As a new member of houseblogs.net, let me say what an inspiration and wealth of information so many of you have been. I’ve been lurking here since the beginning…time to stop being a wallflower. Off the top, hello to Ranch Redo and Bungalow ’23 – two excellent member sites I visit frequently, and thanks again to John down at The Devil Queen for both his digital camera tips and the best head(lines) ever!
A special note of gratitude goes out to Kim at One Woman’s Home Journal, who was the first houseblogs member to comment here, and even added my site to her blogroll of favourites. I’m floored, and honoured. With a U.

And yet, I’m not floored.
The tension mounts here, and since it doesn’t look like this floor will be getting laid anytime soon, I might as well tell you about it. You can see by the photo below that it will, eventually, be a vast improvement over what I’m currently treading on.

The brand of wood flooring we selected for our kitchen addition and bed sitting room is called Satin Finish, chosen after much deliberation. Over the course of a few weeks, we’d taken home at least 20 flooring samples in a range of prices from different manufacturers.
In the end, the Satin Finish came out on top with several things weighing in its favour, most notable being that this flooring is made in Canada by a company with a long and reputable history, and was available through a locally-owned and operated small business.

While this may not seem like a big deal, we think it’s important to support your country’s economy and your local economy whenever possible. The few bucks we might have saved by purchasing a better-known brand through a big box store (and actually, that turned out not to be true once delivery charges were figured in) was more than made up for by the service we received.
Get this: not only did the business owner and our salesman deliver the goods (and schlep them into my home) personally, they did so without having received payment yet. I was impressed that they would drop off a few grand worth of flooring and not even ask for a cheque!

The flooring is ¾” thick premium white oak, and we chose 3” wide planks in a semi-gloss finish called ‘Sandal’. We debated about which way to go here – unfinished or pre-finished – but with a young child, too many belongings and the experience of sanding our home’s entire second floor, dining room, sitting room and parlour behind us, convenience won out.

If you’re buying pre-finished, I’d strongly suggest that you take home colour samples of the actual flooring before making a final decision. I was sure I knew exactly what I wanted, but the shades I gravitated towards didn’t end up looking the best when placed in the room and referenced with the other finishes that would be in proximity. Between the furniture, existing cabinetry (which will remain for the time being) and the trim work, we have quite a bit of wood going on. Most of my initial selections had a distinct orange, yellow or reddish cast that wasn’t so apparent when viewed on their own, but looked like crap when they landed in the kitchen.

We had this same dilemma choosing the linoleum colour for the kitchen’s traffic area – what we thought would look good ended up lending an overall effect of the area being way too orange. We settled on a quartz grey colour (whoa – two uniquely Canadian spellings back-to-back in a single sentence!) that echoes the tile in our mudroom and makes a good transition from one shade of wood floor (the new) to another (original wood floor in our dining room – it’s a honey shade and the wood’s so thin we can’t re-stain it).

You won’t have to guess where we purchased that linoleum from. We’re now a repeat customer.

And here’s some good news – Deirdre’s off on a ‘play date’, and we’re about to spring into action and do some demolition. I really do need to blow off some steam…

Saturday is ‘Movie Night’ in the Salvaged Beauty household, and tonight’s feature film was definitely a cut above our normal fare, which of late has generally involved Scooby-Doo.
We don’t have a theatre around here, so we wait ‘til things are out on video. I actually prefer the comforts of home to a cineplex anyway. I’ve just carried a tuckered out Deirdre up to bed, after a thoroughly enjoyable evening huddled on the couch watching Zathura.

It’s a great movie to watch with youngsters – especially if you like old houses in the Greene and Greene style. Our daughter actually got worked up into a bit of a laughing frenzy listening to her parents pleading, “no…not the fireplace!” and “awwww…not the light!”
I won’t spoil the movie by saying much more, but even if you’ve seen it in the theatre, it’s probably worth renting the video to watch the extra features on how they used miniatures in the filming.

Well, Thursday has come and gone. If you’ve read my previous post, you’ll know that something momentous was ‘supposedly’ going to begin yesterday. Sure.
My husband is a smart guy, and after almost nine years of marriage, he knows better than to ‘promise’ me anything. He merely informs me that the possibility exists. And I, in my infinite wisdom culled from years of former knowledge, silently address these statements, thinking to myself . . . “fat bleeping chance”.

So this morning, I resorted to somewhat desperate measures:

Yep. Time to dust.

I’d been putting it off with the obvious excuse, but based on historical data from past personal experience, I can practically guarantee that a good dusting will bring forth almost immediate subsequent activity that will, inevitably, toss more dust back upon everything.

Once you know Murphy’s Law, you can learn to use it to your advantage.

The flag at my daughter’s school flew at half mast today. A third victim of Saturday morning’s horrible house fire was a 12 year-old boy from her school, whose parents also perished.

When something happens in a small town, I think you have maybe a 50/50 chance of it affecting you in some personal way, however indirectly.
It’s been almost a decade since I moved from a big city, where bad things generally happened to someone else and tomorrow’s tragedy would surely involve other faceless people. And even when certain events caused me to react with sadness, anger or pity, life went on pretty much the same. The community I lived in – never mind the world – seemed so big that chances were slim misfortune would hit close to home. I felt fearless . . . it was all so much noise in the background of my life.

It’s different now, here.
When I walked downtown this afternoon I was surprised to see the number of people at tables in my favourite bakery. More than usual for that time of day. Among them were two women I’m friends with and see infrequently. We’ll wave if we pass each other in town, maybe exchange a quick word, and go on about our business. Today, instead of grabbing a to-go and my bread, I sat down and had coffee with them and was introduced to another woman they were with. All of them resided very close to the house that was destroyed – one lived right next door, but none knew these neighbours more than casually. Amid discussions of the weekend’s fire, we made plans to get together later this week, exchanged numbers.

When tragic events happen in a small community, people have a tendency to congregate. There’s a real need to be among others because aside from curiosity, we all have feelings and grief to work through . . . it could so easily have been any one of us, and we regret that we never knew these people better. And so we reach out.

Later this afternoon, my daughter handed me a parent’s letter she’d been given at school to take home, and said that something bad happened to a boy at school and could I tell her about it. The primary grade children were not informed of the student’s death by their teachers, but youngsters are keenly aware of when things are not quite right with their little world.

Today, I learned that tragedy never strikes someone else.
Because it happened to the woman who worked at the donut shop where my husband buys his coffee.
Because it happened to her youngest son, who attended the same school as my child.
Because it happened to the family who lived next door to my friend.

And because this happened, I became a little closer to some people I know, and met another neighbour.
I sat down with my five year-old, and we had our first discussion about death and dying.

Today, I was reminded that home isn’t a house. It’s where you live and who you live with, and it stretches farther than you realize, because we are all connected.

Two nights ago, I stayed up late to work on my computer. As I may have mentioned in a previous post, my house is close to Lake Scugog and the window in my home office looks out east, over the lake.
Some time shortly after 2:30 am, I heard what I thought was a snowmobile travelling towards my location from the east at a high rate of speed. Then, the motor slowed to an idle for a moment – probably right at the intersection where my place is – before zipping off again, headed west. I remember how loud the sound was, piercing the quiet of the night, and thinking to myself, “what a jerk”, as I continued working. I didn’t look out the window, as it’s not that unusual to hear snowmobiles or ATVs zooming around on the lake at night, I was just mildly annoyed at having my concentration broken.

Yesterday, we learned that a century home, located two blocks southwest of here, burned to the ground during the night. Two people have been confirmed dead, and a third person connected with the home is still missing. As well, two pets perished in the blaze. The fire department was hampered in their attempts to enter the building as the home was completely engulfed, and the roof and one wall had collapsed. I read that a witness heard a smoke alarm going off as they watched the house burn.
Today, I read in the local news that officials are searching for a man who was driving an ATV and had alerted nearby residents to the blaze. I can only assume it was the same person whose engine I heard that night. Perhaps he had been able to see the smoke or flames from out on the lake. I don’t recall hearing any sirens during the night, and maybe because he didn’t either, he knew he was the only person who could alert somebody to the tragedy unfolding. I left a message at the police department this afternoon, relating what I’d heard that night. Even though I didn’t see anything, I thought the information may be helpful to them if they are trying to place where this man had come from. He apparently did not remain at the scene, but I can say that it was extremely cold . . . not a time you’d want to remain outside . . . not if you’d just gone on a wild ride across a frozen lake in the dead of night.
My heart goes out to the relatives and friends of those that perished . . . and my thoughts keep going back to this mystery man, and how awful this experience must have been for him.

While we undertake our home renovations, let’s remember that safety should always come first. That dubious fireplace or wonky electrical wiring should be inspected, repaired and passed before being put into use. Be careful when you use portable heaters to compensate for a drafty, poorly-insulated house, and remember that the ten dollars you spend on a smoke alarm should be the first thing you invest in for your home . . . and they should be in operation even if the rooms are not finished yet (get battery-powered ones, and make sure there’s one on every floor as well as in the kitchen and any room with a fireplace).

Another beautiful old house is gone . . . and at such an awful, tragic cost.

I’m not going to hold my breath, but John has informed me that the flooring is going down next Thursday. Finally. Supposedly.

Now that I’ve committed that statement to print, it has to happen. In fact, I’m going to assume an air of Picard-ness for the next few days to ensure the point is clearly driven home: MAKE. IT. SO.

It’s a little-known fact, but when agitated, I can freeze water with a single glance.

When the boxes of oak flooring arrived – back in November as I vaguely recall, we had to do a fair bit of maneuvering to stash it all temporarily until it could be laid. There is 600 square feet of the stuff, stacked three deep and nine high in the addition, with another ten or so boxes ‘hidden’ behind a couch in the bedsitting room (we thought we might be placing too much weight on the subfloor). Like you could hide this stuff in your home. At this point, it’s been here for so long that I’m tempted to just upholster it!

The box instructs you to let the flooring acclimatize for 72 hours before starting to lay it down . . . well, it’s been more than that many days, and this job is officially Past Due. As is my patience.
And don’t you feel bad for the flooring, too? Everyone knows what a drag it can be, waiting to get laid.

It’s bloody freezing again, the wind’s ripping, the snow’s back and I’m this close to being declared officially SAD.
I spent five minutes dressing for the weather, donning coat, scarf, hat, gloves and lacing up my winter hikers . . . all to venture across the road to pick up the mail! The one-minute journey was hardly worth the bother of dressing and undressing – and cleaning up all the snow and salt that I traipsed into the mudroom-in-progress. Which just ticked me off more. I’ve been trying to keep the mudroom clean as there’s still bare wood trim awaiting stain and tile grout to seal. The road crews around here use this lethal combination of sand and salt that spells certain death to just about everything it touches – I’m talking grass, shrubbery, flowers, cars, asphalt, sidewalks, several pairs of formerly nice-looking footwear and the bottoms of my pant legs. I’d be a damned fool to think my newly tiled floor could withstand it.
Someday, there will be heat going into the mudroom (once the ducts are run beneath the floor), and taking off boots will no longer feel akin to licking a flagpole in sub-zero temperatures. Can you sense my impatience?

Oil bill, flooring bill, junk mail . . . oh, and what’s this? The spring issue of Gardening Life, packaged with several mail order catalogs for plants and bulbs.
I may have just cracked a smile. Pass the Chap-Stick.

In preparation for the big day that will be finally saying good riddance to the boxes of flooring that have lived here since before Xmas, we’ve been cutting holes in the subfloor of our kitchen addition to accommodate the heat registers and cold air returns.

We lucked out at a recent antiques show held at the local high school, finding two matching vintage registers in good condition. When it comes to aesthetics, new ones just don’t compare to these babies, and probably would have cost as much.

We also managed to procure two nice cold air return grates from a good friend and fellow hardware-hoarder, who had them bead blasted before dropping them by last week. One (shown above) is located in the kitchen, and the second is going in the bedsitting/family room (which will get some of the new oak flooring as well).
As the day draws nearer, John also decided to relocate the coax that was coming up from a hole drilled in the floor of the bedsitting room. We removed some baseboard along the closest wall, and managed to fish the cable up behind the drywall, so it will now originate from the baseboard and the hallowed oak floor will not be scarred by an unnecessary hole.
Aside from ripping up the horrid ‘vinyleum’ in the kitchen (and at least two layers are lurking under the first) I think we’re good to go . . . whenever we’re good to go.

When it comes to home renovations, I’ve discovered that certain personality traits, when combined, create a force so powerful it stretches time to new definitions.

Case in point: my husband, with regard to our kitchen’s addition.

Procrastination + Anal Retentiveness = the longest pile of crap I’ve ever had to endure. But everything is going to come out all right.