bathroom floor

I live in a really crappy house. I mean, it is a really small fixer-upper. Our list of home improvement projects is long and foreboding. We are not folks who watch too much HGTV and got over zealous one night with the honey-do list or who fantasize that our house is a work in progress. Our list includes jacking up the sagging front porch, and overhauling the plumbing.

I’m like the proverbial baker’s wife- who has no bread. I am married to a man who can fix anything, but has no time in which to do it.

Don’t get me wrong- we have made a lot of progress over the years. (and when I say “we,” of course I mean Dave)

Last week, we got to one project we (Dave) had been meaning to do for too long- the rotting bathroom floor.

This floor had always been an eyesore, a dirt trap, and an embarrassment. But ever since the onset of toddler toilet training, it just smelled like pee. Every time one of my little angels would urinate just shy of the toilet, all the wetness would seep into the cracked vinyl and stay there, and so would the smell.




Here is a before shot of our bathroom floor:






Yes, that is me after I gave birth to my second daughter. No, I was not planning it quite that way. Fortunately, I was high on endorphins at the moment of this photograph and did not care a mite that I was half naked on this disgusting floor.


This blog entry is nothing more than a celebration of the fact that, three years later, we (and by “we,” I mean Dave) finally replaced the bathroom floor.


It was no small task:





Neither was it any small sacrifice to be without our only toilet for three days.

We were so excited when this was finished, that we took a series of shots of our adorable second-born in the spot where she was born:





We tend to spend a lot of time on the bathroom floor, actually.





If you think about it, you probably do too.

Nine years in five days

September 1, 2008




"Time, it swallows everything. From the mighty to the meager thing. It's as dark as it is comforting to play along." Amos Lee




We are driving South on highway 87 out of the Adirondacks in New York, listening to Amos Lee on repeat. Last Days at the Lodge has been our soundtrack for the trip. I'm sad that this time is ending- excited to see my girls and give them their gifts but in no other way do I want to go home. It's hard not to mourn the day that we missed due to my sickness, which thankfully, has passed. (I apparently do not have Lyme's, and it was the gross sounding hand-foot and mouth that had me in pain everywhere, especially my hands and feet, during the first part of our trip) I'm very glad not to be seriously ill with anything incurable, and even more thankful that it has passed, but I had to stay home on Wednesday night to get blood tests instead of leaving for Vermont as planned. I couldn't even make the decision for my disappointment at the inevitable- that I was going to short myself one precious day and that I would be dealing with a yet-unnamed sickness while I was trying to relax and reconnect with Dave.




Jon and I left Lancaster at 3am and made great time all the way north of New York City, where we took a wrong turn and drove all the way to Utica before we even realized what we did, adding at least two hours to our trip. We didn't arrive in Burlington until 2:30 in the afternoon, and we had been on target to get there before noon. Day one was basically lost to sickness and driving fatigue. Nonetheless, Dave and I managed to have a great late lunch at the Vermont Pub and Brewery in Burlington and get some needed sweatshirts before heading North out of town to our reserved campground on an island on Lake Champlain.




I thought by looking at a map of Vermont that a campground somewhere on the islands in the middle of this grand lake would be ideal for camping. I have the incomparable San Juans as a reference in my mind for making this kind of judgment. And truly, the islands on Lake Champlain were nothing short of breathtaking. As we wound down the road towards the tip of the Isle la Mont, our expectations were high. This place was so beautiful, and we were ready to put the disappointment of starting out behind us. Working on only a few hours of sleep each and with dusk already settling in, we were eager to set up our tent just about anywhere.




Unfortunately, the particular "anywhere" that I chose on the map was an abandoned RV park with a couple of run down tent sites in a meadow full of mosquitoes and other small biting things. The only other tents in the whole place belonged to some bikers that snuck in after hours and tucked themselves away in the most overgrown site available. We walked around and chose what seemed to be the least awkward place to pitch our tent, which oddly was right next to one of the only occupied RV's. The rest of the camping vehicles were empty, some with tarps over them, some with decks and flowerbeds built up around them, all with tall grass telling how long it had been since it was vacated.

We threw the tent up barely before it got completely dark and fumbled with the rest of our gear. We reluctantly built a fire. We broke out the wine and appreciated the stars. We went to bed. We slept like rocks.




We slept like rocks—that is until sometime in the early hours when Dave woke up to pee and was startled to by the sound of heavy hoofs and heavy grunting. Poking his head out of the tent and seeing his flashlight reflect off of a large pair of dim eyes, he began to narrate to me, sill half asleep, "Cows! There's f*&!ing cows everywhere!" At the sound of his exclamation, I awoke and the herd of cattle stumbled quickly away. I also realized I could not go back to sleep until I emptied my bladder. Unlike David, I had to walk about one hundred yards through wet, ankle high grass to the toilet, all the while wondering in my stupor where the cows went and if they were going to come back. As I stumbled back into my tent, I wondered if this situation could be any more surreal. My wondering ended when I woke sometime later to the sounds of heavy breathing from heavy animals and very impolite mouth smacking. The cows had returned to our site, which was the only one in the place surrounded by bushes of crab-apples, apparently a favorite bovine snack.




There against the tent, was the shadow of a small cow, curiously sniffing our shelter. He must have wondered if our dome was as tasty as the treat he and his friends had found a few feet away. I watched the shadow of his short tongue come in focus against the fabric, and I heard the sandy surface of it slide dryly as he licked us slowly three times.




From this sample, he decided we were not very tasty.




In the morning, we tried to make the most of our situation and stifle feelings of disappointment and frustration. A good morning walk ought to help us shake the sleep out of our bones and give us a fresh perspective. Maybe then, neither of would have to hide what we were really thinking but didn't want to admit out loud: this place sucks. We explored the rest of the ghost town, wondering why the hell you would park your RV, if you had one, in one spot and leave it there. Aren't they supposed to be for driving around? We noted other curiosities about the place: strangely well maintained showers, decorated with personal touches like original black velvet oil paintings, a laundry room with a few sets of washer-dryers and stacks of 1950's romance novels for the bored housewife, a family rec-room where one could let the kids watch VHS cartoons like Road Runner and Bugs Bunny. The absence of people and the presence of so many places where people ought to be made the place feel utterly like a ghost-town. There were, however, a few apparitions floating around who waved and made us realize that if this were not a ghost town, it was at best a summer camp in a time warp.



I'm not sure who said it out loud first, but the consensus between us was "Let's get the hell outta here," and we threw our gear in the truck haphazardly and did just that while there was still the better part of the day ahead of us.




Having no plan whatsoever at this point, we headed across the lake into New York State, where the Adirondacks beckoned to us with the promise of pine trees and mountains, amongst which there must surely be a multitude of campgrounds. It couldn't be that hard to stumble into one of them.




It was, of course, a little harder than we thought. We didn't know which direction to point ourselves, so we started heading north, following a Suburban with a canoe atop and a golden retriever inside. (Outfitted like that, we probably wanted to go where they were going.) This, of course, got us nowhere in particular. When we stopped for gas in Dannemora, we talked to friendly gas station cashiers who had no idea where one might want to camp in their neck of the woods. Pretty sure we did not want to continue our current course, we meandered southward on smaller highways while day two of our relaxing long weekend slipped away from us. We passed through small mountain towns that seemed to mostly be a haven for hillbillies and Uncle Buck.




Still driving southward, and barely beginning to cross the brink of despair and disappointment, we stumbled in to Seranac. I' m not sure the town would have been so charming to us if we had arrived there differently, but we had come meandering aimlessly and rather hopelessly and now found ourselves surrounded by quaint old-world brick buildings snuggled up to sidewalks which wound around Main Street, the whole small town wrapping itself around the weary traveler in a gesture that seemed to say, "Welcome. Glad you found us. Stay a while." Of course, such a traveler could stay in a hotel (and we would, later) but Seranac instead nudged her visitors nurturingly just outside the city limits, amongst trees and lakes into the great green.




The rest is less interesting—though not without more antics. Conniving for a spot in one of the overfull campgrounds (being Labor Day weekend, and our only reservations had been at "Camp Cowlick" we were not guaranteed any spot). We actually raced through backroads to beat some potential campers on the way from one full site to the promise of another. David navigated us skillfully enough to drive in ahead of the other forlorn pair, and we "settled" for what ended up being the coolest spot in the whole campground, high in the trees, with our picnic table perched on a steep slope above the creek and everything cozily arranged around a generous fire pit. No one wanted this spot, because it was not "on the lake." Hence, none of our other creek-side neighbors had obnoxious motorboats or ridiculous RV's. In fact, no one was next to us at all.




After doing a little dance around the campsite, complete with hand clapping hopping, I helped Dave get our things in order—the way we originally envisioned. Wasting no more time, we rented a canoe and bought a trustworthy map, consulting one very cool outfitter of outdooring enterprises, and paddled ourselves from one "pond" to another, exploring the vast beautiful silence around us. Thirty minutes from our busy base camp, and we were a million miles from nowhere. Finally.




All that, as I've said, is a lot more boring. We chronicled our conversations in a journal, because it was important to us—and we need to remember. But I'm not going to share it here. I am going to say that I remembered celebrating our first anniversary eight years ago in somewhat the same way. Then, we camped ruggedly with our backpacks and our tiny tent on Mt. Rainier. I was terrified by the obvious presence of an elk in the middle of the night. This time, I was licked by a cow in Vermont. Was this somehow symbolic of where we are in our married life? Does the initial excitement (that borders on terrifying) eventually give way to weary disappointment?




It is possible that this is a fair metaphor—or it would be, if only it weren't for Seranac. Savingly, there is also a place of peace, contentment and deep green, once we wind through the woods to get to it.