RESIDUALS OF HOME IMPROVEMENT

 

A series of essays….

A PORTION OF THE WET ROOM 
IN OUR NEW BATH

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

Do you remember spending the day at the beach, hauling sand into the car at the end of the day, and creating a mini-beach on the laundry room floor after extracting towels, blankets, and clothes to be washed from a colorful, canvas beach bag? I know some people who won’t even go to the beach for these reasons. I can’t imagine forfeiting sun, sand, water, and stimulating exercise because the sand gets between your toes (and many others places) during a seaside adventure.

I wonder if any of these same people are adverse to putting up and living with all kinds of home improvement — especially when dealing with drywall and its various stages of installation? 

All efforts are geared towards the final product, of course. 

And, you may decide to vacate the premises as work is being done. However, the process of getting to the end, the completion of all of the long, difficult work in order to enjoy the fruits of your labor, is a topic well worth looking into.

Patience my friend—it requires a magnitude of patience, understanding, and fortitude, especially when doing all of the work ‘in-house’ with your husband heading up the entire operation. Don’t get me wrong, we have saved quite an exorbitant amount of money with Dan at the helm! Paying for labor alone would have eaten up an enormous chunk of our expenditures. His accumulated knowledge of all aspects of construction (residential and commercial) for over fifty years has certainly come in handy each time we decided to improve our immediate surroundings.

We knew that moving up to our little cottage in Kalamazoo would require planning and lots of hard work. There were quite a few major improvements we wanted to make with the kitchen being at the top of our most pressing list of to do’s. Enlarging and modernizing the original 1941 space required incorporating a back porch area that actually doubled the original layout and has provided us with ample room for cooking and entertaining. 

However, before moving in August of 2018, Dan had already changed the façade of the living room fireplace, improved the original bathroom with shiny, new fixtures and paint, and sanded, stained, and polyurethaned the hardwood floors throughout the lower level. Dan and Matt, our son-in-law, demolished the back porch walls in anticipation of our kitchen remodel. 

And, all this time, Dan thought he had actively retired from the construction business!

Not so, my friends! We have been living at the beach (so to speak) ever since inhabiting the cottage full time going on six years now. Drywall dust has crept into every crack and crevice of this house for the past several months and has left its fine coating of off-white powder on furniture, draperies, light fixtures…well, just about everything that is exposed within our 1,600 sf cottage. It’s inescapable!

But, if you said that the end justifies the means, you would be  absolutely correct. Dan, seriously, began this latest project, turning the second bedroom into a main bathroom and the original bathroom into my writing space, back on November 1, last year. Disregarding a small ‘punch list’ for the bathroom and finishing touches to my office, we have rearranged our home to meet our personal needs and have been pleasantly happy with the outcome. 

Even as I document our progress I know that this little beach party isn’t over yet. A tiny portion of our leisure time conversation includes planning the future ‘all seasons’ room just beyond the new kitchen, improving the main bedroom closet, and, possibly, adding a porch to the front of the cottage. I will tell you that these ideas keep us going; give us something to look forward to and plan on. 

Retirement doesn’t have to mean sitting in a rocking chair and watching the world go by. It doesn’t have to mean crumbling into old age and forfeiting the ability to dream by improving your life and keeping the mind active and healthy. The day you stop dreaming about something new, different, and exciting is the day you stop living life to the fullest. It doesn’t matter how old we are…there is something new to learn and extract from the past, present, and future that will broaden our minds and enlarge our lives each and every day. Never stop learning! Never stop dreaming!

So, which shall it be next for us now that the new bath is functional and quite beautiful? I say the back room off of the kitchen. It would be a great spot to daydream in, read a book, and watch the squirrels navigate their own super highways as they zigzag across the backyard chasing one another with joy and non-stop enthusiasm! I know that I can live with the new construction and drywall dust. Dan will say, give me a little bit of time to catch my breath, and then jump into our next project with both feet. 

We know that the pride and joy we feel after each project is completed keeps us going strong and that one of these days (years), our renovated little cottage will give back everything and more from what we put into it after all this time. All in all, this arrangement fulfills us both in so many ways. For the most part, it keeps us dreaming!

(Let me know if you’d like to see more pictures of our progress and ‘before & after’ pictures of the new bath.)

Copyright © 2024 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

DAYDREAMING

 

A series of essays….

MY PHOTOGRAPHIC INTERPRETATION OF AN
IMPRESSIONISTIC PAINTING ENTITLED:
POOLSIDE (2007)

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

The perfectly angled autumn sun pours its golden light down upon the swirling water while the reflection of a thousand dancing fairies shimmer above me on the high-glossed, paneled ceiling. I am sitting on my lanai and daydreaming. Staring up at the tongue and groove boards, I observe brilliant white light, texture, and fluid movement as the nymphs play their afternoon games of hide and seek. My heart is filled with joy!

I have always been a daydreamer. Sister Teresa understood and encouraged me. As long as I was able to answer her questions when called upon in class, my fantasy worlds were windows of opportunity for me, as far as she was concerned. Yes, she always understood. A fellow dreamer, perhaps?

Not every Sister or lay teacher I had in Catholic School was able to perceive the importance of my mini-travels to the stars and back. Avid reading, however, was acceptable, and I always did my fair share of that. After exhausting Carolyn Keene's adventures with the help of Nancy Drew, I set my sights on F. W. Dixon and checked-out as many Hardy Boys Mystery Stories as they would allow me to each week from our small school library. The bus ride home each day was extensive and permitted me ample time to consume multiple chapters before hearing the whoosh of the bus door closing behind me. 

The addition of writing coupled with the joy of reading came early on in life. By first grade I was begging my Mother to purchase extra notebooks for school, I would turn them into spiral bound journals filled with line after line of cursive script intended for my eyes only. Carefully hiding them in stacks beneath my bed, it was never my intent, at that time, to share my past, present, or future with another living soul. 

The nomadic lifestyle imposed upon my family due to my father's employment made it difficult to hide much beneath my bed for very long considering the floor it rested upon changed from one year to the next. The dust bunnies barely had sufficient time to accumulate. Not only was I a wanderer within my own head but, with each move and having to adjust to each new school, new house, and new set of friends, our small, restless mobile society contributed to my need for movement and travel later on in life.

When my dad decided to finally settle down, he brought us to Michigan where I was enrolled in our public high school that included an eighth-grade level program. Growing-up required bidding adieu to the ladies donning black habits and beaded (rosary) accessories one year and hello to walking the halls alongside a student body that was eighty percent older than myself. I was now changing classrooms each hour and having to consciously recall my locker combination or be left standing alone in the hall like a fish out of water. I survived and matured because of the experience.

It was around this time that two amazing realizations occurred that have served to mold and change my life forever. I fell in love with France, all things to do with France, and knew that I could consciously submerge myself in her culture, language, people, and history and be happy the rest of my life. Secondly, it was time to share my thoughts with anyone who would be willing to read about them. I became a writer at fourteen years old. My first poem entitled "Time" was published in our local newspaper and after that, I never looked back.

There is a fine line between the conscious and the subconscious mind. Traveling between them can be an interesting adventure, especially when the journey itself is used as a coping mechanism allowing you to exist despite teenage challenges. The observation of 'visible energy' surrounding me was developed, encouraged and always felt natural. After all....I had had several years of practice by then. Because we can see light with our eyes, it has special significance to us. Rainbows show how visible energy is a combination of many colors. I often relied upon my vivid imagination to transform a negative situation into a positive experience. 

To this day, daydreaming, triggered by visible energy, attracts me like a Super Magnet. Pulled into a vortex of encircling emotions and ideas, my interpretations can be transformed from the ordinary to the extraordinary in moments. Unlike most of our stage five dreams at night during REM (rapid eye movement) sleep that may be forgotten upon awakening, daydreaming affords us the luxury of sustained recall. In case you were wondering, yes, I do sleep with a pad of paper and a pencil on the night stand.....just in case.

The motion that triggers a reaction in me and stimulates my desire to daydream can be as complicated and exquisite as being transfixed by the languid shadow of the backyard live oak tree as it spills its brilliant summer colors onto the swimming pool's aquamarine ripples. Or, as simple as the sunlight reflecting off of my watch creating 'Tinker Bell' choreography on the family room walls. Light. Motion. A  combination capable of bridging the gap between conscious and subconscious thoughts and my personal recipe for a creative concoction certain to be utilized, expanded upon and served-up with imaginative flair in the near future.

Looking up at my dancing fairies this afternoon as I daydream the moments away, I am reminded of a quote by Sir Richard Branson, the highly successful English businessman and investor who said, "Don't ever let anyone prevent you from dreaming. Imagination is one of our greatest gifts. Don't just dream it. Go out and grab it with both hands." 

Daydreaming is as close to reality as I sometimes want to be and it is much more important than the simple involvement of idle reverie or indulging in pipe dreams. Daydreaming has been and will always be my way of witnessing and then describing the softened edges of a granite hard world.....through the eyes and soul of a writer. Life seen through my eyes!

Copyright © 2024 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

Photograph copyright © 2024 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

THE CHAIR

 

A series of essays….

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

Sometimes all it takes is a pinched finger to feel you are truly alive!

With tummies satiated after devouring a rather large, pristine white bowl of chicken curried soup awash in stalks of fresh basil, a spritz of citrus, and the clean crunch of a slender sprout, we hug our friends good-bye at Phở Vinh, our favorite Vietnamese restaurant in Orlando. Dan brought me here for my sixtieth birthday and we’ve been returning on a monthly basis ever since, until our move in 2018. Also, we think their beef phở is the best in town.

Today’s story originates from what I saw and imagined in the back parking lot of the building. And, so the story goes…

My life began all handmade and new—not mass produced—with the idea that the young family who owned me would sit together for family meals. The grandpa (known as papa) of this family worked with his hands to make most of the furniture adorning the simple three bedroom ranch-style home while saving the young couple a bit of money and allowing them to choose the style and wood tones of each precious piece. 

I emerged with style and grace as a set of six dining room chairs. Two of my pine siblings boasted arms while carrying the title of ‘captain’s chairs.’ I liked being armless because this meant that the two rambunctious children of the household could slide and squirm a little bit more as they sat down at the oval table we pulled ourselves under for the duration of each meal. I’m all about having room and a bit of freedom no matter how old we are.

Well, let me be the first to say that those two kids shined my finish so well throughout the years that when papa passed away and mom and dad, now empty nesters, decided to downsize and move a few states away, I was sold (I prefer to say handpicked) to a college student who planned to provide more seating in her dorm room. She chose to bring another of my siblings along for the wild and crazy ride. What happened to our two ‘captains’ and the two remaining armless pieces in my family, I will never know.

In the beginning, we lived life on the edge with clothes of all varieties thrown randomly and in large quantities on our backs and seats. Nobody actually sat down on us, simply because they couldn’t. One day in late spring a mother of one of the students stopped by and removed the clothes. I felt I could breathe once again. After mom left that evening, I overheard our two girls planning a spring party for the next evening right there in the dorm. 

The party was wild with open beer cans tipping over on us, the contents soaking into my tired wood fibers while denim-clad bottoms soaked up their own fair share. As the night wore on and excessive verbiage turned into unrecognizable babble, the overhead fluorescents suddenly clicked off and peace regained its hold on our little world.

By the end of spring semester, our girls abandoned us and rented a furnished apartment just off campus. We had served their purpose and I couldn’t help but wonder what our fate would be. Evidently, the college, being very charitably minded, donated all of the furniture left behind in the dormitories to people in need and I soon found myself alone; my trusty sibling was not by my side on this particular roller coaster ride.

Even though I still felt sturdy enough to take on a sizable human being without difficulties, was I prepared for my new position as ‘chair of all trades’ within a commercial paint shop downtown? At first I allowed customers to sit down and relax in the small waiting room. Then, someone decided to give me a fresh coat of white paint in order to dress me up a bit and make me look new. I had never had paint coating the seasoned pine of my early existence and decided that it really wasn’t so bad after all. Actually, I felt protected by it.

By the time the elongated brown bench arrived to take my place in the waiting room, I was relocated to the business end of the paint shop and that’s when all hell broke loose.

I was misused as a small ladder with the soles of work boots grinding into my seat and the fresh, white paint began to wear off like yesterday’s news. If I could shed actual tears—I would have. My delicate spindles designed to comfort a weary back were being used by the ‘creative’ little daughter of the shop’s owner as the bars of the gorilla habitat at the local zoo. In her mighty attempt to escape between the cage’s bars, she would flex my spindles until they spread apart taking on a new life for themselves.

But, like time itself, things can change in any given moment. And, I had to change right along with it. You see, the little girl’s uncle, her mother’s brother, owned a Vietnamese restaurant and saw me wasting away in his brother-in-law’s paint shop. Since his lobby was rather small, he’d decided that I was a perfect fit, along with one other misplaced chair sporting horizontal slats and painted a deep green, for a place to sit while his customers waited to be seated at a table.

He graciously placed a small, round table between the two of us that sported a clear, cut-glass vase and colorful fresh flowers. I felt very dignified, once again, and proud to be serving others as I did so many years ago in that small, ranch-style house in the city.

The months and then years progressed. The little girl’s uncle, salt and pepper hair thinning, and owner of my little restaurant made some changes of his own and handed down his highly acclaimed eatery to his oldest son. Like his award winning signature dish, beef soup or phở, that is such a staple of Vietnamese restaurants in America, he left on a high note to walk white, sandy beaches and soak-up the glorious heat of the sun. 

My slatted friend and I were well maintained throughout the following years and the many displays of fresh flowers between us. One day, we coud feel the cold, slender fingers of change lurking around the corner and braced ourselves for it. The new owner decided to place me in the restaurant’s cozy kitchen for the staff to rest their weary bones when needed. I enjoyed all of the wonderful delights the kitchen had to offer by way of wholesome smells, delightful warmth, and the good people who sat down for a brief respite from working hours on their feet.

It was all done for a very noble cause and the time passed by with convivial laughter surrounding my own weary bones as my paint began chipping away and my spindles became weak and misshapen. I began to forget how gentle papa’s hands were as he shaped me from raw wood and held me together with glue and lots of love. 

And then my services were reaching a completely new dimension when my friend, Nhieu, decided he wanted to sit down outside at the rear of the building to smoke his cigarette at break time. Did he forget about me after that first incident? Didn’t he understand that my real home was in the corner of the kitchen? For the first time I truly wished I could somehow communicate with him, but knew that wasn’t how it worked.

For a long, long time I sat like a terracotta warrior propped-up against the chipping stucco, proud and strong as any aging artifact can be. The Florida sunshine and heavy rains seeped into my bones, my very soul, but my crusty exterior refused to cave even when the humidity aged me and did all it could to strip my dignity to shreds.

Then, one summer evening, as I silently wallowed in my dismay, a couple who had just finished eating dinner at the restaurant were getting into their car in my parking lot. I listened for the sound of gravel beneath the tires but it wasn’t happening. The woman removed her Smartphone from her purse and stared at me with devoted interest. I hadn’t a single clue about what her intentions might be.

Centering the phone’s camera right at me, she took several pictures from a vertical perspective and then several focussed horizontally until her curiosity thoroughly intrigued me. Who was she? What was it about me that interested her so much? I wasn’t sure. I knew that I felt excited and, almost, important once again. I’d hoped she found what she was looking to capture and that I didn’t disappoint her. 

I think I knew what the answers were by looking into her green eyes and feeling hopeful and vindicated by the possibilities. One day she will write a story about my life and illustrate it with the only pictures she has of me and everything will be set right and my purpose for being will be revealed to those who care.

CURRIED CHICKEN SOUP

Copyright © 2024 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

Photo Copyright © 2024 by Jacqueline E Hughes 

All rights reserved