Drywall

The people who framed out our basement were supposed to return after the electrical and insulation were in to do the drywalling. However, with the delays with the Conservation Authority (who still haven't given us the final report!), we had to put everything on hold, and now the drywall people tell us they are booked up until the autumn of 2023. So we need to find someone else. Or do it ourselves, which is also possible, except it means having to rent a truck to pick up the drywall, and a bit more strain on the old back and knees than I'd hoped for. But doable if all else fails. My husband has called two more companies to come gives us quotes next week, though both have warned us they are also very busy. We'll see how that goes. 

When this is all over, I am seriously thinking of running for local political office, because this whole Conservation Authority fiasco is maddening, and we're likely not the only people having to deal with it. Seriously, how busy can this organization be? Why does it take 5 months to write a one-page letter? Why is a 3-month process taking nine? 

Roofing Woes

A few weeks ago we lost a shingle off the church roof, exposing the wood beneath. With winds and storms on the way, I called and got it fixed with a quick patch (thank you, Borks!). And then two weeks later we lost another shingle. So here's the dilemma... Do we continue to fix the roof one square foot at a time, or do we accept the inevitable and re-roof the whole enchilada? 

There are days I sort of wish a tornado would take out the whole thing, just carry off every last brick, so we could start afresh. Surely new builds are easier than retrofitting old ones. At the Tiny Home Show in Ancaster two weeks ago, we saw a really cool housing solution with individual units raised on tall pillars screwed into the earth. They were raised enough you could park your car beneath them, and you could link them together like townhouses. Imagine being above the ground where no water issues could torment you. If the creek rose or the deluge came, the water would just swirl and flow beneath you and you wouldn't care. Water has been a constant theme at this church -- fixing the basement, fixing the roof, planning the septic, finding a plumber, arguing about flood plains with the conservation authority, always about water. And the last thing I need right now is water getting in this little spot on the roof.

I have visions in my head of those old movies where a giant thermometer is posted in front of the church, red slowly rising as the "raise the roof" fundraisers bring in money to save the church roof. Remember seeing those? Do I keep it zoned a church and start passing the plate? Because seriously, this thing is gobbling money like there's no tomorrow.

Then again, with the current state of the world, maybe there is no tomorrow, so the roof doesn't matter. 

Optimistic Projects and Finding Flow

We still haven't got any answer about zoning, so still can't get permits to do any work. However, we're going to be optimistic and get ready anyway, in case there's a last-minute nod of approval. We'd really like to get the insulation in before winter.

My husband is framing in the round pillars in the basement to square them off and allow us to conduct heat down to the floor, and also to install electrical outlets in the centre of the room. He also needs to frame around the basement windows so that the spray foam insulation people can insulate around them. All of this is finicky work, as there's no such thing as a consistent measurement or right angle in this building, and each window will require individual tailoring. He's planning to take a week to go up by himself and just immerse himself in the project with no distractions (i.e. Brio and I will stay home with the grandchildren).

There's something lovely about deep diving into an activity and achieving "flow," with nothing to pull you out of it until you're ready. I've achieved that a few times, with my writing, and once with my weaving. The dedicated room with nothing in it but the floor loom and bench, the golden sunlight coming in, the glow of the wood, the rhythmic clack and bang of the loom, the intricate threads...it was a meditative exercise. It was just complicated enough to engage the brain but repetitive enough to be relaxing.

And then I needed the room for other things and had to move my loom into a more public space, and I haven't captured that "time out of time" since. Looking back on it, that cocoon of peaceful focus was amazing. Life is so full of so many things now, I wonder if I'll ever have that again.