That Old House

She was quiet. "Mom. Nobody ever called me that."

"I'm sorry, I hope I didn't offend you."

"Offend me? It's the nicest thing you've ever said. I should be so lucky."

"Beverly, you're the best thing to happen to me in ages. I can't tell you how happy I am to talk to you each day. I don't think I knew how lonely I was before you."

I heard her sniffle. "Enough already. You'll make an old woman cry. Go to work before you're late."

"On my way, Mom. Don't nag."

"What else are Moms for?"

* * *

The property was huge, and 90% covered with old-growth trees. The woods seemed ancient, and sometimes a little scary. Mostly oaks and hickory, some walnuts, poplars, and a scattering of other trees broke up the oak-hickory monopoly. Only the perimeter, near the roads and property line, was populated with newer, denser growth, creating a natural barrier to the outside world.

I found the original entrance to the property, by working my way backwards from The House. The original path I'd taken to the building in my early explorations had the newest trees. Something had cleared out the old-growth there, whether it was a fire, or logging, I don't know. Smaller trees, dense undergrowth, and innumerable thorn thickets made it almost impassable as I'd learned. The original road traveled through older, massive trees, many 50-60 feet or taller, with diameters of 3 to 4 feet common. Only as you approached the main road, did the trees give way to the newer, dense woods I'd encountered my first time out.

The idea of getting all the permits necessary for building scared the hell out of me. I was immensely relieved when the county inspector came out to visit the property. He seemed like a genuinely nice guy, extremely helpful, and even excited to be involved in the process. It seemed like I got a ton of waivers for restoring a historic property, as long as I didn't do anything to change the exterior. The biggest issue for him was the design of the front porch, the type of windows used, and the look of the roof, as long as I left the stonework intact. He seemed to be on the phone half the time he was with me, calling in questions, and each time arguing for the minimum amount of oversight. I grew to like and respect Andrew, and assured him I'd keep him in the loop.

After weeks of research, I selected a used portable hydraulic sawmill to purchase, figuring I could use it to cut my own wood, and sell it when I was done. Together with a rented Caterpillar and some diesel generators and worksite lighting, I worked from dawn to nearly midnight. No fear of neighbors complaining, not from over a mile away, with the woods serving as a natural sound barrier.

I sold my townhouse and moved from downtown to a month-by-month rental at the edge of the suburbs. From there I had a forty minute commute to work, but I was only a little more than an hour from The House. I spent more and more of my time there, building wall supports, replacing the large beams, installing new joists, slowly giving The House a new skeleton.

I never seemed to have enough time for the house. I moved an inexpensive used trailer onto the property, so I no longer had to leave on the weekends. It gained me a another 6-8 hours of work, and gave me a place to store my tools out of the weather.

I've always been handy with tools. I can thank my second foster parents for that. Still, it seemed every day I was confronted with some new challenge, which inevitably required research and experimentation. I didn't mind. My obstinance and willingness to make mistakes usually saw me through. Unfortunately, that meant often doing the same job two or three times until I got it right.

I had some regular laborers I'd hired, along with the occasional specialist. I even found some interested volunteers who were fascinated with the effort. A few experts on old stone houses became my online friends, and were exceedingly generous with their advice and connections. The work was progressing but I was exhausted.

The wood we cleared from the 600 yard winding entrance road was a good start, and we cleared most of the trees from the top of the hill back another 20 yards or so, more in the back. Unusual or very large trees I left in place; I liked the look and had a hard time cutting down trees that old. Besides, they were hell to work with. The sawmill was getting heavy use, grinding out board after board for the flooring, decking, and some of the walls. I learned a lot in the process, especially about costs. For the wood to be usable indoors, I had to have it kiln dried, which meant having it hauled almost 40 miles and waiting another two weeks or more to get it back. I experimented with air drying some of the wood, which I would use later in the year. A lot of work, and plenty of blisters and splinters later, it looked like I had enough wood left to build another two houses if I so desired. The smaller branches yielded a firewood pile large enough for me to into the business.

I located some experts to help with cutting the huge beams needed to replace the original ones that hadn't survived. A single huge standing dead white oak provided all I needed. That was a whole new experience, trying to work with beams that were a foot wide and deep, and 30 feet long. The assistance I need for that put a dent in my budget. A big one.

Everything was expensive, and I had over $80K into the work before I could even see much progress. Electricity and phone service didn't look like they were going to be too difficult, but water was a major issue. One more thing I hadn't counted on. It cost $12,000 to get water into my house. The bills kept adding up, and I realized I didn't have enough money to finish the work. I considered a mortgage on the land, and took out a loan from my 401K.

I made good money, and saved what I could. I had made a tidy profit off my place in the city, a fixer-upper I'd polished up. I did much of the restoration work myself, and the experience was turning out to be invaluable. Despite doing as much as I could myself, and using available materials, everything was so damn costly. I paid. I didn't have any other choice.

I still talked with Beverly daily, often twice a day or even more often. I realized that after nearly seven months, I was probably going to have to put much of the work on hold, while I slowly built up some funds. It was fall, and I knew that winter would put a halt to much of my work. I hated the idea of anything slowing me down, but my options were dwindling.

It had taken me nearly two months just to get the walls supported properly so I could do the necessary interior work. I managed to get the roof completed, and had replaced the huge interior crossbeams the floors rested upon. Working the upper floors, especially the third floor, was an adventure. The damage up there was extensive, and I seemed to have more mishaps 30' feet in the air than I would have cared for. Maybe it was me, nervous about working up so high; twice I came close to falling, boards shifting underneath me, or the weight of a beam unbalancing. I lost two full days when a central joist shifted badly, falling to the floor below, and I followed, fortunate to avoid serious injury. After that, I was more cautious, putting up temporary plywood sheets over the floor holes. It was time consuming, but at least I could work without breaking out in a cold sweat every time I looked down. It was not work for the faint of heart.

By the end of summer the floor and ceiling joists were nearing completion. I decided to stop the intermediate work, close off the top floors, seal up the windows and do what I could to make the main floor livable. I wanted to get out of my rental place and move into The House. It would make more money available for the work, and in spite of the 3-4 hour round-trip commute, I could work on it every evening, doing some interior finish.

Some will consider it blasphemous, but I had no interest in restoring the home to its original condition. My research and visiting experts agreed The House was probably late 18th century, with several changes made to it. One cornerstone had 1791 carved in it, but another said 1803. Either way The House was ancient, and probably deserved a lot more attention to historical significance than I was interested in giving it. I loved it for what it was, and wanted to make a place I was happy to live in, in comfort. If that meant not scouring the countryside for period flooring and paneling, that was fine by me. I wasn't rebuilding somebody else's dream house, I was building mine. And I knew exactly what I wanted.

With the first floor wiring in, some basic plumbing, and a workable kitchen, I was tapped out. More than $180K invested, and from the outside, you could barely tell, except for the new roof and entrance. But the place was livable. Mostly. Andrew, my county inspector had come by, hanging out for a couple of hours, signing off on the first floor wiring and plumbing. He explained that was unusual in itself.

"But then again," he laughed. "There's nothing 'usual' about any of this project. Takes some big cojones to take on something like this on your own."

"That or just too ignorant to understand the challenge."

"You understand," he said, "you can't live in a house that's partially finished."

"Of course," I told him. "I'm still living in the trailer."

He grinned. "Just make sure it stays there. I don't need my ass chewed out."

"Last thing I want, believe me. I appreciate all the help. I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I started."

He nodded. "That's understandable. Not a lot of restoration of 220 year old mansions going on. You know, it's gorgeous. You did a hell of a job maintaining the exterior."

"Didn't have to do much," I admitted. "Hard to believe how little damage there was to the outside walls. Only one chimney needs any work. The windows are a pain, I admit."

"Whatever you're doing, keep it up. If you have any special issues, just let me know. We'll work it out. Don't keep me in the dark."

I nodded. "Every step of the way. I promise. Hell, I need someone watching over my shoulder, last thing I need is to screw up big time. I can't afford it."

I'll say this. I had never met so many helpful, generous people, as I did working on that old house. Andrew was just one of them, but easily the most important. Not only was he helpful, but he was keeping everyone else off my back. I owed him one, and once the place was a little more livable, I was determined to have him and his family over for a nice dinner and tour.

The windows were in on the first floor, and I didn't have to worry about heat, with four large fireplaces on the main floor, and unlimited fire wood. A few hundred dollars for a chimney sweep had them cleaned out, and I was assured they were usable, but needed a lot of TLC, one in particular. I put a temporary trap door to the second floor in, and I had a spacious one floor apartment.

With camcorder in hand, I toured the place, commenting on the work done, what remained to be finished, and naming each room. I was proud of the work I'd completed, and could see the place finally starting to come together. Beverly was ridiculously pleased with the video, and held regular showings of it in the TV room at her place.

My company's fiscal year ended in October, and a week later I received a sizable end-of-year bonus, my largest yet, over $10K. It allowed me to purchase some additional furnishings, and to move forward with a small plan that had been developing in my mind.

"Beverly?"

"Jack! You're calling late. What's up?"

"I think I'm about done for the year. I'll be doing some interior work on the upper floors, but probably won't get any major improvements accomplished until the spring."

"That's a shame, you were making such good progress. Everyone here loves the video."

"I think it's time for you to come out and see what I've done with the place. Would it be Ok for me to come out and get you next weekend, and let you view it?"

"Do you have the time? It seems you could spend those days working on your house," she said.

"I'd much rather spend a little time with you, to be honest. I'm worn out from burning the candle at both ends, and could use the rest. A friendly face would be nice to have around for a couple of days. Just let me know what you need, and I'll set you up a room."

She fought my suggestion for a bit, but I knew her heart wasn't in it. She finally agreed to come out, but only if she could pay her own way. "You don't have to come get me, I'll have my nurse put me on the plane. If you could just meet me at the airport, I'll be fine."

I argued but she insisted, and reminded me that I could pay for her flight when the place was finally finished. "I couldn't stand it knowing you spent your money on me, when you could be putting in another window, or completing a wall. I'll be alright. I'll send you the flight details as soon as I have them worked out."

I spent that week sanding the rough hewn oak floors, sealing and staining them. I prepared a room for her, and another for myself, with a bed, drapes, linens, even a dresser and nightstand. I loved how the porch had turned out, and used a little of my funds to furnish it with a few rocking chairs, and a hanging bench swing out of an old movie. A couple of small tables to hold a drink or a book, some planters with fresh wild flowers to give it the homey look, and I considered it a job well down. Things were definitely coming together.

On the Thursday before I was to pick her up, I took a long weekend and moved out of my rental. I had spent many nights in my trailer, but I was looking forward to my first night inside The House I'd practically rebuilt from scratch.

I had a small blaze going in the fireplace, and was relaxing, telling myself I was going to do no work for the next four days, except for whatever problems showed up when I actually moved in.

Electricity was available, but I wasn't ready to go through all the inspections it would require to get it turned on, nor the expense. I had a used diesel generator in an insulated shed out back that provided the minimum electricity I needed, especially for the small RV refrigerator and well pump. For lighting I used kerosene lamps, and I had a large propane tank out back for my kitchen stove and on demand water heater. I was almost embarrassed to put in some low-power LED light bulbs in the kitchen and bathroom, the new technology feeling so incongruent.

I relaxed in a comfortable lounger in the living room, sipping on some hot chocolate, fighting off the evening chill. The old girl was still getting used to her new fittings. The wind through the upstairs floors was annoying, and The House was constantly creaking and settling, as the wood dried and all the changes slowly blended in.

I wasn't used to the sounds of the night, the noisome animals, birds, and insects. I had somehow thought The House would be quiet and lonely, but it seemed alive with noises, and just outside my door were acres and acres of woods that hadn't seen this much change in scores of years.

I went to bed that night exhausted to the bone, but with a huge smile on my face. I was living my dream. How many people can say that?

I woke to the sound of my door creaking open, scaring the bejesus out of me. I was certain I had closed it. I got up and looked around but the front door was locked and bolted, and the windows were all shut. I checked the door latch, expecting some shoddy work on my part had left the recess misaligned, but it closed firmly.

I closed the door again, checking it, and settled back down. Although everything was going well, I was feeling a moment of loneliness. I hadn't dated in over a year and was yearning for a woman's company. I closed my eyes and stroked myself slowly. I pulled back the sheets and let the cool air bathe my body. My hand moved casually, but I found myself getting very excited. Drafts of air seem to caress me, tantalizing the head of my cock while my hand stroked the shaft. The feelings were all to brief, as I came mightily, my essence pooling on my belly. I opened my eyes, and searched for something to clean up with, settling for my dirty shirt, before settling back down to sleep. Good thing I got that out of the way; wouldn't be appropriate behavior with my guest arriving in a couple of days.

When I woke, the door was open again. What the hell was going on? I was going to have to check on that. I took my first indoor hot shower, and was pleasantly surprised at how quickly the water heated up, and how crisp the water felt. No sulfur odor, no lack of water pressure.

The House smelled wonderful, of fresh wood, and the fireplace. I walked around, king of my small domain, and made myself a large breakfast, another extravagant treat. I hadn't been eating as well as I should have, and the heavy manual labor had me dropping almost 15 pounds and tightening my belt.

In spite of my promise to myself, I found an immediate problem. I hadn't made a ramp up to the entrance. A wide set of steps led up to the front porch and I spent the morning constructing a removable ramp I set in place over half the steps. Just in time. I spent a few more minutes walking around The House, opening doors, drawing back curtains, making the place look as open and bright as possible.

I cooked myself a big fat hamburger with potato chips, still indulging myself. Afterward, I neatened up the kitchen, made myself presentable and headed out to the airport. Over two hours later, I was waiting in the terminal for Beverly to be rolled out by the airline attendants.

I saw her before she saw me. She was in an airport wheelchair, dressed to the nines, and being pushed by a young woman. As soon as she was past the security area I rushed to her and gave her a hug. I felt like I knew her better than anybody else in my life, sharing the last 7 months with her, albeit by long distance.

"Jack! You're skinny as a rail! And that tan looks like you just strolled off the beach."

"Lots of hard outdoor work can do that to a guy. I feel great. Slept like a baby last night, in my new house for the first time," I told her proudly.

"That's wonderful! I was surprised you waited this long. Jack, this is my nurse Karen. If it's alright by you, she'll stay with me. She can tend to my needs, knows how I like things, and remembers all that little stuff I can't be bothered with."

"Like your meds? Speaking of which, it's about that time." The woman turned to me and stretched out a hand, which I shook. "Pleased to meet you Jack. You certainly have breathed new life into cranky here."

"Cranky? Beverly? She's the sweetest, least cranky person I know!"

"To you maybe."

"Keep it up, Karen, and I'll cut you out of my will," Beverly warned.

"Again? Isn't that the 3rd time this month?"

"It'll stick this time."

The nurse rolled her eyes, giving me a smile. "Yes ma'am. Sorry ma'am. Never happen again ma'am."

"And none of that smarmy lip either, girl. You're the one that's always wanted to see D.C."

Their easy banter betrayed a close companionship that I found myself jealous of. Then I smiled. If it made her happy, all the better.

"Can I drive?" I asked, moving toward the handles of the wheelchair.

"Please. I'm begging you," Karen laughed.

We headed for the luggage area and waited for their bags to arrive. Her personal wheelchair was delivered, reassembled after the flight, and Karen prepared the pillows on it, before helping Beverly into it.

I'd traded my Honda in for a used truck, when I'd started all the work. It was a crew cab, and we were able to place the luggage and wheelchair in the rear. Karen got in the back, and I lifted Beverly into the passenger seat. I was surprised how light she was, and wondered if it was hauling all that lumber around, or if she really was lighter than air.