episode 3

After a week, Chris & Chris are almost finished fleshing out the house, with only the front to do. Bob says it looks like it belongs on the street, the best compliment possible.

The front in progress:

Bob and Mary's up-close and personal view:

Stepping back:

The view from Highland Avenue:

And the back:

Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho

In the Disney film "Snow White" (trivia bit: the first full-length animation feat, 1937), the seven dwarves whistle their way to work at the diamond mine. The Keeper of the Keys, Dopey, unlocks the entrance to the mine--with a key hanging right there, next to the door. Bob reminded me of this scene as we attempted to enter the house to see the day's progress and found ourselves locked out. Ah. The key has been moved to a more secure location: hanging on a wire a few feet away. :)

Knock Knock!

There are doors in all doorways now--locked. After Mary and I broke in (using the key hanging next to the door), Bob wandered over to introduce granddaughter Jody. The first visitors to knock on the door of 2425 Kendall! Welcome!

The first shakes are up. Here's the kitchen window bump-out: