Celebrating The Scars

Nothing's perfect.

And certainly in a house that dates back to the year

that President Andrew Jackson handily won
re-election, stomping Henry Clay in the November ballotting,

there are more than a few imperfections.

It's a good thing I'm not a perfectionist.

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When Alida was born, Howard and I lived in a big 3rd floor railroad flat in New York City.  I  still remember every inch of that apartment, as I also remember all the nooks and crannies of our last house, a 90-year old Craftsman.  Both of these homes are part of me, woven into my stored  memories, my heart pictures, and I think it's because we painted them.

In painting, you touch and transform every square inch of a room's surfaces.  You don't just see the imperfections, you experience the room in a physical and tactile way, and you become connected.

Or, is that just me?

When we bought That Old House, every room needed painting.  We hired painters who did most of it.
The kitchen and sunroom we left for ourselves.  We are finally tackling that now.

It's a slow process, because Life keeps rearing its ugly head and interfering, but I am getting to know my kitchen in a new way, and I'm seeing its past reflected in its rather battered present.

Some pictures, below.  These are of primed and not yet painted woodwork in our kitchen,

which is in the newer rear part of the house -- probably 1880s.

These are the ghosts of hardware past,

paint jobs past, dings & dents & boo-boos past:

 That's the wallpaper we're putting up in the kitchen, and the woodwork is just clad in primer.

Doesn't everyone have switches that connect to nothing, that have so many

coats of paint on them they are permanently glued to the wall?

We have more than one; this one is near the refrigerator:

Huh!  I just noticed a missing screw on our mystery switch.

 I can't ignore the loose rimlock on the powder room door anymore.

 I've primed around it, and peeked down into its heart.

I think that is bare wood under there, meaning that this rimlock has been on this door for . . .

well, for one heck of a long time, and about 8 coats of paint.

 Note to self: Lose the shiny screws, and if the lock is truly shot,

my Dad says he has a few like it out in the shed at the beach house. 

The corners and details of the old painted woodwork are no longer sharp.

They are worn round by generations of paint, thickly applied.

 In a corner of the butler's pantry, there's a bit of cracked plaster.  

Cracked, but not loose.  Kind of like me.   I'll live with that.

 At the foot of the back stairs into the kitchen, more softly rounded woodwork.

A good painter would strip this woodwork, fill the holes, sand it smooth, make it crisp once more.

I am not a good painter.  I'm an amateur who loves those scars of the past.

I like living with the ghosts of real life, in our old house.

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Remember the asparagus ferns that swayed in the breezes on our front porch all summer?

We're getting frosty nights, so the ferns have toddled in and taken refuge in the front hall.  All four of them.

 They are like kids home from college, taking up way too much room.

Love the hair-do on this one:

Not sure where they'll winter.  They are rather large.

 Well, it's Friday and I've set myself a goal for kitchen painting today, so I'd better hop to it.

Have a lovely November weekend!

I bought some bling for our new shed, and I can't wait to see Howard's reaction.

Stay tuned.  -- Cass

Linking to three blog parties . . .

Cindy at My Romantic Home hosts Show & Tell Friday.  Click here!
It's Feathered Nest Friday at French Country Cottage.  Click here!
And at Tootsie Time, it's Fertilizer Friday.  Click here!