We had a leak around the ancient chimney in our old study, which was caulked and repaired from above. Meanwhile, I had sent my dear flute (My Precious) to the shop to be cleaned up (where she had gotten all wet and scratched up from wet plaster). All seemed to be well, until one sullen afternoon when the bottom fell out. Caiden, my four-year-old grandson, and I were in the study talking about the merits of Batman when began a nice, epic rainstorm, complete with rumblings and thunder and lots of big raindrops. I noticed there was more than usual noise from the fireplace area, when Caiden began laughing because he was getting wet from all the moisture plopping on his head. Next thing you know, we were dragging out towels, then quilts, then buckets to catch all the rain emanating from the ceiling. What had been a leak before was now a deluge. Apparently, the repair created quite the funnel for whatever was going on up above. Such is the life of an ancient house.
I love my old house (she's 120 years old this year). Many people hate them. They are creaky and quirky, musty and mysterious. But they are also full of character and craftmanship that can't be duplicated today unless you're a gozillionaire. We bought this one for a song, the only one we had in our pocket at the time, and have spent the last ten years putting my extra real estate commissions back into it. I pray my kids will forgive me. I keep saying, "After this last project, I think we'll have it shored up for the next 20 years and then we'll be dead (or might as well be) and ya'll can sell it and divvy it up amongst yourselves." Trouble is, it'll probably be needing who-knows-what by that time. But this thing is made tough, with thick timbers and hand-crafted stuff. I pray it will hold up for a long, long time. Longer than us. Either way, I thought I had one major project left, that of fixing the front window in the gable. I suspect it's dry rotted, though we keep painting it and hoping for the best. But alas, the study ceiling intervened. The only real solution was to take down the insanely high chimney that was attached to that fireplace. The thing was soaring to heaven, tall and skinny. I have no clue why that one, of the four that are connected to the house, is so much higher, but it was. When we bought the house, the inspector told us to take it down. He said, "That thing's gonna fall on somebody's head someday -- or at least, it's gonna end up cracking and leaking all over that room." I was deeply offended and refused such sacrilege. Oh well, at least we got ten years out of it.
So a very industrious (and courageous) group of men climbed up to the heavens and chipped away at the thing for half a day. They saved a number of the bricks so Ken can be forced to lay them for a little walkway for me (he's grinning, though a bit Cheshire-cat-like). We had to keep them, to honor the house, yes we did. So now I've been cleaning up brick dust for days that sifted itself into the house, and somehow I've got this little cough going that I suspect is some kind of revenge she's taking on me too. We also had a creature die in the attic, so there's that to contend with in the next bit. But best of all, there's a new layer of scent overlaying it all, kind-of a mineral-based smell. I like minerals. I really do.
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