Go Ahead, Open It...

With an old house, there's always something that needs attention. We've owned several homes and that's actually true of all of them, no matter their age. It is a big, rotating list of demands, a mean ole' gaping maw of uncertainty looming in front of you. There are termites just waiting for a snack and the chance to weasel their way into all the quiet, dark crevices that you can't see. Then there's rain dripping slowly down, snaking its way until it finds a tiny, unpainted corner to drift into and start turning all your wood into mush. The sun and wind beat the roof into submission, widening any and all gaps until the gateways open up and let in the squirrels and any semblance of moisture. It's called something like "The Second Law of Thermodynamics." I didn't pay much attention in Science class, except to memorize the test and then promptly forget it. I taught my own kids for a couple of decades and realized that Science was amazing and that there are actually laws in place. Gravity. Heat Conduction. Fluid Dynamics. Things like that. It explained a few things, though I still am bumfuzzled as to how brainy some of these people are (who figured this stuff out). When I drive through Atlanta and see skyscrapers, for example. How did that many people, systems and engineering feats all conspire together to make something that magnificent, that functions and hums like a well-oiled machine even a centennial later? But the thermodynamics thing -- nothing's going to just buzz along without requiring some energy, and usually lots of it. Otherwise, it rusts, rots, dissolves and then goes back to the earth. We have to keep maintaining this place or it turns to so much debris. 

So it was no great surprise when what was once upon a time a sleeping porch began yawning towards the earth. Several years ago, I noticed there was a hump in the middle of that room. A little quirky, but part of the charm. We use that space as our "nursery" -- it's where the grandkids bunk when they visit and play. I painted everything in cheerful colors, put baskets of toys in the chiffarobe, arranged it just so and even put new packages of toothbrushes in the bathroom in case somebody forgot theirs. Over time, the chiffarobe started looking like the one in the Beauty and the Beast cartoon...listing heavily to one side. Then the little table by the bunkbeds on the other end of the room began threatening to fall over. We willed ourselves into denial, passing through on the way to the carport. Humming helps. But then, the front wall began separating slightly from the floor. One pesky son had the nerve to say, "Mom, you're gonna lose this whole room if you don't do something about that foundation." Doesn't he know that I've got to pay the tile man for what's already happening in the kitchen? 

Apparently we've got to rip out the floor in that room, dig out the dirt there, pour concrete and actually make a foundation, and then do something about all those wonky floor joists. We will end up with new subflooring and something on top of that (which remains to be seen). I love the smell of dirt. It's a weird thing about me and I'm embarrassed to admit I've been caught with mud on my face before, when I was a kid but then particularly when I was pregnant with Viking children. We're about to open up Pandora's Box and see what's been conspiring under there for the last hundred and twenty-one years. Wish me luck.