Autumn colours

 That crisp cool feeling to the air. The smell of the neighbour's wood stove. The coziness of hoodies and sweaters. Anticipation of hot chocolate by the fire. The rows of canned fruit on the shelf. I love autumn!

Nine metric tonnes of gravel and one crazy woman

My husband and I moved two mountains of gravel on Saturday with the loan of a wheelbarrow from Fran, a kindly neighbour across the street. We laid it out on the left to cover the mud left by the foundation excavation, thinking we could use it as a parking spot during rainy weather.

The second pile, on the right, was not planned. Superior Propane said they wouldn't deliver unless there's a driveway they can back their truck into off the street, since they don't want to risk potentially getting mired in a wet lawn. My long-suffering husband has been doing most of the work so far on the church, and I thought this was one problem I could solve for him. So I ordered another pile of gravel to provide a driveway of sorts---thirty feet of crushed rock on the right, to mirror the rock on the left of the sidewalk. It was the only place to put it, because of the tree and water valve further over.

Halfway through moving the mess, I admitted to my patient husband that this was probably a big mistake. Not the look I was going for. Not pretty at all, though it's symmetrical. I hate losing my shady green lawn in front. It occurred to me that if Superior wants our business, they should figure out how to deliver the service without my having to completely rework my desired landscaping plans. I'm looking at all the neighbours who have propane tanks stuck out in the middle of their lawns and I'm wondering how they get their propane delivered. Do they levitate over the grass? 

I freely admit I made a snap decision and ran with it without thinking it completely through. But back at our city house, I've been in gravel-hauling mode all summer, so when I was faced with a problem, the only solution that leapt to mind---my automatic, knee-jerk, reflexive response---was to throw gravel at it. Gravel is apparently my fall-back solution. 

To his credit, my husband just helped me laugh about it and kept shovelling. Ah well. It's only rock. If we truly hate it, we can move it all again. Or put dirt and sod over it. Or stick potted plants and a bench on it and call it a minimalist garden. Meanwhile, the day was sunny and breezy, and the trees are turning lovely colours.

My husband took these photos and sent them to my mom, with the title "Nine metric tonnes and one crazy woman."

 

HVAC, Hayters, and Hate in General

We arrived at the church Friday night to find that the furnace installers from Hayters drilled the hole for the propane gas line in the wrong spot, not near the lovely ditch the Paul Davis crew dug for us. The propane line now runs right by the only outdoor electrical outlet on that side of the church AND the lightening rod base. So the electrician had to shut off the electrical outlet. And I have to dig another now-fifteen-foot trench by hand. We had put the trench where the propane company had told us to, Hayters was aware of it, and if they for some reason couldn't use it, they should have called us, not just drilled the hole willy-nilly somewhere else. 

On top of that, they unhooked the handy-dandy thermostat downstairs in our living area and installed the new one with humidistat upstairs in the sanctuary---the room we had told them we are not going to heat except for occasional functions. The way they have it now, we'll have to heat the whole building all the time to keep our pipes in the one downstairs room from freezing. Or we have to turn off the expensive furnace all together and heat the one downstairs room with an electric heater. Sigh. And to do this astounding thing, they ran a bright red electrical wire across the kitchen and living room ceilings, taped to the duct, like a big bloody gash against the white ceiling. As my husband put it, let's go to their house and tape a red wire across their living room and see what their wife has to say about it. 

And to top it all off, the $3000 dehumidifier unit ran all night and did not touch the humidity level at all. No water at all came out of the tube. So it's not functioning. I plugged in the $200 portable dehumidifer from Home Depot and it dropped the humidity from 69 to 52 within the hour. 

We are going to have them come back out and re-do the whole thing. Has to be done before the propane tank can be delivered. It delays everything for a couple of weeks. At least we haven't paid them yet! I am starting to rename their company "Hate'ems" in my head...

Gravel again

Anyone following my other blog (www.mydailyslogblog.blogspot.com) will know that gravel has been a recurring theme throughout the summer. I've hauled literally a mountain of rocks and gravel to form garden paths, top up the Japanese garden, and replace the front hedge. Well, today I've got five metric tonnes of 3/4" crushed gravel arriving at the church, which I will spread to cover the muddy, destroyed front lawn. We'll use it as a mud-free parking spot this winter, and maybe one day I'll turn it into another Japanese garden. My shovel and I are becoming close friends.

Altering the layout a little

Not of the church. Of this blog. I found having to expand each post a little annoying, so I'm trying a new format. Let me know what you think!

All put back together again

 They did a great job smoothing things out. I was expecting much worse!

Rethinking decisions, and an act of extraordinary kindness

 After some more thought, some price comparisons, further discussion with the heating expert, and several deep breaths, we have decided to go ahead and replace the oil furnace with a new propane furnace after all. There isn't much point putting significant money into making the current oil furnace limp along when we know it will need to be replaced in a while anyway, and by that time interest rates and prices will have risen. And I really do want to get oil off the property. I imagine it will also positively affect the cost of our insurance on the place. So we went ahead and ordered the new furnace, the dehumidifier, and the UV light to kill mold and viruses. Removing the old oil tank, which stands against the back wall of the church, will allow the Paul Davis crew to eventually wrap that part of the foundation, as well.

The propane company will rent us one of those long, sausage-shaped 500-gallon propane tanks, but they informed us they don't do the trenching for the gas line. That entails a trench running ten feet out from the house, a foot wide and eighteen inches deep. My husband called Scott from Paul Davis to ask if they still had the backhoe on the property, and we'd pay them to trench it for us. Otherwise, it's up to little old me and a shovel. Scott cheerfully informed us that the backhoe had already been taken away, but his guys would hand-dig the trench for us, no problem. And at no cost. We protested, but he said not to worry about it. It would be easier for his guys to do it than for me to do it. Isn't that the kindest thing ever? What a great group of people!

Another happy thing about all this trenching we've been doing -- we had been told that the whole area is clay, and I know when our neighbours B and T put in their septic system, they had to remove the soil and then truck in tons of sand. But apparently when the guys were trenching around the foundations of the church, they found lots of sand and not clay. So our drainage is good, and if we ever have to replace the septic system, there will likely be no need to truck in sand. Woohoo! 

My husband drove up last night to be on hand today for the environmental study people. Next domino!

The Saga Continues

The company doing our foundations, Paul Davis, has been doing a great job! Prompt, courteous, skilled, and efficient. They're practically done and it's only been two days.

Entrenched

They have trenched out around some of the foundation of the church, now, in order to install waterproofing membrane and drainage tile. Basically we're Saran-wrapping the foundation to keep groundwater out. There are leakage issues where the 1939 cement walls meet the 1965 cinder block walls, so they are addressing the area extending several yards to each side of the join. Four feet wide and five-and-a-half feet deep, the trenches go clear down to the footings. There are great piles of earth obliterating the lawn, and the neighbours' precious Rose of Sharon bushes have been tied back and carefully bypassed.

My husband dropped me off on Saturday evening and then hurried back to the city to meet some obligations, leaving me and Brio at the church to meet the excavating team on Monday. Except one of them showed up on Sunday to scout out the layout, so it was a good thing I was there to tell him about pipe locations, etc. The city had come out earlier to plant flags indicating the pathways of phone and water lines, but the children next door apparently found the blue flags indicating the water line particularly pretty and plucked them up. Yes. Well.

I spent a sleepless night envisioning backhoes crashing through the foundations and bringing the walls down, but in fact there was no need to worry. These guys could peel an orange with those backhoes. They delicately managed to scrape away the dirt and cart it off without a single mishap, and it actually wasn't even that noisy. I sat on the opposite side of the wall from where they were digging, reading a novel and eating Breton crackers, and hardly heard a thing. But it was a little unnerving to contemplate the beautiful, smooth lawn get eaten up, so Brio and I walked down to chat with Paul and Mary for an hour or so to get our minds off it. I know, you have to destroy in order to create, but it's still a bit jarring. From outside the basement, the noise was much louder. The street is usually so quiet, and all the way down the road I could hear the equipment running, and I felt apologetic. Sorry, neighbourhood. The McKendrys are in town, stirring things up.

Once the initial destruction of beauty was done, I found the actual trenching as fascinating as an archaeological dig, watching them expose the various pipes and lines and wires coming in and out of the building. It was sort of like seeing a loved one hooked up to indecipherable tubes and wires in hospital--difficult to see but interesting in spite of it. Drainage pipes from the vast roof, old propane lines from when they had propane ovens in the kitchen, the water pipes going in and out, one water pipe that we never suspected that must have been disconnected years ago (but why, we couldn't fathom. It was right by the new one), and apparently two old phone lines we also knew nothing about (there's new fibre optic cable on the other side of the building).

They had to turn the water off all day, which made for interesting camping-out for me and Brio, but we managed by using the water coming out of the dehumidifier (it's distilled, after all). The neighbours kindly let the crew use their hose to power-wash the foundations. Tomorrow they wrap, and Wednesday they should be able to close it all up again. It will take about a year for the earth to settle again so that we can landscape or put in the sidewalk along the east side of the building as planned (leading from front door to back door). Meanwhile we will have unsightly mud. We will also have a big gaping stretch of mud on the front lawn where they have been piling the earth, so I plan to order in a truckload of gravel to form a parking spot. I have been shoveling gravel for days back at our city house (see other blog www.mydailyslogblog.blogspot.com) so another truckload seems somehow inevitable and equitable. Once we can move the oil tank next spring, the crew will have to come back to trench and wrap that one corner, but even without that final bit, we should see a great reduction in water issues.

The crew stored the Saran-wrap stuff in the church for the night, and before they left they apologized for the mud they tracked into the entryway. I had to laugh. Guys, I have black mold and lead paint. A little mud doesn't scare me!

Decisions, Decisions

 

Heating and Cooling

The year my parents rented an old farmhouse, when I was a child, my job was to feed coal into the furnace down in the basement. I had a heavy shovel, and I remember feeling as if I were vaguely David Copperfield-ish, going down the stairs to do this arcane task. I felt I was feeding a great dragon as I shovelled the coal in. The smell of it was unique and new and somehow delicious. The sound the shovel made, scooping the coal, was interesting and pleasing. But the cellar scared me a little.

Most of my childhood we had a regular furnace but no air conditioner. I remember sleeping on the cement floor in the basement to cool off, or sometimes sleeping on the rollaway bed in the carport with my brother and sister. When I was in junior high we moved into a new house with a swamp cooler, which cooled the house through evaporation. It made sense in a desert, but I don’t think it would work where I live now. It’s entirely too humid here. Back home, you could hang clothes to dry in the yard and they’d be stiff as boards within hours. Here, they just collect moisture and drip and go moldy. We joke that we can bend crackers without breaking them.

Fairly early on in our marriage, my husband and I lived in a log cabin heated entirely by a wood stove, and we never did get the hang of operating it. Sometimes we couldn’t get it going in the morning and we’d be freezing and my husband would give up and throw in an expensive paper-wrapped fire-starter log from the hardware store. Then it would get so hot that we’d feel suffocated, and because none of our windows could open, we’d fling wide the front door and fan the hot air out. The heavy logs of the walls retained the heat (and a lot of dust and spiders), but they sucked up all available humidity and turned our skin to leather. We’d still wake in the night to a freezing cabin, having once again failed to figure out the right setting for the damper, and we’d grumblingly start the whole cycle over again.

In our current city house, we have a natural gas furnace and an air conditioner the size of a small car. We like to open the windows to let in natural breezes, but again, the humidity is a challenge, and the wood floors begin to swell and pop, so we have to close the windows again and resort to mechanical means to chill the air and lower its water content.

All of this is to say that heating and cooling systems and I have a complicated history, and I lack confidence in choosing which to go with for the church.

This morning my husband and I had a virtual chat with the heating company to try to decide what the best solution would be. We know we want to get rid of the existing oil tank and furnace, which are getting elderly and also terrify me somewhat. However, we are assured that this is the cleanest-burning, high-efficiency, 120,000 BTU furnace there is, and it’s hardly been used (though in five years or so we may not be able to get parts for it).

Propane is a bit less expensive but still a fossil fuel. I have learned, however, that it does not contribute to greenhouse gas emissions and is considered to be fairly environmentally friendly to burn, and you never have to worry about spills and contamination, but it still has to be produced and processed and delivered. It also would not address the high humidity in the church, so a dehumidifier would still be required. And a propane furnace would require a huge sausage-shaped tank situated in the middle of the yard, with a trench connecting it to the house that has to be at least ten feet away. So not lovely.

The other alternative I hoped to use is a heat pump, which could both heat and cool the church with electricity. About 85% of electricity, I am told, is generated from green sources, and someday if I want to really dig deep in the pockets, I could install solar panels to supply it myself. Goodness knows I have a huge roof to install solar on. The heating guy told us that the electricity to run a furnace/air conditioner and the electricity to run a heat pump are about the same. I have a hard time grasping this. But, he says, it would be too small to really do a good job with a building this size. It seems the dilemma isn’t the square footage, it’s the 21-foot ceiling upstairs.

So…In the end, looking at the cost of each alternative, my husband and I decided if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. We have a source of heat, so we will continue with it for now, though we’ll want to buy a new tank---except with Covid, they can’t get us a new tank until next spring, most likely. So…in the end, after studying all these different alternatives and waking gasping in the night at the potential cost…we’re going to install an itty-bitty dehumidifier that inserts into the existing ductwork. And that’s all we’re doing for now.

My philosophy is to do things once, do them right, and never have to think about them again. But in this case, it’s just a matter of putting it off until circumstances force a decision down the road. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Whew!

Still working on Margaret Morris

I have now picked out all the cement and flattened the window out as well as I can. There are a couple of pieces of glass I can't level out because the maker dripped soldering under the edge of the came and it's pushing the glass out of line. But it's still a vast improvement.

Next I need to solder the broken joints. I've prepped them and have what I need and there's no reason why I shouldn't be able to do it...it's been sitting there for two weeks, waiting...but I'm still putting it off. Nervous I will do irreparable harm, even though intellectually I know there's nothing I can do to this window that is irreparable. Even if I had to remake every bit of it from scratch, it's possible to do so. So what's holding me back?

I was talking to my husband about it, and I think it boils down to pride. I have always been able to grasp things quickly and do well at what I undertake. I might go so far as to say everything (except math) has been pretty easy for me my whole life. I'm used to feeling confident and expert at whatever I do. But I don't feel confident about my soldering abilities (before I've even tried!) and I don't want to botch it up and prove myself inexpert at something. Is that stupid or what? Of course I won't be expert at it! I've never done it before. By the time I've done all 55 pieces, I will be expert at it. And who is going to be examining these windows with a magnifying glass, anyway? They're going into my own home, not a public monument. And they're in such bad shape, anything I do to them can only be an improvement.

All I can do is plunge in and give it a go. This is one of those things you have to learn by doing. It's expected that I'll feel wobbly about it at first.

But I'm not used to feeling wobbly and uncertain and cowardly...

Wow. Just two days since I wrote that you shouldn't expect self reflection in this blog... Sorry!

A note about self-reflection

In her book Folly, Laurie R. King writes this wonderful tidbit: “In the incestuous manner of writers, his purpose seemed to be not so much the creation of shelter as the opportunities the building process gave for self-reflection---and, it went without saying, the publication of a book about both building and self-reflection…”

I laughed when I ran across that passage. Part of me hesitated to start this blog, because I was afraid readers would expect me to be profound or contemplative as I wrote it. To flavour it with wise observations about how building a home is like building a life, or how ripping out old wiring is a metaphor for tearing out old habits or self-defeating thought patterns. But instead of Elizabeth Gilbert in Italy finding meaning in a plate of pasta, I’m just Kristen McKendry in safety goggles finding spiders in the light fixtures.

While I do live in hope that the work I undertake in life will teach me valuable things, and while I anticipate I will inevitably progress and grow through challenges, I can’t guarantee that anything profound or life-changing will come out of all this for either me or my readers. You may journey with me through this project with high hopes of gaining insight into the meaning of the universe and emerge at the other side to find that we have, in fact, just renovated a church. Full stop. Wiring and septic tanks and heat pumps and carpet and glass. Any crumbs of wisdom that may be found through it may be entirely coincidental, and up to the reader to find or apply.

Having said that, I hope it’s as good rollicking fun for you as it is for me (she says, brushing cobwebs from her hair). I just wanted to throw that caveat out there!

Deciding on the Essentials

I have lately wanted to live more simply, with less stuff, and have started paring down my belongings in my city house. In thinking about what I would need to take with me to the church in order to quarantine there, it has become clear that I really don’t need much.

• A pillow and sleeping bag
• A couple of changes of clothes (there’s a washing machine) 
• A bowl, plate, set of utensils, and cup
• A good chef knife and cutting board, a spatula, and a big spoon
• A frying pan and pot, and probably a cookie sheet
• Food and a can opener (remember chocolate this time! Last time I had to quarantine without it. I nearly didn’t survive)
• Brio’s bed, toys, and food
• Some garbage bags  
• My laptop for work
• My guitar and banjo and stained glass tools (gives me something to do in the evening, and provides sound, which would be lacking if I’m there alone)
• Maybe my sewing machine and fabric or knitting supplies so I can make Christmas presents while I’m holed up, so I feel useful
• My glasses
• Toothbrush, shampoo, etc.
• A snow shovel (which would also allow me to help an elderly neighbour)
• About 4,000 books

That's it. Nothing else needed, really.

Replacing windows, and thoughts about light

We have to replace the rotting windows in the church, including the five-foot round window in the loft and about twelve awning windows in the basement, and of course we have to come up with a solution for protecting and weatherproofing the stained glass windows. The ones in the basement are fairly straight-forward---get something that keeps out the cold and wet and can be opened to allow fresh air in, preferably something better than the current “propped open with a stick” option we have now. The stained glass windows will be next year’s problem, and something for a designer to figure out because they’ll have to be custom-made around the wooden supportive “Y” in the centre. I can put them at the back of my mind for now.

The window in the loft requires more thoughtful decision-making. It needs to be able to open to ventilate the heat-collecting high ceiling. But when a window is five feet in diameter, opening even half of it poses some logistical problems. Round windows are tricky to make into sliders, due to geometry. A regular sash opening isn’t possible. We’ve been shown one option that requires swiveling half the window (shaped like a half moon) around in a track to cover the other half. This is theoretically fine, but glass is heavy, and sliding that much of it would take great physical strength, and I may not be able to do it when I’m 80. Anything that swings or cranks inward will take up a lot of space, sticking out into the room by 2.5 feet. (I’m a klutz. I’ll be banging into it constantly.) If it opens outward, it could turn into the glass equivalent of a sail in a high wind. The manufacturer says that anything bigger than four feet across is not covered by a warranty and they can’t guarantee it won’t fail. They do guarantee that it won’t fall out of its opening onto passers-by, however, which at least is something.

The one thing I do know about the loft window is that I don’t want it to be stained glass or frosted or covered in cross-hatching. I want to be able to stand at the window and see an unobstructed view of the sky. It has become clear to me just how important it is that I be able to see the sunrise and sunset. I hadn’t realized quite how much time I spend with my nose pressed to the bay window of our city house, watching the sky. The streaks of salmon and crimson, the pearly pale blue. The fascinating formations of cloud, from puffy profiteroles to buttermilk curdles to stretched-too-thin quilt batt. The ability to glance outside and judge whether I need to water the garden or bring in the potted lemon tree.

I struggle in winter with Seasonal Affective Disorder. I don’t think clearly, I slump into depression, I lose interest in everything, and I make irrational or impulsive decisions about buying houses (October), moving countries (October), switching jobs, (November), and getting married (December…hmmm. Best not to read too much into it, I guess!). I was part of a study at Sunnybrook Hospital looking at SAD’s effect on short-term memory. Windowless rooms make me short of breath, gray days make me semi-homicidal, and my soul craves light the way my body craves water on a hot day. If I’m to spend any amount of time working in that loft, I need it to be well illuminated.

The dominoes are starting to topple

The old oil furnace and tank are being removed. The contractor is fixing the leaking eavestroughs and installing exhaust fans in the utility room and bathroom. A company has been hired to excavate around the foundation and waterproof. They'll also remediate the mold and rebuild the rotting wall in the utility room. The contractor will inject the crack in the wall from the inside. The environmental specialist will come out to take soil samples and do up a new Phase One report. Then a new furnace (or possibly heat pump) will be installed -- we're still deciding which. The window company is giving us a quote. And all of this is supposedly happening in the next 3-4 weeks before the weather turns nasty.

As Bill Bryson says, I'm getting in touch with my inner wallet.

It feels good to finally be getting stuff done, though, and to take action before the snow flies. We'll have to put off the "fun" things like designing the new kitchen, but at least we'll know it's solid and water-tight and we'll never have to do this stuff again. Do it once, do it right, and move on. If nothing else, my kids will inherit a sturdy building and not a trembling brick heap.

I'm also thinking about splurging on internet service at the church. If we go into lockdown again this fall, do I want to be quarantined here in the city or there in the church? I'd like the option of either one, and with internet I could work in either location. I will stock up on food items and toilet paper in both places, just in case. I suppose it depends on whether the furnace gets replaced before it gets cold.

Brio would definitely prefer the church, especially in winter time, so he could still run and play in spite of bad weather.

Thoughts about kitchens

I have been perusing kitchen design options on line, which is a dangerous rabbit hole to go down, because you can get lost for hours. I have definite ideas about the functionality the kitchen needs to have. I want it fairly industrial-looking, practical, utterly washable, without much frill or fanfare. A commercial kitchen without quite so much stainless steel. I'm even okay with movable carts instead of fixed cupboards, so that it's endlessly flexible. I want it to serve a small family as well as it serves a crowd of fifty. We have lots of space to play with, and I have my eye on used restaurant equipment and sturdy fixtures. And I want a place for my 65-year-old double oven, currently in my basement, that I intend to take with me. It still works, and it's cool in that the glass oven doors lift up instead of folding down, and the burners slide in like a drawer to keep them away from little fingers.

When the young general contractor was walking through the church with us, he kept suggesting wood here or granite there, assuring us he could create something really nice and high-end for us, even though we kept assuring him we wanted inexpensive and maybe even secondhand materials. He wanted to build something gorgeous, and we wanted practicality over fanciness. He couldn't get his head around it. I guess he's used to clients who want all the bells and whistles, granite counter tops and custom cabinetry, like you see on TV design shows. I'm more interested in the food being produced and the people around the table.

I also have plans to re-purpose some of the cupboards currently in the kitchen. The long row of cupboards under the serving hatches would make a cool table. I like the clever little latches and hardware on them. The double row of tall cupboards lining one wall could be taken apart and turned into "lockers" where guests coming to retreats and workshops could keep their personal belongings. The cupboards themselves aren't made of expensive wood, but they've been so lovingly polished for so many decades that it would be a shame not to find them a place of honour somewhere. I am also in love with the triple stainless-steel sinks and might keep them. They would be especially handy during tomato-bottling season. And the narrow little pie shelves could be moved up to the sanctuary and turned into shelving for slippers and shoes, for when guests come.

There is one door leading into the sanctuary that should really be a steel door, not wood, but the current wood door has a beautiful grain and patina. I'm thinking when we replace it, I will put legs on it and turn it into my wheeled writing desk, doorknob and all.

As we design things, the more I can re-use and recycle, the better---not just for financial or environmental reasons, but to honour the church and its history. There is a sense of responsibility in taking on a project like this, a sort of obligation I feel to do my best and do it justice. I may not be able to save everything, and I'm not sure that I want to preserve every aspect of its churchiness, because it does need to be my home first and foremost, but what I can reuse, I will. Even if it breaks the young general contractor's heart.

At the TSC Country Store in Strathroy

If you have never been to a TSC Country Store, you must go. It looks a bit like a Home Hardware, but they have far more than hardware. It caters to the country dweller, so you can buy anything from rabbit pellets to beehives to horse halters to camouflage gear. There is homemade soap with crazy names and children's bicycles painted to look like John Deere tractors and puzzles with pictures of nothing but hundreds of bottles of barbecue sauce. There were bird houses that could double as doll houses, they were so elaborate. Wandering the aisles makes one want to start raising pigs and splitting logs. There are helpful charts comparing different types of chickens, sump pump kits the size of rain barrels, and thick tartan jackets that made me want to put one on and go tap some maple trees.

A couple of things made me laugh. The gun rack next to the meat-cutting band saw which was next to the barbecue grill, for example. That had a certain story-line flow to it. I also noted that the deer feed and the deer-meat jerky machines were at opposite sides of the store (and never the two customers shall meet). But the greatest thing was the set of two live animal traps for $44.99, with a picture of a raccoon on the box and the wording "Animal not included."

Last weekend in August

So now it’s the end of August, and we have found a general contractor and a window company and a furnace company. 

I am still working on Margaret Morris. I find it absorbing, and time flees while I am concentrating on it, which tells me I am going to enjoy this craft. With weaving, I find it interesting but not absorbing, and it has never really clicked for me. I find I am not ambitious enough to weave anything but tea towels. But there have been signs all my life that stained glass might be my thing, from the glass painting I used to do, to the stained-glass patterns I use in my needlepoint, to the murder mystery I wrote. I guess I will find out. Like it or not, it’s my project for the next, oh, thirty years. 

Margaret was married to William Morris, who was born about 1847, a farmer of Irish descent. He died in 1915. On the 1891 census, Margaret is listed as Margurite. Their son William Ernest, born about 1872, was also a farmer and died in 1962. It was he who purchased the window in memory of his parents, at a cost of $35.

We got a Roomba to keep the sanctuary floor swept. And discovered that the Roomba speaks German. After wandering aimlessly around the vast floor space for an hour, it stopped dead and let out a string of incomprehensible and frustrated commands that I can only assume translate as "I am tired and can't find my docking station. Please return me to it so I can recharge. And next time, call someone else."

August ticks along

Brio has discovered that he is allowed to play ball in the downstairs rec room AS MUCH AS HE WANTS, and he is delirious, playing to the point of exhaustion. Never has he had such an amazing experience. He remembers coming the first weekend, and this weekend he could hardly wait to get inside, knowing his ball would be produced without limit. When I take him out to pee, he does what he has to do as quickly as he can and pulls for the door, eager to get back to his ball. Even the enticement of a walk holds no charm for him, compared to his squeaky red rubber ball. At our city house, he watches me put the ball away in the closet and walks away without a murmur, because unlimited play is not associated with that house. But here---he has come to expect pure bliss. I want him to associate joy with this place. He is still a Velcro dog, however; he doesn’t like to be left alone. When I tried to sit outside alone this morning, I could hear him howling inside like a pipe organ until I relented and brought him outside with me. But no, he didn’t want to sit with me; he wanted to be inside with his ball. With me. He made himself very clear. Who says dogs can’t communicate? This one speaks volumes. 

My husband has spent this week phoning multiple people – furnace guy, septic company, oil company, general contractor, architect, municipality, township, tax people, basement guy, the person who got Phase One done, the company that actually did the study, and the window guy. We will need to redesign the plumbing and wiring and maybe install a second bathroom while we’re at it. The good news is that the person who did the Phase One study is happy to re-do it for us at a discount (we can't piggyback onto the original one), and he will include the soil sampling in it so that we don't require a Phase Two. And it sounds like rezoning will be fairly straight-forward. We hadn’t thought to rezone yet, but if the ducks are in a row and people are open and active now, maybe we’d better go ahead and strike while the iron’s hot. I want to add residential zoning but also keep the institutional zoning so that we can run workshops and retreats, like a community centre. I envision throwing big suppers in the basement again, or setting up tables on the lawn and serving people there.   

There is something about a church that makes you drop your voice and tiptoe. Even without the pews and trappings, the sanctuary has a hush about it, a feeling of blocking the world out and the quiet in. I don’t think people have enough silence in their lives. There is always something going on---voices, cars, planes over head, phones, computers, air conditioning, TV, the hum of the fridge. The brain is always tuned in and the ears are always alert. My husband and I discussed whether people would be willing to buy quiet. Come on retreats where they are allowed to sit still and do nothing, hear nothing, say nothing. No technology, no distraction. There are days I would pay handsomely for that myself. (Well, I guess I have, in fact, done just that.)

It's all sounding more hopeful and less depressing now, and the anxiety forming a ball in my stomach is starting to loosen. It’s still going to cost a fortune, but at least it sounds like it’s doable. I can still belong, one day, to this marvelous landscape. And I can be a steward to this little church.