The Bees Knees

I’m not sure where the phrase comes from (yes, I know there is a terrific tool called Google that could instantly find the answer, but dependency on instant gratification rather than giving into wonder is a topic for another day.).

 

So, about those knees.  

They are completely and utterly functional. Michael and I have watched them for hours this summer carry all sorts of pollen—meaning blue, orange, yellow and white—back to their new home. This past May, we added a two-story condo to our property: a bee hive. Michael had been wanting to do it for years, I was a bit nervous. You know, bees. And, bee stings. 

Turns out, my love of gardening and bees are quite compatible. Plus, doing your part to save the world feels pretty cool, too. Sure, a bit of hyperbole, but if you do any reading on the subjects of hive collapse, pesticides and our food supply you may just end up with a hive in your backyard.

We read books, looked online, watch a great MPT special from approximately the year I was born. Not much has changed with beekeeping though so other than the clothes and hair, the show was as relevant today as then. But, what really got us moving was a colleague of mine who has been keeping bees for 20-plus years.

We had a bee mentor. She shared her passion, her knowledge and great bee stories with us. She took it from somewhat of an alien thought to introducing us to her hives. Her calm nature and her stern warnings were just what I needed (remember, Michael was sold on it already) to commit.

We placed our order for four pounds of Russian bees, and one Italian queen. We heard the Russian bees were a bit more hardy and a bit more aggressive than Italians. Given we were going to take bees born in Georgia to overwinter in Maryland, we thought hardy made sense. Nature didn’t agree, however, we ended up with three pounds of Italian bees in the back of my car. Technically, we had six pounds of bees plus two queens in the back of my car. On a beautiful farm north of Baltimore, we picked up two “packages” of bees–one for us, one for our bee mentor to add to her collection of hives. 

We watched a live demo at the farm of how to move the bees from their travel cage to their new home. The demo guy would never be my mentor, and he had the scars to prove that shortcuts equal stings. Somehow I managed to watch him aggressively shake a three-pound screened in box of bees into a hive without hyperventilating or running away. I wasn’t the only newbie at the demo. I was pleased, however, that I wasn’t the newbie that swatted at the bees. That was the random guy next to me who hit me in the head when a bee landed on my hair. I heard it, oh god did I hear that buzz right next to my ear, but I didn’t want to overreact before I even left the premises. He didn’t share my sense of self-conscious I can handle this vibe, and hit me pretty hard. Tensions were high and bees were all about and a random man hit me in the head. His wife said, “I can’t take him anywhere.”

And that, my friends, is how you make two very nervous about-to-be beekeepers laugh. It then seemed totally manageable to put six pounds of bees in the trunk and head for home. 

A New Love

It really was love at first sight. As soon as he was in my cart, I knew it was meant to be. Even the cashier could see that we would be happy together.

The miter saw? Yes, he’s still dependable, but I know what he’s all about. There are no more surprises there. The pneumatic nail gun? Frankly, he just makes me nervous. I know he’s great, but I never quite feel comfortable with him or in control. The tile saw? Actually, I still love him, but he is just so one-dimensional.

But this new guy? He is exactly what I had been missing without even knowing that I was missing anything. I find myself looking for new projects to start so that I can get him out of the box.

We started off slow and with a few missteps. But we eventually had a few successful adventures and I was ready to dive in with a big project.

That’s when I was introduced to Ana White and her fantastic building plans. There is no need to get into a detailed recount of the project, because Ana’s plans are just so helpful.

I had a few variations to her plans. I used cheap firring strips rather than nice wood because I’m going to leave it outside so much, but I stained and sealed it with outdoor products. I added lawnmower wheels to my cart because our yard can be pretty uneven and dipped the ends of the legs that will hit the ground in liquid plastic to protect them.

It’s still too cold to use the cart outside (did I mention the top lifts off as a serving tray?), but it really doesn’t matter because I’m already looking for my next adventure with my new obsession—the Kreg Jig.

Baby, it’s cold outside

Our local weather forecasters seem to forget this simple fact every year and act surprised when the temperature dips and snow falls.

Winter isn’t my favorite season, but there is a beauty in it. A softness, a quiet like no other season. I try to enjoy it and know that if I dress appropriately, I can even go out in it. There is no love, no hate, but an understanding and acceptance.

Well, there was. Then winter was just a jerk and took away our water.

First, there was this phenomenon called a polar vortex, and we fared pretty well. A week later, there was just cold and biting wind, and the water stopped. We had pipes freeze before, but with patience and slightly higher temps, they unfroze and we were back in business. No such luck this time.

The pipe didn’t just break, it shattered. And the water? It was everywhere. Michael found a cutoff so that we could have water in the kitchen sink, but the rest of the house was off limits. We were roughing it in our home until we could get to the pipe project. We’re pretty resourceful and try to have a sense of humor (and bottles of wine) about our house.

We were ready to tackle the project. We took off of work, had it mapped out and then Michael found out that he couldn’t take the day off; they needed him in the office. I had to choose: use the dry shampoo one more day and go to work waiting until Saturday so we could figure it out as a team, or fly solo. My dirty blond hair was looking a bit too dirty and there are limits to the miracle that is dry shampoo, so I ventured into the crawl space on my own.

I cut the old pipe out with minor difficulties and minor swearing (sorry, mom!), purchased new materials and replaced them. In ideal conditions (over 60 degrees), the pipe cement will be cured in two hours. Today did not include ideal conditions.

I had on so many layers, I wasn’t sure if I would be able to bend into the space that needed the work under the house. But, three hours after starting the project, the pipe is replaced (that includes the trip to the store). Now, I wait. And wonder if I did it right, and if the cement will hold and if I will get to have a shower tonight. I didn’t doubt myself during one step of the project, but now that I’m done I have nothing but doubts.

Michael was so thrilled that I took this project on that he has decided that I get to plan the plumbing in the guest bathroom that we’re finishing this winter. If the pipe holds, I may just be confident enough to try. Then again, work may just call me in that day. Turnabout is fair play, right?

An update: The pipes are still working and winter still hasn’t left us. As I type this on 16 March, we’re expecting about five inches of snow tonight.

To grow a garden is to believe in the future.

I’ve seen this quote a few times, and some of the time it is attributed to Audrey Hepburn. I never thought much about her – positive or negative, good or bad, but I love this quote. Turns out, she found solace in her garden near the end of her life, or at least that is what is documented on her hospice care. My guess is that if she found peace in her garden at the end of her life, it probably brought her joy throughout her life.

I know mine does. I start planning my garden – edible and flowers (and some edible flowers) in December… more than 5 months before the last frost date. I review what worked the past years, the notes I made on different seeds, conditions and outcomes. Last year was a rough year for me and for the gardens. The spring was a mess with too much rain, I had to leave the country for work for two weeks in the early growing season (May) and I never seemed to catch up. Even as I write that, I wonder if it is a metaphor for how I felt last year, but I haven’t had enough wine to really explore that sentiment any more than this one sentence.

I’ll chalk the 2013 growing season up to a learning experience (and a ridiculously productive cucumber and zinnia crop) and focus on ’14. Last year I added a 20 x 20 foot addition to the 2 raised beds (4 x 16 each) of my edible garden. I may have grown too fast, but I am ready this year. My plots are measured out, the seeds are purchased and ready to start in the greenhouse. First seeds go in early February. The flower seeds start a few weeks later, but they are also planned out.

I’m ready for tomorrow, but enjoying the planning today. A new year, a new garden and a new opportunity. Happy 2014.

Lessons Learned

In 2013, I lost three people who were very important to me. I’m not sure each of them knew how much they influenced my life, but I do know that their tremendous spirits will live on in me, in my life and in my home.

I first met Mr. Myers* at his home that Michael rented for years. I ended up living there for a couple of years, too. In fact, a few of us did and it always felt like family. The rent was cheap, the house had seen better days and we (the “tenants” aka his “kids”) were more than happy to be labor for any Mr. Myers project. And he had projects. To this day, when Michael and I are working on a project I ask: “Do we want to do it right or the Mr. Myers way?” Meaning:  Do we want to do it by the letter of the instruction, or get it done and working? Mr. Myers taught me how to solder copper pipe and other handy skills, but I learned more from him. I learned that a house doesn’t have to be perfect to be warm and full of love. I’m sad that I never had him over to see our home because I know that I would have been quick to point out every flaw and mistake we have made, and he would have been even quicker to overlook them.

Santo lived his life to the fullest. He ate well, drank well and everything tasted better when he was surrounded by family and friends. He was always a little louder and a little messier than everyone else. He captured everything in photos and felt true joy in sharing those photos with everyone around him. He was unabashedly himself… always. He was the husband of my father-in-law’s best friend from grade school. Clearly not a direct link to me, but he was my family and I was his. Knowing him and his family reinforced what we all already know—your family is in the friends you have and the family you make. And, your family will love you for you—crumbs, spilled wine and whatever else gets dropped or falls during the telling of a really good story. That, and take photos. Lots of photos.

John was a professional colleague of mine who became my mentor and friend. We were separated by generations and geography, but shared a passion for our work. When I first met John, there were a few of our colleagues that were not necessarily welcoming to me. John always met me with his kind eyes and a warm heart. He inspired me and encouraged me, and I think in a small way I reminded him of his past. John taught me focus. To focus on those who are supportive of you, to focus on your mission, to focus on friends and to focus on what matters. We live in a cluttered world, and John lived a very focused life.

While I realize I was so lucky to have these three amazing men in my life, it was hard to say goodbye this year. But, I won’t really. I promise to live out what I learned from each of them. This year, and every year.

* Even though he preferred that we call him by his first name, Michael and I can’t help but use the formal. While he was never a formal man, Michael met him when he was young and the name stuck.

Work Ethic (Apothecary, Part 1)

I worked for my dad for years at a pharmacy in Missouri. I still remember driving down Ward Parkway in his truck listening to talk radio and willing him to drive faster. I’m not sure why I was in such a rush to get to work, but I was young and almost always in a hurry. And, of course, I thought my dad was slow because that’s just how teenage girls are.

While working at the downtown location, I met some amazing people. I don’t remember all of their names, but they were hard working and loyal to my father and his business. They were because he was the example. He was always there earlier and then later than all of his workers. He would go the extra mile for his customers and he became part of the community. Even when really awful things (things that made the evening news) would happen, he would turn around and open up the store early the following day. 

Michael thinks this story epitomizes my father (there are many others, but this is a good one). On his way to work in my mother’s minivan, he was in an accident. Not just a fender bender--the truck in front of him lost his exhaust system hitting the car my dad was driving, taking out one side and causing it to flip, multiple times, and finally landing in a ditch. He climbed out of the driver-side window and was looking at the damaged car when help arrived. One person asked him if there were any survivors. “Ummm. Yes, me.”

 The tow truck arrived and pulled the disabled car out, and my dad asked if the driver could drop him off at his store on his way to drop the car off. The hospital? No. Work? Without question.

In the basement of this downtown location, there were these huge apothecary cabinets--painted green and scratched revealing many layers of paint and a deep stain. They smelled musty and showed years of wear. But, I loved them. Even as an impatient teenage girl, I saw something in these old cabinets and I knew that I would have them in my home one day. I told my father and he listened. Years later, when he closed the store, he moved those cabinets into storage. When they moved their home, he had them moved again.

A few years ago, Michael and I visited my parents and brought one of the cabinets back in a rented truck. The bottom cabinet is complete and I’m working on the top now (Apothecary, Part 2). Clearly, I’m not in a rush like I was when I was a teenager.

Part 3 and 4 are in waiting in the wings now. We brought them back this summer.

15 million recalled, but ours wasn’t one

I woke up to the smell of an electrical fire. You know that burning acidic plastic smell? If you don’t, it’s a smell that you can’t easily forget. It was about 3 in the morning and it was strong . I had to first figure out if I was dreaming or awake. Unfortunately, I was awake and then really awake.

We had recently replaced outlets in the kitchen so I immediately thought I knew the source. I woke up Michael and that was his thought, too. We were wrong, and a little groggy, and concerned. He decided to check out the attic and crawl space while I went around touching around each outlet and petting the walls to feel for heat.

We quickly narrowed the smell to one room, but couldn’t figure it out. We started to unplug everything. Moved furniture to unplug the television components and were overwhelmed by the fumes. Our surge protector was melting (albeit slowly). We took it apart and the battery was fine, but the rest was self-destructing and it smelled horrible. We moved it outside to the driveway so that it could melt outside or at least cool off.

We tried to go back to bed, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what might of happened had we not been home, or out of town, or just didn’t have sensitive noses. The thought of your home burning down doesn’t really reassure you as you are trying to get back to sleep. After a few hours of fitful rest, I decided to google the product. There were years of complaints on message boards and big news of a recall just last month (October 2013). I strangely felt relieved, until I realized our model—the one smoldering in our driveway—was not included in the recall.

I’ve since sent an email with photos of the damaged product to the company. I may have used the words “catastrophic malfunction” in my message. I fully expect them to do the right thing… but I still can’t get that smell out of my head.

I think I can

Right now we have 30 pints and three quarts of pickles. Dill, bread and butter, sweet and spicy, and old southern lime. In 2011, we didn’t even finish one jar of store bought pickles.

Our cucumbers took over the garden. It was my own fault. I started the plants from seed back in the spring. Planted them too early and they looked dreadful. I panicked in early May, post frost, and bought two plants and put them in the garden next to the two from earlier in the season.

They all grew. And took over the tomato plants. It was a jungle full of cucumbers. We had cucumber salad, a friend provided a wonderful cucumber/potato soup (but that can only be eaten for so many consecutive days…).

So then I made some pickles. It was fun, so I made some more… and so on. I bought more jars and made some more.

Then got overconfident and tried to make mint jelly. Oops. It was like hard candy, or strong cough drops. Yes, medicine. So that went down the drain after hours of soaking the jars.

Back to pickling then. I had so many pickle jars, I ran out of space to store them. I could have stopped, that would have been the obvious solution... But no, I made a new shelf. It’s 24 inches x 96 inches with 11 shelves. I had [detailed] plans.

But I did have power tools and a free Sunday afternoon.

* I wrote this post in August, and never put it up. The good part about waiting to post? I can add the update that the pickles made great Christmas gifts. And, I’ve had requests for seconds. In a note from Michael’s mother, she wrote: “Are you aware of how really good they are? You now have created a fallback business. Gourmet pickles – we’ll buy them!” So either the pickles are good or she likes me too much to tell me the truth. Either way, I’m happy.

It is so… eclectic.

She said.

And not in a good way. In my memory, her face was slightly upturned and her nose crinkled. There were no other witnesses, so I stand by the description.

Yep, I said.

And there we were, standing on my deck disagreeing but not being disagreeable. She was the landscape architect and I am the homeowner.

I like things that go together, but I don’t like matching. She clearly was a fan of manufactured coordination.

I seek the thrill of finding something close to what I want and working with it to make it close to my dream. She invested in perfect.






















I enjoy a bit of whimsy. She was a bit more buttoned up.

I swoon at dashes of random. She would look the other way.

This wasn’t going well. She was looking the other way. Not hearing me. Not hearing how Michael and I live, and how we wanted to live.

She wasn’t mean. She wasn’t unpleasant. But, I wanted her to leave just the same. I didn’t care that she owed us seven more hours. She was stealing the potential that I see every day just by being here. She didn’t see what I saw and she wasn’t going to.

She was supposed to be our prize. We won her expertise in a silent auction. In the name of philanthropy and a pretty good deal, we won not just one session with a landscape architect, but two. 

We actually didn’t mean to win both last year. We signed up for one two hour session and then ran across another for five hours. We knew we needed the additional help, and thought someone would outbid us on the first. Nope. We ended up with both and were actually giddy at the idea of seven hours of expert consultation.

And then she arrived. And then it went bad. First she told me that we just had to have a front deck on our house so that we could drink coffee in the morning before work. I smiled. Then replied, we actually like the back of the house much more. More privacy, more grass, no street, and oh, Michael won’t drink coffee. Ever. Unless it has Bailey’s or something like that (OK. I didn’t really say that last part, but I thought it.).

We then got to the back of the house and the deck with the unfortunate “eclectic” comment.

We went inside to see how the inside relates to the outside. This is when the gloves came off, well, mine. She still had the plastered smile on her face. She was convinced we needed to “just move a wall to have a walk in closet.” I responded, we have moved walls, to have more livable space and a walk in closet is “just not a priority for me.”

Silence, but for too brief a moment. She did not listen to what I said and continued with…

Then, when you move that wall, you can have a terrific walk in closet, blah, blah, blah. Well, I said with more force this time, we have a small home. A walk in closet is just not something that we want.

Walk in closet, blah, blah, blah.

No. We will not have a walk in closet. Not ever. Not in this house. I don’t want one.

Silence. Stare. Look away.

We headed back outside. But not before she commented on my mason jars.

They are for canning, I explained. Canning, she questioned.

Yes, we have a garden and then I just gave up. I didn’t want to tell her why I canned and why gardening was important to me. I didn’t want to explain why I didn’t want to sit in my front yard and have coffee with Michael, have a deck with matching pots and have a ginormous closet that was bigger than my bedroom.

But then something pretty amazing happened.

She also knew that we weren’t connecting. At all. She took a moment, digested the entire time we were together and suggested that she send someone else from her office. Someone who could help us make a plan that we could build upon.

Yes, I said. That sounds lovely. That was the first thing that we really agreed on. She left happy, and I was happy she left.

Have a seat

I found two chairs at a yard sale. We ended up there because our experience at a local “man sale” was less than satisfying. For weeks a sale that would appeal to the men of Kent Island was advertised on local web sites and on strategically placed signs. I fell for it, and Michael did too.

I had visions of power tools, equipment, gear… all at affordable prices. I talked it up to Michael and we agreed to get up early on Saturday (but not poor-yard-sale-etiquette early) to be among the first to arrive. I think he was just as excited as I was… until we got there.

There was a lot of stuff: most of it rusty or broken; all of it over priced. Now we were caffeinated and driving the streets looking for a deal. Okay, not really.

On our way out of the disappointing man sale neighborhood, we saw a small sign for another yard sale – no fanfare, just the words “Yard Sale” with an arrow. We followed. There wasn’t a lot of stuff, but I found two sturdy chairs that I liked.

New, old chairs

Lately we had been sitting out at the pond to watch the turtles (I realize any illusions of our exciting, wild lives were just shattered by the previous sentence). I was convinced these two chairs could live by the pond so that we didn’t have to move chairs back and forth from the deck to the pond. Clearly, we needed these chairs.

And for $2 for the pair, we didn’t even need to consider the deal or bargain for them. We took them home and set them up by the pond. For a few nights, we sat on them and watched the turtles. They were comfortable and for the price even somewhat disposable, but I thought they could be even better.

I fixed up any loose parts with wood glue, did some minor repairs and painted them yellow. Now they are way too nice to sit down at the pond. They found a new home at either end of our picnic table under the covered deck.

Old, new chairs

So I was on the lookout for new chairs for the pond. I didn’t have to look past our shed. There were three redwood aluminum chairs that we had purchased as part of an auction lot a few years (eight?) ago. These are the same chairs that every family in the 70s had on a patio or deck. They are sturdy and durable if not a little plain. I already had the paint from the last two chairs so I took these apart and painted the wood slats complete with a racing stripe.

Much better. And, we have three more chairs for the deck and/or turtle watching.

Someone’s in the kitchen…

There is a list still a mile long and this is just to get the current kitchen livable. Yes, outlet covers are still missing, the ceiling needs to be patched and painted, and the other side of the kitchen is still missing drywall. Yikes.

Not quite an "after" photo, but close enough.

But, we have curtains, a pretty back splash (and all my fingers!) and paint on the walls. Gone are layers of wallpaper, faux beams, a frighteningly sticky windowsill and any trace of teal (unless you count the blue in the custom* curtains).

And the distraction of planning a new kitchen – one twice as size with a wish list just as big – can be overwhelming. We still expect to use this kitchen for a good number of years and the small efforts have helped. In fact, over the holiday we spent time sitting around the island in the kitchen – the very kitchen I would try to block people out of when we first moved in.

And the before. Almost the same angle.

That’s definitely progress. 

*and by "custom" I mean fabric from Joanne's on discount and eight sides of straight(ish) sewn hems complete with a light blocking material Michael insisted on. 

It was really bad….

It's at this point, you know you can't go back

Before it got a little better. Our kitchen was one of the more usable rooms in the house, but we didn’t really like it. We started by finding some really inexpensive tile about a year ago. For less than $100, we thought we could transform the current kitchen to a slightly prettier version that we could live in for about five years.

Our ultimate goal is to build a new kitchen in the current dining room and make the current kitchen a small dining room. But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s back up to the simple tile purchase that got this project rolling.

Tiny, pretty 1 x 2” glass tiles on 12 x 12” mats. Did I mention that I’ve never tiled? Ever. Clearly, that hasn’t stopped us before, but this was our kitchen that we would use every day, multiple times a day. Not a roof that is far, far away from our daily lives.

I looked at videos online and books that we had on the shelves and realized that they all had very good, but conflicting advice. Off to the big box store for supplies. Grout, trowels, tile snips and the like. I tried the snips on the tiles with no luck. They are glass – they shatter. A tile saw was the only solution with a special blade for glass. It was my Christmas gift – the one and only thing I asked for.

Yeah, I’m a dreamer. But, I am in love with the tile saw. It worked and I still have all of my fingers. A Christmas miracle because you have to get pretty close to that blade with these little bitty tiles.

Action shot

Nice, right? And it was loud and wet and dirty and GLORIOUS. But I should have been wearing a hat: it would have kept the glass pieces out of my hair and also hidden that great style I was sporting while standing out in the freezing cold cutting tiles with no gloves (the water plus tile made for a slippery mess).

Kitchen renovations are no place for the vain, so I continued.

The transformation was almost instant. Even when I just taped up the tile to see what it may look like, it was dramatic. So much better than the layers of random wallpaper from before (go figure). The tile is done, but while I was waiting for grout to dry, I started painting and other fun things. A work in progress, but there has been progress.

Sometimes I wonder...

Why we didn't just knock it down and do this:

Minus the highrise buildings in the background, of course.

More places to stick the ever-growing to do lists

I made a magnet board with found objects. Well, mostly found objects, I had to buy the magnets. Scrap pieces of wood plus photocopied crab placemat and champagne corks (drilled out the cork and stuffed in the circle magnets – no glue, friction just keeps them in) make for a rustic and fun board.

Not sure of where it will end up, but it won’t be on the kitchen counter (note the sneak peek of the glass tile backsplash).

Top that... counter edition

We had really ugly countertops in the kitchen. This is the first step of thousands to make our kitchen more livable. We have plans to move the kitchen to another room, but keep this intact and usable until we tackle that project. My conservative estimate? 2015.

The first photo was taken the second weekend we had the house as you can see by the circa 2005 cell phone charging. The second was… later. Many minor changes – hardware, layers of wallpaper, new sink but the most visible (maybe not in this photo) are the countertops. With two coats of the worst smelling paint I have ever used, our countertops went from teal to olive.

I remember vividly the former owner, Bob, asking me if I liked his wife’s choice of countertop color. Um, no, but the paperwork was already signed.

We were hesitant to use the product after reading many conflicting reviews online, but then realized what could be worse than teal? About 18 months of wear and these countertops are still better than the teal. Here’s the product in front of the old color.

Best $20 makeover ever.

Top that... and that

We had a very functional card table, but not very pretty. I think it’s the same table every family had in the 70s with the gray vinyl top complete with cracks and a random cigarette burn or two. I’ve used it for years with a nice bright white tablecloth and it worked just fine. But with a little spray paint and super discounted fabric purchased online, it is now ready for any event.

Because I still had plenty of outdoor fabric left, I made a little tent for Michael’s grill stand. It makes me smile because I think it looks like a circus tent.

I have an addiction to outdoor fabric. Unfortunately, it’s been documented.