Tuesday night with friends

We had our dinner. I suggested Thanksgiving for a theme, and someone brought a G-D turkey. There was green bean casserole and mashed potatoes and gravy and butternut squash soup and a whole chicken wrapped in bacon and baked in salt dough. And wine, and side-splitting laughter, and songs from Oklahoma, and time by the fire. It was the best.
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Maybe the best weekend ever

Oh my goodness, I am loving this summer. 
In some ways, it feels like our first real summer here, which just sounds crazy. Patrick has fewer gigs, which is one thing, but also, a real, bona fide social life is finally part of our Gilbertsville landscape. 
It's not that simple really. The whole story is, our little potluck group that I pulled together last fall as a way to help us all survive the winter has turned out to contain fifteen or so of the BEST PEOPLE EVER, and the fact that the group is about itself, and not a bar, say, or necessarily shared interests (though there are plenty of those) is what makes it special. The people in the group are in it for each other, and for the town. And being in a town this small and isolated, and having a close-knit group of friends, getting together is so easy and casual. One little, "Hey, we're headed down to the bar now" posted on the group Facebook page turns into a whole tableful of us materializing at said bar, sitting on the porch listening to the live band and carousing. 
Saturday night, there was an art opening at the one gallery in town. I've been to openings at that gallery before and been the only one there under 50. Suffice it to say this was a bit different, because the WHOLE GROUP of us showed up, like a convoy from Planet of the Young, or something, and I felt so ridiculously delighted to see everyone, but also proud, and also patriotic. Patriotic to the group. 
This is what Wendell Berry talks about when he talks about "membership," (okay, maybe with a LITTLE less wine-drinking) and it's what I've always wanted to have in a place about the size and quality of Gilbertsville, and I'm so thrilled with how it's all shaping up. 
And, because hanging out Friday and Saturday just weren't enough, on Sunday I messaged a few folks to convene a dog hike, and Del got to spend a few hours with his girlfriend Chloe, and we got some much-needed exercise. And later we had a campfire. 
We saw all our favorite people, we spent next to nothing, and this here introverted-writer-type gets to head into her work week feeling full of funny conversation and shared stories. A rarity, it must be said. But so good.
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Launched

So, that weekly Tuesday night dinner thing I posted about a month and a half ago? Going strong. We were at the horse farm two weeks in a row, then Christmas hit, but then we got right back up and went to visit the sculptor's apartment and studio, met some new people to bring into the fold, and even journeyed to Morris (the next town over; five minutes' drive) to attend dinner last week. 
Last night, I figured it was probably our turn to host again, and I wasn't about to be discouraged by the fact that our dining room looked like this. Patrick might've known better, but I was like, c'mooon, they're friends! It's not like the house is dirty, it's just chaotic! Well, okay, it's a little dirty...
But, listen. You want fun never-a-dull-moment dinner party chitchat? Take down a freaking wall. Best conversation piece ever.
(To clarify, the new framing that's in place is only temporary, to stabilize the house while they remove the original studs and install the big honking beam. Looks cool, a bit. A bit.)

There was venison chili, and slaw with arugula, and rice pudding, and homemade "Garbage Plates" (that's a Rochester thing we decided we wanted to try out.) It was a cold cold night. By eight o'clock everyone was jockeying for a spot by the fire. 

This thing is really taking off. The fact that we're all different-- that we're sort of throwing ourselves together every week-- is part of why it works. There are squeaks where we rub together, sometimes (see last time's note about how this is like breaking in new boots) but the squeaks make it interesting. Last night, three of us may have hatched a plan to take over the (aging, slightly-running-down) general store and reincarnate it as a co-op where we each work a weekly shift, where the town's teens can apprentice and learn about bookkeeping and accountability, where the area farms can sell produce inside year-round. I want these Tuesday things to be about laughter and red wine, sure, and good food and Great Life Stories, but I also want them to be an incubator for good ideas for our town. Last night was perfect.

It didn't wrap until after eleven, so I'm, uh, feeling a little fuzzy today, but sooo buoyed and loved and proud. That fellowship thing, I guess. It rocks.
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Fellowship

For the past month, Patrick and I have been hosting a Tuesday night dinner for a few local folks. Pretty much since we've moved here, I've dreamed of having regular communal dinners, as a way to encourage and participate in fellowship, and we tried the monthly thing, at first-- and found it surprisingly hard to keep the momentum going from month to month. I wanted something more consistent, less of an EVENT, more of a constant. I also realized I had to set some limits on food, expectation, and guest list. That was hard, because we've met and have become friends with so many folks our parents' age in this village-- but what we wanted wasn't that. It's easy to be friends, but hard sometimes to have real fellowship, with people thirty years older. They're living such a different life from ours-- post-career, post-family, living these lives that are by and large figured out. At least, that's how they seem to me. 
2013 brought some younger "stock" to Gilbertsville-- a post-MFA sculptor and his fiancee, a very ambitious couple who bought the ramshackle horse farm just north of the village, an amazing painter who converted a barn into a studio, and did not have a way of heating the place until the end of October-- and I was hot to get us all together in the same room, to troubleshoot each others' lives and socialize. I feel like it's folks our age-- sandwiched between a mortgage and figuring out a career and planning to start a family-- who need that kind of fellowship the most, and who have the hardest time finding it. It's so easy for us all to get trapped in our bubbles, our big houses, our separate spheres. And it's a shame. So I threw our hat into the ring and volunteered us to host the first four weeks. 
And we're not even the type to keep a consistently clean house, at all, so that was honestly the toughest part. Cooking a giant pot of soup and my favorite bread machine bread every week was not the hard part. Sitting and sharing a few bottles of wine was not hard.
But it wasn't effortless-- and still isn't effortless-- that process of getting to know each other and getting used to each other. It feels like breaking in a new pair of boots. The first week was awesome, the second week was less awesome but still fun, the third was are we there yet, and last night was like-- hey, we're getting the hang of this! It's starting to take on its own character and spirit, this gathering, and people are figuring things out. Next week, the horse farm folks are up for hosting, and there is talk of Mexican food (James is from Arizona) and Twister. 
I can feel my own structure shifting inside to accommodate, but mostly to cherish, this new part of our week. It's a good feeling.
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Cidering

Saturday was 71, sunny, and I was free as a bird. I had heard tell of a great cidering to be taking place that afternoon, and so I quickly set about learning the deets, and making plans. Our friends Norm and Michele and their daughter Maya live on the hill just outside the village, and they are good inventive homesteader-DIYers like ourselves. Over several years (and four iterations) Norm has invented this amazing bicycle-powered apple grinder, for the purpose of converting apples into mash, from which the cider is pressed. 
When someone you know has a bicycle-powered apple grinder, you find out when and where and you show up.
Norm offered to come down early to help me shake our (loaded) apple tree that is perhaps as old as the house. Then our neighbors Zena and Simone wandered over, and together we emptied three other trees nearby. Traipsing through a tangled field of dead goldenrod trailing empty feed sacks felt like those wild foraging missions I would take on as a child, with zeal, encouraging (bossing) my dubious friends to help me in digging spring beauty bulbs, or cattail roots, or picking elderberries. The zeal is still there, but I kept my bossing mostly to myself.
Mid-afternoon, we and a few other families converged on the scene. Everyone brought apples from their trees. It was poetic-- everyone brought something truly from their land, something free and wild and flavored with the particular flavors of everyone's native ground. (This is the kind of thing that really sets me off, in a good way.)
In addition to apples, I brought Del. Michele spread out cinnamon sugar popovers and molasses cookies. We all took a cup from a big bowl of cups, and as the cider started to flow we dipped and drank. The taste changed as different bags of apples were pressed. 

Del wooed everyone, as is his way. I think he was angling for a cookie.

I don't know what the final cider tally was, but we pressed probably somewhere close to 50 gallons of cider in not very much time at all. We all milled around, dumping apples into the hopper, and checking to see if the mash bucket was full, and dumping the mash, and pressing the mash, and of course riding the Ciderator, the fabulously effective apple grinder.

There are those who love the theater, or the beach, or a luxurious meal out (and I love all of those things too, in their time). But my main inspiring happy-place is right here, at the intersection of invention and self-sufficiency and FOOD, watching manpower (and womanpower) and harvest and ingenuity become something delicious and amazing and so totally humble. By the people, for the people, not to get too carried away.
And it is really damn good cider.
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Snowy white

Patrick had a gig in Plattsburgh this weekend. I spent most of the day Saturday trying to be busy at the house, trying to keep my mind off my sweetie driving four hours home through flying ice. We have no phone in Gilbertsville as of yet (and certainly no cell reception!) so all I had was my imagination. Since I'm a worrier by nature, my imagination was no friend at all. I drank hot tea. I paced. I worked on painting a ceiling, which was really a joke, since I felt the need to step down from my ladder and walk across the room to the window about every two minutes (to see if Patrick was driving down our street!)

But he finally made it home. After a good gig, cheap beer, three hours' sleep and driving across the entire state he was somehow ready to get to work. So I happily returned to painting my ceiling, much comforted by the presence of my husband.

(Side note: When I was in Greece, I somehow managed to convince myself that Patrick was dead because I hadn't heard from him for two days. My imagination carried itself to a very dark place: yes, I thought, he's dead, and my parents won't call to tell me because they don't want to spoil my trip! It all made perfect sense. This resulted in a hysterical call home, at 6:45am eastern time, wherein I roused my sweetie from his peaceful slumber to croak, in a tearful quaver, Are you NOT dead? Oh, mercy.)

Anyway, ahem, yes, the ceiling. I would wager to guess that at one time a very heavy smoker lived in our house. Look at that dingy paint!

I love the coffered ceilings in our house (two big rooms) but painting them is pretty loathsome. Lots of brushwork. And the sitting room ceiling (shown here) is going to need two coats. Fortunately I need something to occupy my time next weekend, while Patrick takes on the stairwell.

(The bag is covering our ceiling fan.) Painting ceilings is one of those things I tell myself, Ok, I'll only have to do this once. That makes it a little more bearable, somehow.

In other news, we celebrated our house's three month anniversary this weekend. It's crazy, really, to think of all we've accomplished since the beginning. Three short months of working long weekends, dreaming, doing, buying, and living. We're beginning to see light at the end of the tunnel. As we progress with the work, we're beginning to imagine the time when we can turn from our work into living, just enjoying the house and riding out the seasons in it. That time will come.

More than anything, I have to admit, I'm just plain looking forward to taking a day off. Before this house, Patrick and I had so many opportunities for exploration. We'd get in the car Saturday morning and drive to a state park, an antique store, a new town we hadn't discovered yet. I miss that. It's been a long time, it seems, since we had a day for goofing off. Which, of course, means that when we get a day like that again, it's going to feel so, unbelievably, good. I can't wait.

Are we there yet?

I spent a lot of time wandering around the house this weekend, shivering through my long underwear and snowboots, feeling a little scowlish at the projects left on our list. I was reminding myself of how far we've come, how little we have left to go. I was trying to recapture some of the "magic" of that first weekend of work. Trying to remember what life was like before this house was in our life. A little dull. A little dreary. A little direction-less. Now, our priorities are squarely inline. We know where we're headed. It's good to remind myself of that now and then. This house is our life's work, and we've only just begun.

The top photo there is from Saturday afternoon, after Patrick and his dad tore out the last two (gargantuan) carpets from the downstairs. Remember the same view, last weekend?

Yeah. Goodbye, dingy old carpets! Hello, character. Hello, gorgeous.

A couple carpet-pulling action shots:

I spent the rest of Saturday extracting tack strips and carpet staples, which was probably the source of my scowlish-ness. Pulling staples can make anyone go mad. I painted a couple doors. I painted the inside of the built-in. I painted some baseboards.

The Guys spent most of Saturday (post de-carpet-ing) playing a game of Appliance Switcheroo. The upstairs fridge went to the garage. The downstairs stove went the garage. The upstairs stove came downstairs. The washer and dryer went upstairs. In contrast, my work of staple-pulling wasn't really that bad. Better than moving multiple appliances up and down stairs.

The main jobs remaining, for anyone keeping notes:

• Paint two ceilings downstairs.
• Put downstairs kitchen together (get ready for move-in)
• Remove last carpet from upstairs.
• Repair/re-install stairwell trim. Repair/patch drywall.
• Prime and paint stairwell floors and trim.
• Paint stairwell walls.
• Re-finish downstairs floors.

After that, it's move-in time. We are that close. Craziness. We can do it.

Closer than we think

Progress continues. All rooms except the bathrooms and stairwell are DONE PAINTED. The enormity of that fact is slowly dawning on us. The painting is winding down-- and, you see, since painting has consumed our every weekend since November 5th, that's a big deal-- and we are wrapping our minds around it. What do we do now? Well, there's plenty of things. But now the work is more likely to be in the details. And I absolutely LOVE the details.

This weekend I was experiencing some bizarre back spasms-- throbbing pain under my left shoulder blade when I bend a certain way-- so I was left to the low-impact things. I stripped the wallpaper out of our glorious built-in.

I left Patrick to paint the entire kitchen.

I swallowed a lot of Advil. And I wandered around taking pictures. There were lots of rooms, I realized, that I hadn't updated you all on since before Christmas. Progress has been made. With a bright snowy day outside, the light was cooperative, too.

As I mentioned last weekend, we painted the dining room. This might be my favorite color in the house.

Valspar Cliveden Gray Morning. The door with the latch leads to the basement.

There's a little porch out the door, there. The Eatin' Porch.

This is what the Dining Room looks like through the arch. The built-in lives just inside the arch, but you can't see it in this picture.

I took this one with my back to our front door:

The color is Behr Parmesan. I love the double doors. I can't wait to entertain here. I can't wait to LIVE here.

Inside the double-doors. We're calling this the Great Room. The wall on the right is where I traced flowers last weekend. The color is Behr Castle Stone.

Upstairs, things have been done for awhile now.

First, we have a thoroughly regrettable color choice. This is Behr Pear, and it should be avoided like the plague. EW.

We all have those occasional color gaffes, right? What were we thinking?

Patrick stripped the carpet out of here last weekend.

Next weekend, the floor gets refinished.

This is our bedroom, and I'm in love.

The color is Behr Limelight, which isn't lime-y at all, but more of a soft lichen color. I love the closets. Remember what they used to look like?

And there you have it. Our House So Far.

Next weekend, we're again enslaving my gracious father-in-law for some more Guy Work, including dispatching the last of the carpets and hooking up a working stove in our downstairs kitchen. Woot! I'm going to paint baseboards and hope my back heals itself. Soon.