Two rooms ready for sanding. Both have a rectangular section in the middle with an older finish. Like something semi-permanent was there at one time and someone finished the floor around it. A mystery. Also, we’ll replace that plywood patch by the window with some good flooring cut from a closet.
We’re pulling out the carpet in the front half of the house today. In every project Rachel and I have worked on she has three essential tools: needle nosed pliers, a crowbar, and a butter knife. If it can’t be done with one of those three, she says, it doesn’t need to be done.
Rachel is repainting the front half of our house. All the books (plus some records and CDs) had to be moved to the dining room. Quite a pile! I’ll be taking this opportunity to thin the collection and rearrange them before reshelving when the project is done.
Tomorrow Rachel and I will have a slightly early equinox celebration. The persimmons I’ve been posting about will be part of it. Pictured below is the antique Foley food mill (technically a ricer) she used to process them. Also, she arranged some flowers from our garden inside a pumpkin.
The thing about Rachel is, she doesn’t take long to decide on something—and then once the decision is done, it’s done. In the course of the last two hours, she’s decided we’re now tearing up all the remaining carpet downstairs and refinishing the wood floor underneath, plus painting the walls. 😂
Sierra Ferrell’s harmony on this song takes me straight back to childhood in Trinity Pentecost Mission in Springville.
People ought to be warned about middle age. My daughter is 18 and needs help dealing with increasingly adult situations. My mom is 78 and is able to handle very little by herself anymore. Increasing pressure and responsibilities at work. I know it happens to everyone. Nevertheless, it’s a lot!
Today is Darcy’s first day on her new job at Bath and Body Works. It’s a new chapter for her!
On a solo drive through southern Indiana today. First stops: the Medora brick factory and the Medora covered bridge (longest in the US).
Steve Robinson on the death of his father. I know what this kind of conflicted memory is like. I’m grateful to him for honestly expressing it.