We've definitely been going a mile a minute since we moved in -- especially my husband, who has had contractors out to the house at least twice a week, has already had the necessary foundation repair done on our garage, and helped me re-paint the dining room over the weekend. We still have quite a bit of work to do to get the place back to the "cover of a magazine" status it enjoyed in 1988 (see above), but we're up to the challenge.
In the meantime, we've discovered the (rare so far this spring) joys of having a big screen porch -- and CJ has discovered the joy of looking for the "rainbows" (he calls them "bome-bos") the leaded glass doors cast on the walls and floors when the morning sun (again, a rare treat of late) streams in.The entire family has been enjoying the backyard swingset; the bigger, better closets; our proximity to downtown; and our location near some great neighborhood businesses and restaurants. We're still getting used to having radiators in every room and hearing downtown train noises at night, and we haven't quite figured out what our relationship is supposed to be with the black cat who lounges on our back doorstep every morning.
The other thing we haven't figured out yet is the story behind Scary Potty. Our basement, which is creepy enough already, features a very old, rusted over, elevated, disconnected toilet with the name that was coined by one of our move-in helpers. Scary Potty's reputation precedes it, and we've already had visitors to the house who have specifically asked to see it. (Okay, so they were 8 and 5, but still.) I have to admit that I am also a bit creeped out by Scary Potty. The sink in which we were washing out our paintbrushes is located next to Scary Potty in the basement, and I embarrassed to say I refused to go in there to wash out our brushes the other night. And yes, I realize it's irrational for a grown woman to be scared of an old toilet.
The World's Oldest Ceiling Fan
Okay, so that may be a bit of an exaggeration -- but it turns out our home may have the oldest ceiling fan in Des Moines. The story, as it was told to us, is that the original owner of the home was a fairly wealthy jazz music enthusiast (Louis Armstrong was apparently once a guest in our home) who coveted the ceiling fans that were often found in the Southern homes of his friends. So, he had this beauty brought up from New Orleans since fans weren't available in these parts at the turn of the century. The story may very well be true, because the fan looks very old and rusty; the blades are very short and inefficient; and the fan has only one speed: lightning fast. So I guess we're going to hold on to this piece of history on our screen porch, though we may see if someone can restore it. Have I mentioned I hate ceiling fans?
Cheers to old legends and new adventures. Time to start decorating.
