Battening down the hatches

I've been down with a bad flu for over a week. Before that, I took a random road trip to Montreal for a week to visit some long-missed family members. But before that, I tackled the job of getting my tiny home ready for the winter. And now that I'm sick at home, what better time to catch up with a blog post about it?

There were a number of tasks that needed to be accomplished. My two major tasks had to do with the shed – I needed to paint the trim and I needed to close in the "eaves" of the shed. 

This required a lot of work on a ladder. My shed is high – due to some geological limitations on how deep the footings could be installed – and so I had no choice but to make use of the ladder my stepdad kindly gave me (along with all of the materials and tools I needed to close in the eaves – :). 

The last time I used a ladder higher than a step-ladder was in 2007. It was the first time in my life that I had a phobic reaction to something. About two-thirds of the way up the ladder to the roof of the house I owned with my then-partner, I froze, irrationally terrified and quite certain that I was about to die. I forced myself up to the top. Once up on the flat roof, I felt fine. But getting down the ladder again was not fun. 

So, I approached this ladder work with trepidation. Fortunately, I did not have a repeat of my past phobia. Over time, I even got comfortable with being on a ladder again. Still, I hope that my house can be built a little lower than the shed so that future ladder work can be kept to a minimum.

The shed with trim painted.

Hardware cloth cut to cover the gap at the top of the shed

Hardware cloth getting bent into shape

The eaves closed in using hardware cloth – with very inexpertly applied staples...

The next major job was to empty my tiny home of food (and anything else that might freeze). My house feels bereft with all of the things I need for daily life – clothes, food, computer, etc – removed from it.

Toward the end of the summer, I was starting to experience some pretty major issues with condensation inside my house. But since I am no longer there as a source of water vapour, the house has dried out nicely. It smells of pinewood when I visit – such an alluring scent.

My much-tidier-than-usual tiny home

I find my land breathtaking in its beauty at this time of year. When I go to visit, I find myself lingering in the peace and freshness I find there. I can hardly tear myself away.

One golden tamarack

Some mushrooms are autumn's tulips

But central heating is a thing – and I know that I am not up for trying to fight moisture and cold in my tiny house over the winter.

And so, I continue trying to figure out whether I can build a small winterized cabin there next year. More on that to come.

There is something in the autumn... Let's call it wisdom

A Vagabond Song

THERE is something in the autumn that is native to my blood—
Touch of manner, hint of mood;
And my heart is like a rhyme,
With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.

The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry
Of bugles going by.
And my lonely spirit thrills
To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills.

There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir;
We must rise and follow her,
When from every hill of flame
She calls and calls each vagabond by name.

–Bliss Carman

This is one of the many poems that I associate with my grandmother. She would recite it often in the fall and to this day, when the asters are out in full force along the sides of the road in Nova Scotia, fragments of this poem run through my head anytime I go anywhere.

I am missing my grandmother quite a lot lately. A friend posted this link on Facebook this week, a video interview about how to design a good life for oneself. In it Debbie Millman talks about how most of her design contemporaries feel like frauds who are always striving to do work of which they can feel proud. She says the only designers she's spoken with who don't seem to feel that way are mentors of hers who are in their 80s. They seem to know who they are and to feel confident and competent in their work, their choices, their lives.

In the wake of the turmoil and upset of the past year, I suppose I'm feeling a longing for the equanimity of age. I had the great benefit of my grandmother's company into her late 90s, and she could always be counted on for perspective and wisdom (along with a pot of tea and a hand of cards). I know if Nana were here she would reassure me that next year will be better than this year. Or if not next year, the year after. Having lived through many challenges herself, I know what she would say of my recent struggles with heartbreak and with peri-menopausal symptoms: "The wounds we get leave scars that we can see for the rest of our lives, but after a while, they don't hurt anymore. Don't pick at it – it will heal faster."

She said that to me more than once while she was alive. I didn't always agree with her: at times in my life I've needed to pick the scabs off things and let them bleed clean. But this time, I think her words are right on the money – I need to stop picking over my hurts and stop dwelling on feeling bad. There is nothing I can do to change what has happened. And while I do feel bad right now, I think I'll feel better faster if I don't indulge those feelings. What is done is done and the best thing I can do is accept it and let it go.

I am very grateful that I listened to my Nana while she was alive.

I am grateful I stored her wisdom in my heart against the current need, since she isn't here to tell me herself:

It will be better in time.

Don't pick at it.

Thanks, Nana.