I wrap my digital arms around friend, neighbor, artist, and gardener extraordinaire Catherine Seidenberg for this memorable birthday gift. Thank you!
Catherine’s whimsical black and white watercolor of Rosslyn’s front facade offers a chance to reflect on the past decade Susan and I have spent reinvigorating this quirky property and an invitation to daydream about its future. The matched tree hydrangeas are a nod to a pair of similar (though far older varieties) hydrangeas that flaked the entrance columns before we excavated the front of the house. The older plants were transplanted with an excavator and now thrive astride a gate in the garden behind the carriage barn. The view to the right of the house, beyond the stone wall, reminds me of photographs of Rosslyn in the 1800s when the rolling hills beyond the carriage barn and ice house were far more open than today, a sea of apple orchards and green pastures dotted with grazing sheep.
[Sometimes a post is born, neglected, orphaned, left unpublished in blog purgatory. Sadly this is one such case, despite the fact that I’ve enjoyed this painting daily from its perch above the fireplace in my study. The following update reminded me that Catherine’s painting was never properly celebrated, so I conjoin the two newsworthy items here to showcase the multidisciplinary creativity of artist Catherine Seidenberg.]
After two years assisting with Rosslyn’s vegetable and flower gardens Catherine moved on to new challenges. She notified us this past spring that she was returning to ceramics, and would be spending much of this year in Keene, NY as the Craigardan artist-in-residence.
HARVEST PLATE RESIDENCY For ceramic artists who wish to participate in Craigardan’s delicious celebration of the farm, the food, and the plate. 9-month Winter residency. The 2017 Harvest Plate Resident: Catherine Seidenberg (Source: Craigardan)
If you’re in the Adirondacks (or near enough to swing through Keene, NY) I encourage you to meet Catherine in mid-September.
Slide Talk: a conversation with harvest plate resident, Catherine Seidenberg (Friday, September 15, 2017, 5:30 PM to 6:30 PM) Meet artist-in-residence Catherine Seidenberg, view her ceramic work and learn about her beautiful processes. Catherine is our summer Harvest Plate Resident, crafting all of the tableware for the fall benefit event, Dinner in the Field. (Source: Craigardan)
Susan and I are looking forward to the fall benefit!
Rosslyn, Essex on Lake Champlain (Painted by Mary Wade)
My bride refers to herself as “Mama” to our Labrador Retriever, Griffin. It’s always struck me as a bit goofy, preferring, I suppose, to think of myself as my dog’s master. Though anyone familiar with our little family of three would hastily remind me that I might have that backwards, as Griffin clearly rules the proverbial Rosslyn roost.
I kid Susan that her childfree stance belies latent maternal instincts which she channels into her canine progeny. (N.B. While you might initially balk at this, detecting an underhanded jab, you can rest assured that Susan is quite comfortable with — even proud of — her “Dog Mama” status. And any implication that I’m married to a metaphorical dog, well, let me just suggest that the quick glimpse of my dazzling damsel in the video below will handily refute any concerns. After eleven years she still knocks my socks off!)
So where were we?
Mother’s Day.
Despite endlessly kidding Susan for mothering Griffin (Perhaps over-mothering?), I actually find it endearing. And our almond-eyed-butterscotch-furred best friend is thoroughly content with the arrangement.
“Hello, my love bug. Mama missed you,” Susan greets Griffin when he races up to meet her at the end of the day. His tail wags excitedly and he stretches his head upward, offering a nice slobbery kiss. “How did Mama get such a drooly boy?” she asks playfully as she wipes off her nose and cheek.
This year, I decided it was time to accept my bride’s dog mother instinct. No, I decided it was time to embrace it with a surprise gift or two. And the perfect gift? A symbol of our family, our home.
Rosslyn’s boathouse (Artwork by Mary Wade)
Each winter Essex residents celebrate the holidays early during a weekend-long event called Christmas in Essex. It was this tradition which connected me to Mary Wade, a folk artist who lives in Willsboro but runs a seasonal gallery in Essex each summer. She creates painted wooden models, silhouettes, and paintings of historic buildings in Essex that are collected by her fans all around the world.
Although I’d visited her shop in the past, it wasn’t until last December (when Mrs. Wade was offering her artwork for sale during the Christmas in Essex event) that we discussed her Rosslyn inspired artwork. I spotted a painting of Rosslyn’s boathouse adorning a wooden box (see image) and asked her if she could make a birdhouse modeled on the same structure.
“I think so,” she said, considering. “I could do that.”
“What about a painting of Rosslyn?”
“Oh, sure. I’ve done that plenty of times, you know, all the Merchant Row houses.”
As soon as my bride was safely out of earshot, we began to conspire. Could she undertake *both* projects this winter? She could. And much more!
Last week I met her at home where she unveiled these whimsical renditions of Rosslyn and Rosslyn’s boathouse. The small painted silhouettes of the the boathouse were a bonus, unanticipated when we made our plan last December. She had gotten the idea while creating the birdhouse, and she liked it so much that she decided to make almost a dozen to share with her other collectors.
I suspected that the birdhouse would prove too valuable to allow it to fulfill its intended use, and Susan promptly confirmed my suspicions.
“What a perfect centerpiece!” she exclaimed arranging the miniature copy of Rosslyn’s boathouse in the center of our deck table to test out her theory. It was a great idea.
The beautiful painting of Rosslyn will likely be hung in the morning room where a growing collection of artist renderings of the quirky Eastlake inspired dockhouse adorn the walls. And for now, the silhouetted boathouse is in the screen porch. Until I convince her that it would be fun to have in the boathouse…
“Beguiled into Stewardship”, Old House Journal, June 2015 Issue (Page 1-2)
Exactly three years ago on June 3, 2015, Old House Journal published an article about Rosslyn. Time for a flashback! Regina Cole’s story and Carolyn Bates’s photographs are entitled, “Beguiled into Stewardship“, and you can find their original article here. (Note: the print edition and the online edition differ slightly.)
If you’re unfamiliar with Old House Journal, — and if you’re renovating or rehabilitating an older home — I recommend both the print magazine and the online website and resources.
This site is the ultimate resource for owners of old houses and period-style homes, gathering information from Old-House Journal, Old-House Interiors, Early Homes, and New Old House. You’ll find inspiration, how-to info and advice, stories and photos of old houses galore and sources for traditional products. Whether you’re restoring your old house or searching for period decor, you’ll find help here. (Source: Old-House Online)
An Insider’s Glimpse
It’s worth noting that the article fumbles a few points here and there, but the gist is mostly on target. And the photographs are amazing!
Like many owners of important old houses, this couple never intended to become stewards of a 2½-storey neoclassical manse that spreads over more than 6,000 square feet. The building was originally just a three-bay, side-hall dwelling, but Rosslyn was expanded between 1835 and 1840 into its symmetrical five-bay configuration. Other buildings on the grounds include several barns and a very adorable, Eastlake-style boathouse added in 1898. (Source: “Beguiled into Stewardship“)
Eek! Adorable? Though my bride and I fell head over heels in love with the Rosslyn’s boathouse (really a “dock house” more than a boathouse) long before we succumbed to the home’s beguiling pull, neither of us would likely describe the quirky lakeside structure as adorable. Too cute, me thinks, for this weathered folly. But I’ll leave that judgment up to you.
A significant rear wing had been added to Rosslyn in the 19th century for domestic services—a kitchen and pantry, etc.—and servants’ quarters. Early in the 20th century, when the house became a hostelry called The Sherwood Inn, that service wing was renovated to accommodate guest lodging, a restaurant, and a tavern. When the inn ceased operation by the early 1960s, most of the rear wing was removed.
George and Susan used its remnant to create a large new family room. For symmetry and better flow, they also added two new wings, one to house a screened porch and one to create circulation between old rooms and new. The boathouse, of course, was a later addition, but its late Victorian style is so charming, they never considered removing it. It has been restored inside and out.
[…]
The front of the house is historic, but the rear had undergone numerous additions and subtractions over the years. George and Susan updated the rear with sensitive additions and a patio surrounded by a stone wall. George rebuilt the old stone walls that surround the property. They built a new fence, basing its design on one found in a Federal pattern book. (Source: “Beguiled into Stewardship“)
Mostly accurate, except I’ll humbly concede credit to others for the handsome stone walls. I did design/redesign/adapt them and figure out how to repurpose old stone salvaged from failed walls and long buried foundations, but virtually all of the heavy lifting was done by others. And we remain extremely grateful for it!
Okay, enough revisionism… On to the article.
“Beguiled into Stewardship”, Old House Journal, June 2015 Issue (Page 3-4)
The opening spread showcases one of the handsome entrance gates designed and built by our friend, Tom Duca. And that interior shot of the front entrance door with side lites and fan lite? That challenging project was meticulously executed by Kevin Boyle.
“Beguiled into Stewardship”, Old House Journal, June 2015 Issue (Page 5-6)
The front parlor and the dining room offer pigmented nostalgia bridges.
The pea green paint in the parlor is a nod to the previous owner whose paint choice perplexed us at first, but grew on us gradually, imperceptibly during our endless renovation. My bride elected to preserve and refresh it while I was away. It was the perfect choice.
And the light blue walls in the dining room recollect the dining room in Maison Margaux, a top-to-bottom renovation I shepherded in Paris’ Faubourg St. Germain.
“Beguiled into Stewardship”, Old House Journal, June 2015 Issue (Page 7-8)
The kitchen and morning room (aka “the north porch”) are principle phases of our daily orbit. No finer way to start the day that breakfasting with songbirds!
“Beguiled into Stewardship”, Old House Journal, June 2015 Issue (Page 9-10)
Griffin, our Labrador Retriever, is the perennially proud protector of Rosslyn in general and our bedroom in particular. From his perch at the end of the bed he can monitor the deer and wild turkeys sneaking snacks from his vegetable garden and orchard. I suppose “protector” might be a mild overstatement.
“Rather than trying to coerce the house to do something new, we tried to reawaken it.” (New England Home)
In “Taking the Long View” Paula M. Bodah refers to the renovation of a Victorian house near Boston, Massachusetts in unusually anthropomorphic terms. Reawaken? Since when do houses sleep?
Despite the unfamiliar reference, Bodah’s terminology is precise, accurate and familiar. In the case of Rosslyn, reawakening is precisely how I too describe our renovation process, though I didn’t understand this at the outset.
One of the joys of homeownership lies in expressing ourselves through our surroundings… Most of us can hardly wait to put our personal stamp on our living spaces. It is, after all, part of the process of turning a house into a home. (New England Home)
While “turning a house into a home” is a topic for a future post, and although I’ve frequently joked that no detail of Rosslyn’s rehabilitation escaped our fingerprints, much attention was paid throughout to preserving the buildings’ unique heritage. My bride and I were far less preoccupied with our own personal stamp than we were with finding Rosslyn’s personal stamp, her DNA, and reawakening it to guide our renovation.
In fact, I wanted to move into Rosslyn after six months — after the most critical infrastructure had been upgraded — so that I could discover the house by living in it. I wanted to understand Rosslyn from the inside out. Remember my coffee-in-the-morning pipe dream? My bride thought I was crazy at the time, willfully opting living in a full-scale renovation project. No doubt here judgment was sound, but it turns out my instinct wasn’t so unusual after all.
The couple who bought this Boston-area Victorian [described above]… lived in their house for a full year, noting how they used the space and how the light flowed (or didn’t), thinking, planning and discussing before undertaking any serious renovating or redecorating. (New England Home)
There’s a certain intimacy, a depth of familiarity and knowledge, that is only possible when you live in a house. When you fall asleep listening to its sighs and creeks mingling with the soft breathing of your bride and dog. When you wake up and navigate your way to the bathroom in the dark in the middle of the night. When an avalanche of snow slides off the roof, startling you early in the morning. When you wake up but stay in bed with your still sleeping bride because the room’s so cold, the comforter is so warm, and you can’t imagine feeling this cozy ever again. When Griffin, your Labrador Retriever, licks your cheek and stares at you pleadingly so that you slide into your robe and slippers and shuffle down the staircase to take him outside for a crack-o-dawn potty break. When you crack a pair of eggs into a sizzling skillet next to the popping bacon and wait for the house to smell like Sunday morning. When the ferry boat landing at the nearby ferry dock vibrates the house. When you step out of the shower onto the worn floorboards. When you inhale a nostril-full of moist brick after a summer rain. When you gather family together for a celebratory meal in the dining room with the smell of crackling fire mingling with the the aroma of roast turkey and pumpkin soup…
These are the caresses and whispers that you miss when you renovate a house from without, when diagrams and computer-assisted drawings and conversations are the only firsthand contact you’ve experienced with the environment that will nurture and protect and inspire you for many years to come.
Several years of interior design school underpinned my bride’s confidence that living in a home to understand it was unnecessary, that carefully calibrated (and much debated) drawings were more than adequate to understand the best orientations for bathrooms and kitchens and beds and desks. She was comfortable forging ahead.
I was not. I wanted to touch and smell and hear Rosslyn in order to understand her. I agreed with my bride that it was critical to renovate our home according to the needs of our own lifestyle, but I wanted to ensure that we weren’t imposing our own will haphazardly onto those of the house.
Perhaps this sounds contrived? Perhaps it hints of New Age-y pseudo philosophical blather? I don’t fully disagree. But it’s an honest accounting of our differences as we plunged into Rosslyn’s renovation.
For a long time I struggled to admit to myself, much less to my bride, that I considered it arrogant to impose our dreams upon Rosslyn without first trying to understand her dreams. I was obsessed with reawakening and listening to the old house, trying to hear what she was trying to tell us.
At first we strained to hear, and then it became easier. Her stories, her dreams flowed, and before long we lost the ability to mute Rosslyn. We were inundated with her past and her hopes for the future. Before long it grew virtually impossible to distinguish between Rosslyn’s will and our own.
And so the scope of our project mushroom and the timeline extended. And mushroomed. And extended. We joked that we had been kidnapped by Rosslyn, and in a sense we had.
Historic Essex offers plenty of Instagram-able views and vignettes, don’t you think? And it’s always a fun surprise to see familiar facades pop up in other shutterbugs’ feeds.
Rosslyn boathouse at sunrise (Digital doodle: virtualDavis)
“Coffee? You don’t even drink coffee,” Susan said.
“I know. I know it doesn’t make any sense. But I’m walking through Rosslyn early in the morning with a steaming cup of coffee…”
I hadn’t drunk coffee since college, and I’d obviously never wandered around Rosslyn at the crack of dawn either. But I kept having this vision.
“It’s just barely sunrise. You’re still sleeping. I’m up, drifting from room-to-room, slowly, haltingly, studying the way the sunlight illuminates each room. And those green walls in the parlor? They vibrate in the morning light, like new maple leaves in the springtime.”
I described the shaft of sunlight stretching across the workshop floor. I described the calm, the quiet except for an occasional creaky floorboard. I described Tasha, our Labrador Retriever, padding along with me, anxious for breakfast.
“Tasha sighs and lies down each time I stop. And I stop a lot… to watch the morning unfolding, to watch the sunlight shimmering on the rippled lake, to watch the boathouse clapboards glowing yellow orange for a few minutes as the sun rises above the Green Mountains.”
“I was imagining the boathouse too,” Susan said. “Not like today, but like it was ours, like we lived at Rosslyn. I was thinking, the boathouse’s just begging for a hammock. Don’t you think? A big, two-person hammock in the open-air part, under the roof. Can you imagine lying in a hammock in the evening, listening to the waves?” Susan paused, lost in the idea. “And think of the dinner parties,” she continued. “A table set for four. White linens and candles and sheer curtains billowing in the breeze…”
Today’s question from Al Katkowsky‘s Question of the Day book was the perfect invitation to reflect on Rosslyn Redux, the “big picture”!
What should you definitely not have done that turned out okay anyway?
In the summer of 2006 I definitely should not have purchased a dilapidated, almost two hundred year old house in Essex, New York. Definitely not. Not if I wanted to stay sane, solvent or married. Not if I wanted to do anything else in my life except for renovating, babysitting contractors, and nurturing this handsome old house back to life…
But I was totally, unabashedly, irreversibly seduced by Rosslyn, a sagging-but-still-stately, almost two century year old property on the Adirondack shores of Lake Champlain. My new bride and I swapped Manhattan for North Country bliss.
Our plan? Renovate a home. Grow a garden. Plant an orchard. Raise a dog. Swim, sail, ski, hike, bike and live happily ever after.
Or not…
Over a hundred carpenters, tradesmen and artisans later; over four times our budget and planned timeline later; and over countless marriage-testing misadventures later we finally finished our renovation. In time for the biggest flood in over two centuries to swamp our boathouse and waterfront for two months…
We should definitely not have undertaken this wildly ambitious project. But we did. And it turned out okay anyway. So far!
Check out rosslynredux.com for a vicarious plunge into the idiosyncrasies (and absurdities) of our renovation, marriage and North Country life.
Susan and I were driving back to Rock Harbor after visiting Rosslyn, an early 19th century home in Essex, New York, which our realtor had just shown us for the second time in several months.
It was spring. At least a dozen sailboats speckled Whallons Bay as we wound south along the edge of Lake Champlain. Small white caps, light wind, bluebird skies above. Two fishing boats trawled between the beach and Split Rock where a glimpse of Vermont was visible within the cleft.
We veered away from the lake and up Couchey Hill toward one of the most picturesque views in the Champlain Valley. Hurricane, Giant, Dix and the Jay Range were silhouetted against cloud specked blue skies to the east. An undulating patchwork quilt of hayfields and tree lines stretched to blue green foothills clumped against the Adirondack Mountains.
Half an hour can vanish in a single breath while watching a sunny day expire here. Even at midday the view is an open-ended invitation to linger.
But with minds and mouths racing, we did not even slow down on our way back to Rock Harbor. We were sorting engagements, worrying over deadlines and synchronizing schedules for the week ahead. After a quick lunch, we would drive back to Manhattan. Although the trip could be as quick as five hours, Sunday afternoons were typically slower with increased traffic around Albany and returning weekenders adding to the congestion.
Hyde Gate, Essex, NY (Illustration by Kate Boesser for All My Houses, by Sally Lesh)
One of the unanticipated joys of living at Rosslyn (aka Hyde Gate) has been discovering the property’s legacy. Prior to purchasing our home, neither my bride nor I had ever stopped to consider the impact that these four buildings clustered along the shore of Lake Champlain might have had on others before us.
One recent reminder was the first chapter of All My Houses in which octogenarian Sally Lesh chronicles her itinerant life story by way of the many homes in which she has resided. Published in 2005, Lesh’s memoir is available online and — if luck’s on your side — at your neighborhood bookstore where the aroma of fresh brewed coffee, the sedative shuffling of pages and the muffled whispering of customers might transport you to wintry Essex, New York by way of Boston, Massachusetts.
Hyde Gate, Essex, New York
Lesh opens the memoir with her birth on Janurary 19, 1921 in Boston, but the title of her first chapter and the origin of the journey she intends to chronicle is Hyde Gate, Essex, New York. This quirky collection of reminiscences is not altogether unlike a literary charm bracelet. Though, it is a bit longer than a bracelet… Is there such a thing as a charm necklace? In any case, the back cover blurb promises plenty of shiny if slightly tarnished charm.
Meet Sally Lesh, mother of eight, (descendant from Royalty), traveler from New England to bush Alaska, Inn keeper, cow milker, weaver, ferry steward, farmer, wife to a doctor, and author of Lunch at Toad River. Read her down-to-earth life story spanning 84 years full of ingenuity, humor, independence, and a love of life as it unfolds. (All My Houses a Memoir)
The first charm on Lesh’s necklace is Hyde Gate, Rosslyn by a different name. Though her memory falters when describing the home’s fabrication, the illustration and subsequent description make it abundantly clear that our journeys have overlapped not in time but in place.
My parents, Sarah “Sally” Carter Townsend and Ingersoll Day Townsend were living in Essex, New York, on the shore of Lake Champlain. The property was known as Hyde Gate, and it extended from the water’s edge well back into the meadows and woods. The house was nicely proportioned wood frame building. A veranda ran across the front and around the two sides, giving a gracious and welcoming aspect. The house exterior was painted yellow with white trim, except for the big front door. That was dark green. A long flight of wide steps led up to the veranda and the main entrance…
I never found out what those nine servants did in that large house. I know about Nana, and there must have been a laundress to handle the piles of sheets, towels, tablecloths, napkins, baby clothing, and Bobby’s little cotton outfits. I’m sure there was a cook, because Mother couldn’t even boil water. There had to have been a yard man or gardener, for everything that came to the table was grown in our garden. And there must have been at least two maids to clean. Mother wouldn’t have known what a dust mop was, let alone how to use it. That makes five. What on earth did three more do?
Directly across the road, ice was cut every winter from the frozen lake surface. All these years later, I can picture the huge square hole full of dark water where the big blocks of ice had been cut by men using long saws. Each block was then hauled out. I have no idea how the block of ice was carried up the steep rocky bank and across the road, up the sloping driveway past the house, past the big barn that houses the carriage and the car, and finally to the icehouse, where it was buried in sawdust. We had iceboxes then, no refrigerators. The ice was broken into square chunks that fit neatly into the tin-lined top compartment of the icebox. I do clearly recall picking tiny bits of sawdust out of my summertime lemonade throughout my childhood. (All My Houses a Memoir, by Sally Lesh)
A year later, Lesh explains in the second chapter, Hyde Gate was sold. It had been owned by her grandmother, Louisa Johnson Townsend, who also owned the Stone House in Essex (where Sally’s family moved next) as well as a seasonal camp on Lake Champlain and “a large old house in Oyster Bay on Long Island, next to Theodore Roosevelt’s home, and a place with a banana tree in New Orleans”. A well healed granny by the sound of it!
Sticks or Bricks? Hyde Gate Remembered…
It’s worth noting that the house was constructed out of brick (with stone foundations) and not wood. But this detail — like the soft math when recollecting the number and function of servants — matters little and reveals the patina-ing power of time’s passage. The other notable difference between Hyde Gate as Lesh describes it and Rosslyn as she stands today is that the veranda has been removed, revealing an older — and most likely original — stone stairway and entrance. The owner from whom we purchased the property undertook this alteration in a nod to historic authenticity. He too felt obliged to leave his imprint on the front facade of the house and erected a Greek Revival columned entrance roof which incorporates subtle Georgian detailing which I’ll share in a subsequent post.
Hyde Gate Gardens-to-Table
This weekend I will transplant tomatoes, eggplants, pepper plants and artichokes into our own garden which accounts for much of the what graces our dining table during the summer and fall each year. Rhubarb and asparagus have been coming in for weeks, and the strawberry patch is currently covered in blossoms. Fruit trees, bushes, brambles and vines add to the Rosslyn harvest, and an attractive herb garden close to the kitchen fortifies our recipes and intoxicates our nostrils whenever it rains or the wind blows out of the south. Almost a century after Sally Lesh’s brief sojourn at Hyde Gate, a gastronomic connection to the land endures. But the icehouse has long since surrendered its critical warm weather role, and the apiculture which occupied her father (he sold five tons of honey per year) has vanished.
With luck we’ll returning to beekeeping some day in the future, if for no other reason than to improve the pollination in our small orchard. And honey, fresh out of the comb? Divine. I’m adding it to the wish list. Right after ducklings…
Acknowledgments
Although it would have been wonderful indeed to stumble upon this memoir quite by accident only to discover my home on the first page, I feel equally fortunate to have been guided by my Essex neighbor Tilly Close who showed me the book last summer. She knew the author and suggested that I dip into the property’s legacy from a fresh perspective. Thank you, Mesdames Lesh and Close.
Can’t do it! Redneck, city slicker, suburbanite, exurbanite, whatever… If you give this energetic summer anthem a second or two you’ll be hooked. Scoff if you need to. Turn up your nose if your tastes are too refined for the Redneck Yacht Club. But I’m gambling that the next time you hear it pumping out the window of a slow-passing pickup truck you’ll smile. And hum the chorus. And admit to yourself that it’s a pretty catchy tune.
Here’s a little taste of the chorus. Try to read it without singing/humming the melody. Just try!
Basstrackers, Bayliners and a party barge, strung together like a floating trailer park, anchored out and gettin loud. All summer long, side by side, there’s five houseboat, front porches astroturf, lawn chairs and tiki torches, regular Joes rocking the boat. That’s us, the redneck yacht club.
(CowboyLyrics.com)
See what I mean? So, your Chris Craft tastes don’t feel comfy with a song about Bayliners and party barges… So what? Stop judging and start bobbing your head!
I did.
You see, for the first year (or two?) that my bride and I were renovating/rehabilitating Rosslyn, Redneck Yacht Club played on always-on WOKO again and again. I don’t remember for sure, but I may have scoffed outwardly (and hummed inwardly) the first time I heard the song. But not the second. I laughed. I sang along. I went out and bought the album! Several years later, WOKO is no longer the default radio channel at Rosslyn, but I still hear the song from time to time. And when I do, it transports me instantly to the days of demolition, of surprises (mold, rot, bad electric, bad plumbing) and a mushrooming scope of work. It also takes me back to a house full of laughing contractors, rambling stories, off-color jokes and meals shared on sawhorses and upturned compound buckets.
