The windows across the front of the house haven't been cared for since, as one of the carpenters put it, Daniel Boone last puttied them.
So with the help of my mother and sometimes Curte, I have scraped all the ages of paint, glazing, putty, and strange old fabric weatherstripping -- tacked on and painted over -- off the windows as well as possible, reglazed and painted the windows, painted the storm windows, doors, and sundry other surfaces, and caulked.
It takes approximately two hours to scrape a window, another hour to glaze it, and after two weeks' cure, another two hours to paint two coats on it and scrape the excess off the panes. If there are six windows and door and door frame and said storm windows and swing also needing paint, and twin boys adding their activity to the mix... you do the math.
It has been a month-long job, and I am not done yet.
Then there is the...
One month ago today, we were in the middle of renovating our kitchen. As of this evening, we are still at it. The walls that needed moving are moved and completed even down to the paint, the ceiling is done, the plumbing is in, the wiring mostly done, the lighting in, and tonight Curte was plugging old piping holes with rounds of dowling, preparatory to the arrival of the flooring people tomorrow morning. The old, stained resin pine floor that we loved too well to replace will be painted like it was back in the 1920s, but in Adirondack green this time, rather than olive green.
Perhaps by this time next week the floor will be done and the cabinets and counters can start to go in? Certainly hope so. For my tiny cooking corner in the dining room, enjoyed though it is for its simplicity, is rather hard on the menu...it's stews in the crock pot or sautes in the electric frying pan or something in the microwave, and only one thing at a time can cook, for our 1920s-era wiring out there won't stand for more than one small appliance at a time. The water source is a big bowl of water drawn from the downstairs bath, and dishes are washed in the upstairs bath. That part is not pleasant: I am always reminded of running with scissors when heading up or down the stairs with cooking knives.
Still, it is very good to see this coming together. Perhap afterwards I will give myself the gift of another sewing project to be undertaken in quiet evenings over the winter: shall it be a proper 1795 long fichu (try six feet in length) or a black 1870 dress?
Then too, there are pillow covers and cushions and curtains to be made.