Months ago, I blogged about a house that I’d bought in Connecticut—a cottage, really. This particular house, which has a four-square, Tuscan design, with a peaked slate roof and porthole windows, has special significance to me because I grew up in the house as a small child. In addition to being filled with memories, it's set in a few acres of woods in a beautiful semi-rural town in Connecticut.
Fast-forward to now. The house has been sitting there for the winter, and I’m going back in the spring to come to terms with it. For starters, there’s a tremendous amount of cleaning that needs to be done. We’re putting in a septic tank and drilling a well. Years of neglect have to be turned back and replaced with painted walls, finished floors, and a sense of being looked after. The house must be loved again.
I don’t blame the previous owner of the house for the neglect that took place since we lived there—she lived a long life, and I understand that an elderly, infirm lady cannot properly take care of a house. Her dog was dying at the same time. You walk in the place now, and you do get the sense that it’s a place where death had slowly taken root and conquered—there’s soot on the walls, a bitter smell in the air, and everything that touches water—the sinks, bathtub, toilet—has turned bright orange from some sort of iron issue with the water. It literally looks like something hopeless from one of those makeover TV shoes, where a small army of people will come in and transform it.
Well, that small army this spring will be me. My goal for the summer is to put my hair up in a bandanna, roll up my sleeves, and get that house in shape.
Now, I’m not exactly a FlyLady type, or a Mrs. Clean who knows how to do all this stuff. I’m the opposite—I once lived in a house with roommates, and was requested to hire a maid on my “cleaning” day, because my efforts to mop the floor kept yielding a sticky dull mess. (I did).
I’ll blog about the house again, once I’m there and into the whole thing. Right now, the whole prospect has me slightly terrified. Does anyone have any good tips for housecleaning on a salvage operation scale? I’ll be trying to rescue the battered little jewel of a home that once was there, and what it meant to me.
Fast-forward to now. The house has been sitting there for the winter, and I’m going back in the spring to come to terms with it. For starters, there’s a tremendous amount of cleaning that needs to be done. We’re putting in a septic tank and drilling a well. Years of neglect have to be turned back and replaced with painted walls, finished floors, and a sense of being looked after. The house must be loved again.
I don’t blame the previous owner of the house for the neglect that took place since we lived there—she lived a long life, and I understand that an elderly, infirm lady cannot properly take care of a house. Her dog was dying at the same time. You walk in the place now, and you do get the sense that it’s a place where death had slowly taken root and conquered—there’s soot on the walls, a bitter smell in the air, and everything that touches water—the sinks, bathtub, toilet—has turned bright orange from some sort of iron issue with the water. It literally looks like something hopeless from one of those makeover TV shoes, where a small army of people will come in and transform it.
Well, that small army this spring will be me. My goal for the summer is to put my hair up in a bandanna, roll up my sleeves, and get that house in shape.
Now, I’m not exactly a FlyLady type, or a Mrs. Clean who knows how to do all this stuff. I’m the opposite—I once lived in a house with roommates, and was requested to hire a maid on my “cleaning” day, because my efforts to mop the floor kept yielding a sticky dull mess. (I did).
I’ll blog about the house again, once I’m there and into the whole thing. Right now, the whole prospect has me slightly terrified. Does anyone have any good tips for housecleaning on a salvage operation scale? I’ll be trying to rescue the battered little jewel of a home that once was there, and what it meant to me.
