Notes from Chestnut House

Critter Control or..,

2011-12-09T18:40:00.000-08:00

"The ornaments of your house will be the guests who frequent it." ~ Author Unknown

HELP ME. I am am writing this blog in the pitch dark, and I am being WATCHED! Two beady eyes stare at me from behind the wall. HELP ME!

You are probably wondering why I would write a blog in such a state of fear,..WHY I DO NOT TURN ON A LIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY?

My terrifying tale started last Spring. Ah, Spring at Chestnut House. Tulips blooming in a riot of colour on the South Lawn. Vintage metal lawn chairs being unwrapped in the giddy frenzy of a new day. Remember, heat had just arrived at our tumble-down manse, and this was a fresh start for us Dandies.

That first blissful week of Spring brought our first non-human house guest to our home. We'll call him Clyde. CLYDE FROM THE BOWELS OF HELL. Clyde was a bat. YES, A BAT. He arrived one evening while we were curled up watching Antiques Roadshow on PBS. (We'll sell anything we own if we see it on that show...well, anything but my Star Wars AtAt!)

A shadow flickered over our head. THEN PANIC ENSUED...DOGS BARKED...TCHOTCHKES WERE DESTROYED. My fear of bats resurfaced, and I had PTSD, imagining myself backstage at Starlight Theatre. "I WILL NOT HAVE FIVE MORE WEEKS OF RABIES SHOTS," I screamed! Two hours, a pile of broken chalkwear, and a ripped vintage fishing net later, and Clyde had been escorted outside, on his merry way to our rejoin his family in our neighbor's belfry.

Clyde must have told his furry woodland friends how accommodating Jon and I had been, how we treat our house guests. Like a twisted opening scene from "Snow White Visits Twin Peaks", The Pinkie Family arrived - AND DECIDED TO STAY. The Pinkies are a family of 4. Four opossums. A mother and her 3 children. We never saw the father, though I imagine, from the looks of his children, he must have resembled Mickey Rooney.

They chose to move in to a cozy spot beneath the front porch, hissing and gnashing their greetings to family and guests alike. Friends offered to catch, kill, (even cook) our humble guests, but we stuck with our philosophy that all are welcome here. Eventually, they left on their own. With the economy the way it is, I am hoping they found a nice sublet in Mission Hills with a view of the golf course.

Now, we begin the Winter Season with the Holidays upon us. Our trees are being decorated, our halls are getting decked, Magnolia leaves are being frosted with antique German glass glitter in various tones of the same colour to sparkle just-so on the hearth...well, you get the Better Home and Gardens picture...

When, with an entrance worthy of National Lampoon, GWEN ARRIVED.

Scampering around us, chirping in her Squirrel voice - "Hey, I found an entrance into Chestnut House you don't know about! Hey, I found another entrance. Hey! Hey! Dare you to find it. Dare you to find it!"

At first, Gwen went unnoticed as Jon and I sipped coffee from our Wedgwood cups, discussing how tall the centerpiece should be at our Christmas soiree.

It was the Schnoodle who introduced us to our newest house guest, With Dorian in full pursuit, Gwen jumped over the coffee table, leapt over the bookcases, scurried up the draperies, through the Master Bedroom, trampolined off of a chase lounge, onto the fireplace mantel, and behind a wall WHERE SHE NOW HIDES IN A HOLE.

So, NOW I SIT IN THE DARK, waiting for her to come out and join me for coffee. (The internet told me to turn off the lights, to let her relax. Relax, Gwen, relax...)

As you arrive this Holiday season, please nod to Ms. Pinkie and her children...I assume, with our luck, they'll be back...then raise a toast to Clyde, Gwen and the rest of their families, residing somewhere within our walls.

Happiest of Holidays...

Ron (and Jon and Dorian)

Blue Christmas

2010-11-25T09:51:00.000-08:00

My hands are blue. My new car is blue. My husband's Unicorn Show finale outfit is blue. The only thing that's not blue is, oddly, me.

In a complete about-face to my relatively macabre, dower nature, I find myself positively blue with giddiness. Not frozen corpse blue, more mid-1980's Smurf blue.

My hands are blue. Our beast of a furnace continues to give us problems. Expensive problems. I understand why it is called a Rheem Furnace...I want to "ream it" constantly! We have had a taste of glorious, beautiful heat...it's hard to imagine not having it now. Every piece that gets replaced makes the next part in line fail. It has been an interesting, frustrating, sometimes terrifying journey to basic human comfort.

My new car is blue. Oh, what a deal you can get on a used, discontinued-model convertible in the 3rd week of November. My new convertible is basically me as a vehicle - big nose, flat rear, lots of bling, rather powerful, and completely inappropriately dressed for the season. It's the type of car Barbie would keep at her Malibu Beach House for Ken and the pool boy to drive while she's away juggling her Astronaut/President/Supermodel/Brain Surgeon/Physicist career path.

My husband's Unicorn Show finale outfit is blue. As is his last act 1 costume. As are the bruises on his hips, knees, and ankles. Playing Joan Crawford isn't an easy role...not even for Joan herself. A Very Joan Crawford Christmas Featuring the Incandescent Ron Megee is in rehearsals now on the Jerome Stage at the Unicorn Theatre. It runs (at least) through the month of December 2010. I am creating the amazing costumes, and there are some other people involved in the production doing other things...I guess I should try to remember their names and roles, but I am very busy...hee hee.

I am not blue. I am surrounded by the love of friends, family, a gorgeous gaggle of babies, the Schnoodle, the Wire-Fox, and dear Chestnut House, that, no matter how much surgery we perform on her, always gives us one more problem to solve. She's been lifted more times than Heidi Montag, and still has plenty of hurdles to jump. Everything we solve brings her one step closer to perfection.

Not to worry, something will soon plunge me back into my dark, cob-webbed, Gothic mood, but, for now, my Christmas is looking very blue...Tiffany Blue!

Now, Where Did I Leave That Blog?

2010-07-28T08:28:00.000-07:00

Friends-

It's been an embarrassingly long while since we have "blogged". Not because nothing has happened at Chestnut House worth writing about, but because the things that were happening demanded attention, and we always thought we could write them down later.
Consider this post an update, a "season wrap-up", a once-yearly letter from a crazy aunt, a phone call from an old friend to "catch up", and we will try to do better.

The most important announcement since we last posted is the addition of a new family member - a rescued Miniature Schnoodle named Dorian Grey Finch Fulton Adams Megee - hereafter referred to as Dori. We have put him in charge of p.r., greeting, customer relations, and security here at Chestnut House. (He does a little yard work and fertilizing, too, but that is more of a hobby than a vocation.) His direct supervisor, Atticus, is still training the new recruit, but we expect great things from him in the future.The garden is going crazy. I firmly believe in the old adage "sleep, creep, leap", and the garden has proved to be a veritable forest of healthy, beautiful goodness. Heirloom tomatoes, vintage spices, and flowers are all producing a priceless bounty we could never afford were it not growing willfully and robustly steps away from the front door.The interior of the house has not changed much, as we have been enjoying being outdoors so much. We have all new windows on the first two levels of the house, and Ron created a modern kitchen wrapped in the bones of a Victorian galley.
Autumn promises to be filled with wonderful, exciting moments here, and you, our dear, loyal friends and patrons, will be updated at every turn.

More soon - - -

(Jon, Ron, Atticus, and Dorian)

INDEPENDENTS' DAY

2009-07-04T10:15:00.000-07:00

We've a lot to celebrate this month. July 15th marks our one year anniversary of moving into Chestnut House.I realize January is usually the time to take stock of your accomplishments and plan your year ahead; Spring is when you clear out the cobwebs, sweep up the dust, and start anew; and birthdays-well, don't get me started about birthdays; but, for obvious reasons, July has become our time to "review and renew".

Notes From Chestnut House is our cyber-diary. I only have to scroll through past posts to realize how far we've progressed. How gratifying to have a record of the baby steps that we've taken, the little bites we've nibbled off of this huge undertaking, to put all the work into perspective.In one year, five apartments were reduced and re-organized into one home, electricity and plumbing were added, leaks and holes patched and repaired, gardens have been established, huge windows installed, and beams erected to prevent the house from imminent collapse.

A giant pig was devoured on our dining room table, a toilet and shower removed from the living room, Atticus survived a major illness, a space has been created for me to accomplish my creative and professional goals, and a crowbar sheered off my nose.

I've learned the joy of a front porch at twilight, the importance of living with the person that loves you no matter what, and why Missouri Brown Bats are to be applauded and respected.

Our ghosts, Mrs. Finch and her son Mr. Finch still make their presence known, but have turned from fearful spectres to playful spirits.

Sure, our claw-footed tub may fall through the floor into the kitchen at any moment, pigeons still roost in the attic, and, with three full stories available, we still can't seem to find a space for all of our furniture - but all of that is minor.

What's most important, after a quick glance back, is realizing how rich and exciting the path is before us. Here we go, hand-in-hand-in-paw.

Onward-

Jon (and Ron and Atticus.)

Harry Potter and the Storm Troopers

2009-05-25T09:05:00.000-07:00

A vegetable garden is about experiencing the obvious, simple pleasures in life, the very elements that many of us neglect in the hurly-burly of daily living...cooking with homegrown herbs, fresh tomato salads, and the sheer peace of growing your own food.

This is where my story begins, in my small utilitarian vegetable patch, tilling the rich earth...

I heard a strange noise. A noise I hadn't heard in years, outside. Children laughing. I stood up, raised the brim on my floppy straw hat, and peered over my Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses at the commotion coming from down the way. My Hispanic neighbor in the gray bungalow across the street was shooing her children out the door to play. Just then the front door of the house four lots down swung open and Sudanese kids (draped head to toe in full burkas) came running out. Soon, kids were playing up and down the block. They were running and jumping, lost in some game that involved one of them being Harry Potter and a bicycle as a space ship. A lost art form was being revitalized on our block, the art of summer-time playing.

As I crouched down and started to thin the radish sprouts, I thought to myself..."Why is this so strange to me?" and, "does this floral caftan make me look fat?" Well, I thought, we now live in a society where children get caught up in a fast-paced life by staying inside watching television for hours, pacified with XBoxes and Gameboys, and losing there imaginations inside a bag of potato chips. The knack of make believe has died.

I remember as a child (a child in the 70's), my mother would shove me out our front door early in the morning and tell me not to return until lunch. After a lunch of a dollop of cottage cheese and a ham sandwich, washed down with a Tab, I was back outside until dusk hit and my mom could be heard yelling from the front stoop,
"Ronnie, time to come in for dinner!"

Oh, those summers were magical. We would start out on our banana-seat bike, zooming to the TG&Y 6 blocks away, and buy our supplies for the day. These consisted of Bottle Caps, Chick O-Sticks, Pop Rocks, and Now & Laters, then ride down to the "concrete river", looking for items washed down the viaduct. Right before lunch, we would pull out all of our hot wheels and matchbox cars, and set up a demolition derby. The afternoon was set aside to pretend I was a Stormtrooper and the big tree by our house was the Death Star.

Were there injuries? Well, yes. That was part of it. They were your wounds of passage. I fell out of a tree, broke my arm roller skating, lodged a rock in my nose, ripped my scull open playing Batman, and once got splinters in my, well lets just say a bad area for a boy, while trying to scoot across a fallen telephone pole. And yes, my mom had to pull them out with tweezers.

I just read an interesting article in the magazine THE WEEK about the journalist Lenore Skenazy. She has been dubbed the worst mom in America because she let her 9 year old son ride the subway alone, and she explains why she has no regrets. To paraphrase her: (It is a great article) she says America has a total obsession of making childhood independence taboo. Google her if you want to read more. Skenazy says, "We have to be less afraid of nature and more willing to embrace the idea that some rashes and bites are a fair price to pay in exchange for appreciating the wonder of a cool-looking rock or an unforgettable fern."

So, as I finished watering my small raised vegetable bed, enjoying the carefree summer day, Jon called me in for breakfast.

"Ron...time for breakfast!"

I cut some basil off a plant to add to our eggs and thought about my neighbors, I commend them for allowing their kids to experience the simple pleasures in life.

Soon...

Ron (and Jon and Atticus)

Newton's Law

2009-05-08T07:15:00.000-07:00

An object at rest tends to stay at rest and an object in motion tends to stay in motion with the same speed and in the same direction. -Isaac Newton

I've tried to think of a good excuse for not updating the Chestnut House Blog in so long...we were too busy,.. out on a grand tour of the Continent,.. Anna Wintour called me, in a panic, to help her edit the latest issue of Vogue,.. Ron needed help with his Tony acceptance speech,.. we quarantined the house to protect ourselves from H1N1...all of these, while completely believable, are simply not true.

The real reason is this - I have been utterly, supremely, and deeply lazy. Now, for those of you who believe in Karma, do not worry. Starting this afternoon, Ron and I will begin a series of projects that will take us through August in a blur of sweat, tension, and and complete exhaustion. The Universe, that so graciously allowed me a moment of solitude, now demands it's pound of flesh.

My schedule is taking me on six (yes, six) art and theater projects that overlap by days and weeks, moving me through the K.C. Rep, the Unicorn, Coterie at Night, Heart of America Shakespeare Festival, and, finally, two major events at la Esquina, before dumping my crumpled body back at my beloved Chestnut House.

After I shared and compared my schedule with Ron's, which is just as ridiculous, he decided this would also be the perfect time to completely makeover the kitchen, establish an 8' x 12' raised vegetable bed, re-sod the lawn, plant 150 new seedlings, clean up the construction waste in the backyard, finish the guest room, tear out a wall to enlarge my sewing studio, complete the painting of the first floor, and keep up our social life. When Ron enters Megee's Magical Momentum Mode, sleep is for the weak, rest is overrated, and meal breaks occur when work allows. I'll admit, I admire his drive. Chestnut House needs me to be "more Megee".

Atticus has been a great help in the gardening projects, digging holes in the yard where he thinks there should be plantings. Of course, he is unreliable, sets his own hours, and tends to take more breaks than we do. Ron simply won't fire him, but we have reduced his benefits, and have almost drained his retirement fund.

Updates to follow...

Soon.

Jon (and Ron and Atticus)

King of the Historic Northeast

2009-03-23T11:10:00.000-07:00

I was on the porch of our Victorian house this morning waving at neighbors. I was sipping coffee (with cream and sugar) from a Woodfield tea cup, and waving.

Wave, wave, wave. Many of our neighbors are also friends that now live in our historic world.

And I was thinkin'...(yes, that is thinkin' without a "g", the kind of thinkin' that hurts me a little.)...who was the Pied Piper that brought us all together? Who had the guts to raise his golden flute up and lead us into Kansas City's oldest historic neighborhood? Who is this person that believes in wayward artists, actors, fashion designers, and the other artistic misfits that make up the underground culture of our city?
You ask, "Ron, who is this Yuri guy?" Good question: here is a story to explain it all (well part of it.)

Six years ago I was looking for a new home to move my newly-single self and my two year old kid, Atticus, into. (Atticus, for those reading this blog for the first time, is my feisty wire fox terrier.) I found an ad in a local rag for a second-floor apartment in a ca. 1899 Duplex. Location: Northeast. Street: Gladstone Boulevard. The turn-of-last-century duplex was owned, at that time, by a man named Yuri Well, that one is easy to answer: our Pied Piper is Yuri Ives.
. Yuri lived across the street in a four story Victorian mansion with his husband and twin sons.

How do I describe Yuri? He is a gregarious person who doesn't like everybody all of the time. A high-spirited, good-humored man that fights for your rights, speaks his mind, and has the wit of a 19th century orator.

He is the King of the Historic Northeast.

Yuri showed me the beauty of this historic area. An area that boasts 56 nationalities speaking 56 native tongues, including Ethiopian, Sudanese, and Gay. An area that opens it's arms to the modern immigrants of this small world. Yuri was and is the ambassador to a lost world. We became friends.

Jump forward to 2008. Jon and I knock on the front door of his huge mansion, demanding to look at a house on East 6th. The house that would become Chestnut House. He dropped everything and guided us towards our new beginning. Once we were settled in, he started the process of recuiting more of our friends: Georgianna and Martin, Jon and Marlin, Shaun Hamontree (who was really the first to venture here), and countless others. Yuri, in one year's time, has created an artist's haven. So, if you feel inspired to venture into this little-known historic area, I suggest you contact Yuri. Till then, you can always drive by our manse and wave to me. I'll be the guy sitting on the porch, holding the tea cup and waving back.

the Luckiest

2009-02-16T11:12:00.000-08:00

I have recently found myself in the odd position defending my lifestyle to strangers. (Not that lifestyle-that's an ongoing process started a decade ago, and will follow me to my grave.) Rather, the act of being a modern-day irregular.

With today's economic crisis, people struggling to find jobs, pay their Johnson County mortgages, and keep the tanks of their s.u.v.'s filled, I realized I am in the proud position of my single greatest asset-knowing how to do "poor" well.

My parents were my first instructors in this phenomenon. As a child, my Dad and Mom were Nazarene Ministers, and, I rarely realized we lacked for anything. Unconditional Love is a wonderful insulation against bruised egos and damaged feelings. Even with higher-paying jobs and better benefits now, they still live as they did when I was growing up. When you don't crave the newest, the shiniest, the most fleeting material things, it becomes supremely easy to live well.

In this time of our nation, when scaling back, cutting corners, "making ends meet", is the norm for a vast majority of Americans, I am the luckiest. I live a beautiful life, a life that remains relatively unchanged by fiscal struggles. I don't seek the new and expensive, but rather embrace the time-worn and tried. Chestnut House is the perfect example...I am lucky enough to be partnered with Ron, someone who actually enjoys growing vegetables and blackberries in a little side-garden on the west side of the tower, who knows how to "stretch" meals with a little bacon grease and ingenuity, who can zone-heat a 3000' house with space heaters better than anyone I know.

I used to crave a "normal" life...a "grass is greener" mentality- 9 to 5, shared cubicle walls, BMW, the works. But, as I matured, so did my thoughts on "things". I find more joy in watching our primrose bloom, or the fall bulbs peeking out near the porch, or Atticus chasing an invisible specter around the side yard, than I do watching television. My whole life is presented in HD with Surround Sound...no commercial interruptions! When you have nothing to lose...when you realize what's truly important...when your friendships and family are your most treasured possessions...when you get your satisfaction from what you do rather how much you make...that is the truest wealth, and I am a wealthy man.

Until next week-

Jon (and Ron and Atticus)

Blog, interrupted...

2009-02-04T19:08:00.000-08:00

One of the first creative writing assignments I was given in middle school was to choose what superpower I would want to possess, and to give examples of how I would use it to better mankind.

Sequestered in a florescent-lit room with twenty other "gifted" students (insert: "nerds"), I wrote a seminal dissertation on the topic: "The Ability to Stop and Start Time". Dorian Gray, Mrs. Havisham, Sleeping Beauty, even dear, dead Eva Peron, lying gooey-dewey skinned in a state of perpetual youth, all did their part to make me feel this was the penultimate super-power, second only to "Bring About World Peace". (Of course, I didn't want to write about "World Peace". I knew several of the brown-nosers in class would choose that topic - BORING!)

I remember getting a 'B' or 'C' on the assignment simply because, as selfish as I was (well, am), I couldn't figure for the life of me how I would use this power to "help mankind" - though I did cite several ways I would help myself with my super-ability.

This week at Chestnut House made me wish I really had developed the ability to magically start and stop time. While designing costumes for four shows at three theaters in two weeks, several times I wanted to reach for a magic pocket-watch, punch the big button on top, and scream "STOP!"

As the dirty laundry piled up, the dishes stacked in the sink, and the detrius of daily life, dog, and husband threw themselves into piles in every corner of the house, I plodded by, half-finished costumes in hand. Trading mundane reality for glamorous stagecraft is easy at our house. There's never a question of what comes first here...theater pays the bills. The only price for ignored chores at home is a little bit of our well-being and sanity.

The most magical thing about Chestnut House, though, is that time does slow down here, even if it won't stop completely. No matter how hectic, how hurried, how hapless we are, there is always ten minutes to do the top seven lines of the crossword puzzle over a morning cup of coffee, or five minutes to hang out with Atticus on the front porch, or even an evening hour to watch Masterpiece Theatre on PBS, huddled and cuddled under our electric blanket.

Were I given the same assignment today as I was two decades ago in school, my topic would be a little different. I would choose from "The Ability To Embrace and Enjoy the Time I'm Given", "The Ability to Appreciate Every Moment Spent With the People I Love", or "The Ability to Spontaneously Produce Botox Around My Eyes and Forehead."

Until next week...

Jon (and Ron And Atticus)

This Just In!

2009-01-27T13:24:00.000-08:00

When moving into a new house (or a really old one in our case) the unpacking of one's belongings can take some time. We have been unpacking now for six months. I start to wonder, well, if you haven't seen something for a long period of time, do you really need it? If it has been in cold storage (this is how I refer to our third floor, because it is cold, and it stores things) this long, was it ever important in the first place? Today I answered my own question. Yes it is. I just unpacked a large box with a label that read "old radios". The box was a treasure trove of vintage radios... Bakelite, wood, and transistors set in a pool of bubble wrap. Yes, I needed this collection out! What was I thinking? As I unpacked this plethora of vintage items, I plugged one in. The resistors, tubes, and electrolytic capacitors started to crackle. It worked! This old-time radio stirred my imagination and creative spirit. I started to imagine my family (me, in a 1960s bespoke dress of blue brocade lamé with a pink sash at the bust and ribbed bodice with a simple kitchen apron over it, Jon in a red brocade smoking jacket with a pipe in hand, Atticus at our feet) huddled expectantly by our living room radio, discovering the joy of imagining each scene in the real-life Technicolor theater of our own minds. I couldn't wait to hear the soft, methodical voice of Steve Walker on NPR, or the Lauren Bacall-like sounds of Charles Ferruzza on 90.1. I started hoping Fibber McGee and Molly would come on so I could explain to people why we keep so much of our junk stuffed in closets, that my name has become a great vernacular catch-phrase synonymous with household clutter. Jon constantly tells me (much like my beautiful mom used to say) "'tain't funny MEGEE!" when I jump out from behind a door and scare him.

I kept turning the Bakelite knobs, wanting, praying for something to tune in. I wanted the sounds of Burns and Allen to come through the radio with George proclaiming to Gracie:
"Gracie, where did you get that bouquet of flowers?"
"Well George, you told me to take Mrs. Jones flowers, so when she wasn't looking, I took these off her table! Aren't they pretty George? Later we'll take these Carnations into the kitchen and milk them!"

These radios remind me of my late mother, who in the early 70's repaired T.V.s and radios when they still needed tubes from the TG&Y counter. She had repaired a small black transistor radio for me to carry around. Many times her and I would listen to an Angels baseball game on the long pier in Long Beach. The sounds of the ocean, "fire-baller" Nolan Ryan on the radio, and my Mom.

I finished unpacking the box. Playing with the knobs, I realized these were treasures that needed to be out. They were provoking the sounds of my past, filled with static and laughter. Exactly the sounds I wanted to hear in our home! Just then I tuned to a station and heard:

"This just in! Hog and Pig Report...down 2%...the U.S. swine industry continued on its course of retraction in the last months of the year. Swine inventories in nearly all..."

Well, hopefully by Friday I will have figured out how to tune in a F.M. station, so my family can huddle down and listen to the raspy sounds of Charles Ferruzza's "Anything Goes" show.

Until next week,

"Say goodnight, Gracie"

-Ron (and Jon and Atticus)

...I've Got My Love To Keep Me Warm.

2009-01-18T12:33:00.000-08:00

This past week reminded me why we were once a race of nomadic people. As it dipped below zero for several days in a row, Ron, Atticus, and I huddled for warmth in the "hot pockets" we have created to make us comfortable in the relatively drafty, open space of Chestnut House. For those of you who don't know, this house, like the loft we lived in before, has no central heating system.

Had we been as smart as our ancestors, we would have folded our tents, herded our buffalo, and headed South at the first sign of Autumn. Since we haven't gotten around to training Atticus in the art of Buffalo herding, we decided to stay put behind our brick and mortar edifice and haunch down against the impending winter.

Winter has made us full-fledged members of an elite group of pioneers, proving our prairie stock by staying put while Nature told us to get out, that she didn't want us here, to go away...see you in the Spring. Work and social commitments have made our disappearance out of the question.

There are always ways to cope, and the three of us have become clever at attaining something approaching comfort here.

Ron puts his day's outfit under the heated blanket the night before, so his clothes are warmed before he dresses. He tried the microwave to achieve the same goal, but I stopped him with a gentle reminder about the deadly combination of zippers, rivets, and microwaves. Atticus has made a nest out of a pile of hundreds of clean socks dumped on a couch in the living room. When we go to retrieve a pair to wear, Atticus protects his fort like a crazed beaver. The look he shoots us as we try to reduce his collection is itself enough to melt ice.

There are perks to having no heat. If your dish soap is frozen solid, you don't have to do the dishes. If your sewing room is too cold to work in, you can put off impending projects in favor of your own health and well-being, and instead snuggle under an ancient quilt watching t.v. all night.

We've accepted gracious invitations all season based on one fact alone - heat. Every gallery, theatre, club and residence we go to has one common luxury - heat. "The art wasn't my taste, but it was sure nice and warm in there." "That band sucked, but what about that central heating - unbelievable!"

We are not just surviving, but thriving in this weather. Our Vodka stays the perfect serving temperature, our ice cubes don't melt and water down our beverages, and Atticus looks rather dapper in his full-length Sherpa parka.

Continue to read the blog...soon enough I'll be complaining about Summer.

Until next week-

Jon (and Ron and Atticus)

Bumper Cars and Polar Bears

2009-01-12T12:48:00.000-08:00

"The past is malleable and flexible, changing as our recollection interprets and re-explains what has happened."
-Peter Berger

I am curious about Kansas City 124 years ago.
Kansas City in 1884.
Our House was built in 1884.
Our house is 124 years old.
Intrigued, I headed to the Library.

The downtown Kansas City Library has a special room on the Fifth floor. The Missouri Valley Special Collections room. (M.V.S.C. to it's friends.) This exceptional room boasts an enclosed, climate-controlled, archival records space behind 5 inch thick glass. I never got to go into this room. I just stared in at the historical findings like a polar bear exhibit at the zoo. The Missouri Valley Special Collections Librarian placed me on a archival computer. I sat there for 3 and 1/2 hours. This is what I learned:

A street car ran by our house.

Streetcars are dangerous.

A horrible street car accident happened close to our house in 1907, reported by the Kansas City Journal: THANKFUL FOR HER ESCAPE...Devout Expression of Little Girl Struck by a Car.
"God was good to me that time," was the comment of a 5-year-old girl when she was taken from the fender of a rapidly moving Northeast car at Locust street and Independence avenue about 1 o'clock yesterday afternoon. And while a dozen grown-ups, who had witnessed her narrow escape from death, were yet struggling to recover their equanimity, she calmly caught hold of the hand of her uncle, John Reed of Kansas City, Kas., and walked away.
The child had become separated from her uncle and, in attempting to catch up with him, tried to cross the car tracks in front of the car. Before the motorman, C. M. Johnson, could stop, the car struck the little one, who was caught by the fender. The car was brought to a quick halt and Johnson and the conductor, H. L. Moe, ran to the front, expecting to find her mangled remains beneath the wheels. Instead, she was seated on the fender, not greatly disturbed by the accident. She left the scene with her uncle before her name and address could be ascertained.

There was a carriage house for the horses behind our home.

An identical house sat next to ours, where a 1950's ranch house sits now.

The library computer is hard to navigate.

Our neighborhood was one of the first "sub-divisions" of Kansas City. People started to move to our neighborhood to escape the wild area known as "downtown."

There is a special link on the Missouri Valley Special Collections room computer called the Sanborn Maps page. Sanborn Maps were originally created for assessing fire insurance liability in urbanized areas in the United States. The maps include detailed information regarding town and building information in approximately 12,000 U.S. towns and cities from 1867 to 1970.

Our house is on the map from 1896. I can see it. The 8 houses across the street from us did not exist. The lot where the Honduran Restaurant, the post office and nail-hut sits had only one big mansion on it.

That's it. That is all I learned, so far. Konrad Adenauer said "History is the sum total of things that could have been avoided."

I probably could of avoided this trip to the Missouri Valley Special Collections room.

But then I probably would of never known that we, like our friends in Olathe and Lee's Summit, live in a suburb rife with dangerous public transportation.

Until next week, watch for streetcars!

Ron (and Jon and Atticus)

The Garret

2009-01-04T09:43:00.000-08:00

“Arrange whatever pieces come your way”
-Virginia Woolf

I have never embraced small spaces in a home. Give me a swing, a stage, and room to roller skate in the living room, I say! Loft living changed me-for better or worse-to love "wide open spaces". Then came our move to Chestnut House.

Even before I lived with Ron, I was drawn to open floor plans. My last "bachelor" apartment was a studio with no walls impeding me, unless you count the four holding up the ceiling. Light streamed in from a big bank of West-facing windows, and my furniture "floated" happily about the space, oblivious to the fact it was somewhat contained. Small spaces remind me of prisons. The Man in the Iron Mask, the Tell-Tale Heart, even Marie Antoinette, sequestered in an eight-by-eight cell, longing for her Manolos, stripped of her children, her panniers, her hair, her bonbons, and eventually her head. Rooms, history taught, never treated royalty well, and were to be avoided.

Then came our move to Chestnut House.

Our first order of business was to knock down every wall that stood in our way. Ron, sledge hammer in hand, would crash through the drywall as I ordered "take it way!" With gusto and glee we opened up our living space. Walls fell, ceilings disappeared, even a few bathrooms and kitchens were erased. As the destruction ensued, I felt the house start to breathe a deep sigh of relief.

Previous blogs have focused on the public areas of Chestnut House. By now, you've read about our attempt to "open the place up", but that's only two-thirds of the story. The third floor, formerly stanchioned off and relegated to storage, got it's first taste of freedom this week - and, in the process, taught me the value of "rooms".

An odd concept, rooms. John Fowler said, "It is the Sun itself that creates the shadows." In our attempt to turn the the house into a "lofty" space, I forgot the very "Gothic-ness" of a room of one's own. Wonderful art happens when you sit, confined with your thoughts, your walls, and the tools of your trade, to create. For me, those tools are sewing machines, beading hoops, and yards of fabric and trims waiting to become something. For Ron, a pen, a pad of paper, a comfortable chair, and an enviable imagination.

We chose "our" spaces this week. Ron set about turning the third floor "tower" room into his sanctuary-his place to read, write, and escape. His desk. His chair. His sun-filled study. I meekly knock on the office door when he takes his refuge there, conscious of "his space."

For me, a room at the back of the third floor is now being turned into the design room of my dreams, complete with the items that inspire me most, and all the tools to turn my ideas three dimensional.

Walls are no longer my enemy. I am still convinced most of them need to go...but some of them are more cocoons than cages.

Until next week-

Jon (and Ron and Atticus)

'TWAS THE WEEK BEFORE CHRISTMAS

2008-12-28T11:37:00.000-08:00

'Twas the week before Christmas and all through the Victorian house... Creatures were stirring, including many "mices"...

Alright, I cannot channel Clement Clarke Moore. Don't get me wrong, Clement was a clever man, but he does not capture life in Chestnut House at all. I mean, stockings were hanging from the faux Chimney with care, but our world in this house moves on a whole different axis: We can see our breath in our unheated house, there is no electricity in our bedroom and our dog is constipated - case in point:

Atticus received a new bone for Christmas. (Well, he received it the week before the big holiday, a pre-gift.) It was a huge bone. So big, he could barely carry it in his mouth. We could hear him walking with it, dropping it every few feet with a very loud "thunk". Walk, walk, walk, thunk. Walk, walk, walk, thunk. He worked on that bone for four days. At times I would take it away from him when he would gag from shards. He kept eating, chewing, devouring his bone, until it was a stub. And then he stopped going to the bathroom. No poop. No pooping before Christmas. He would go outside, play in the snow, smell frozen trees, mark a bush. Done. This was a problem. I even commented to Jon: "Honey, our son is constipated before Christmas. How are we to have a good Christmas with a constipated dog?" Jon assured me that it would work itself out before 32 tiny reindeer hooves would be heard on our rooftop. I prayed that he was right. (I also prayed for goodwill towards men. I didn't want to pray a purely selfish prayer.)

Two days before Christmas, a miracle happened. I was getting ready to bake a pecan pie from scratch, wrapping presents in brown paper (tied up with strings), and making lye soap in copper kettles in the backyard, when Atticus barked at the front door. I sat down the socks I was mending and ran to him. Just then, a hard, cork-like item shot out of his back end, hit the brick wall, and bounced off. I looked at this Christmas Miracle-a bone shard "plug". Well, no wonder he was having problems! He barked one more time and a diarrhea explosion shot out. I gasped, picked him up with his back-end facing out, and ran towards the front door, the entire time liquid dog matter shooting out at a rapid pace, splattering the walls and Christmas ornaments. I fumbled for the front door, trying frantically not to slip in the liquid waste. I kicked the door open and ran out into the yard, a squirting dog-butt facing out (see example at right.)

Snow turned brown, the porch turned brown, my night shirt turned brown. Just then the neighbors walked by bundled up in their winter garb. They stopped and stared. I tried to look nonchalant, holding the squirting dog butt towards them, and smiled. They smiled back, and said " Merry Christmas, new neighbors!" I sat down the diarrhea-dog and proclaimed, "and to all a good night!"

procrastinate

2008-12-19T09:55:00.000-08:00

procrastinate |prəˈkrastəˌnāt; prō-| verb [ intrans. ] delay or postpone action; put off doing something. ORIGIN late 16th cent.: from Latin procrastinat- ‘deferred until tomorrow,’ from the verb procrastinare, from pro- ‘forward’ + crastinus ‘belonging to tomorrow’ (from cras ‘tomorrow’ ).

I'll admit it, in print, for the first time ever: I'm lazy. Some of my friends and all of my family know this fact, but for those of you that are surprised by this blatant, earth-shaking revelation, let me explain. Laziness works for me as a tactical plan. In preparing my theater design projects, nothing gets my blood pumping or my heart racing faster than an impending deadline. I usually have months to prepare shows-months that I use to girder myself for the moment Cynthia calls to say she needs 5 complete outfits by tomorrow, or Jeff texts with a list of impossibilities that have to be delivered in a week. That rush of adrenalin, mixed with copious amounts of caffeine, often produce my finest stagecraft.

The winter holidays are when my laziness is on full display. Just last week, Ron redecorated the bedroom, cleaned both bathrooms, cooked bread pudding from scratch, shopped for cordials, found and cleaned our glassware, vacuumed all the rugs, re-routed heaters into every room in the house, winterized our windows, and cut fresh greenery for a holiday display, all while I set the table. It was a lovely table.

I have wavered this whole season with the idea of setting up a Christmas Tree. Don't misunderstand. There are many more pros than cons to a having a Christmas Tree. I love Christmas Trees. I've trotted a bright yellow Christmas Tree from my family in Waco everywhere I've moved around the country for the past 15 years. When I moved to Savannah, I could only take the things most important to me in the backseat of my convertible. That first trip included two suitcases of clothes and that favorite yellow Christmas Tree. I gleefully accepted Ron's marriage proposal by the light of that same Christmas Tree. Christmas Trees are laden with the fruit of every joyful emotion I can remember...they are just too much work for someone as lazy as me.

Ron and I finally bought a tree yesterday. After 5 trees in the loft last year, all well over 7' each, dripping with ornaments themed to each room, Chestnut House's tree is a welcome change. At just under 3' tall, with missing branches and one side that was obviously grown and nurtured to be shoved against a wall, it seems approachable-even for lazy old me.

I am going to end this blog and go decorate that tree with my husband and our dog in our house on our day off, and quietly remember that, when people realize you are lazy, they often let you lean on their shoulder.

Somehow they find the strength to support the both of you.

Soon-

Jon (and Ron and Atticus.)

TO THE MAN IN RED

2008-12-08T15:51:00.000-08:00

DEAR SANTA,

Hello! How's it going Man in Red? How's the wife? And elves? Does that one elf still want to be a dentist? I know you haven't had a letter from me in years, but I thought it would be a good time to write. I know in my last letter I asked for a Pizza Hut Easy-bake Oven, a Big Jim Camper, and a banana-seat bike, (which, I should thank you for all of these things now, you made Christmas 1975 the best!) I promise this year's letter will be less grueling on you.

First Santa, I would like for you to bring local giving to all my friends and family. Give them the power to only shop at local Kansas City stores for gifts. If they only have $20 to spend, may it be spent at stores like Fabu, or Stuff in Brookside, or Curious Sofa, or Birdies! Any store that gives their heart to this city! And may they never enter a WalMart, or evil chain that rips at the foundation of our city and beliefs.

Second, Santa, if they need to go out for the holidays, may they choose local restaurants, theaters and bars. No chains. May they spend their hard earned money in local dives, like The Brick, or Succotash, or View on the Hill...any place owned by our friends. May they get to see live theater. And may they never step into a eating or drinking district that strips the "power out of life".

Santa, give everyone the power to tip. Tip Waiters, Bartenders, Hair People, Drag Queens, and well, anyone that works hard for very little and give so much.

Santa, also have everyone carry $10 in ones in their pockets to help homeless people out. They need warm food and drink at this time right now. Have them find ten people to help out. Or give to one person that really needs it.

And finally, Santa, give all my friends and family members a great new year of hope. 2009 is going to be a great year! You already brought me a new President, a new home, a husband, wonderful friends and family for Christmas, and I am safe, happy, and healthy, so I really don't need much more.

I believe in you, Santa.
Your Friend for life,

Ronnie (Ron Megee)

A Little Curly Pig Tale

2008-12-03T11:24:00.000-08:00

Monday evening Ron and I conducted a social experiment of Pavlovian degree.

During our first holiday party at Chestnut House, co-hosted with Lou Jane, we crammed our entire guest list from the loft into a space, though no less grand, considerably smaller in scale. Here is what we observed:

1. Shove enough people close together, wrap them in acrylic Christmas Sweaters, and no one will realize there is no heat in the house.

2. Nothing brings a crowd together like suckling pig. Liquor+Gigantic Dead Pig+People=Instant Conversation!

3. Never trap yourself between an armoire and a wall...there is just no escape.

4. True friends don't mind watching for falling plaster and loose floorboards as long as you stuff them with coconut bon-bons.

5. There is nothing like a holiday party , and the gifts that are given to the hosts, to show what your friends imagine your decorating style to be. This year was a wonderful, pleasant surprise!

6. If you want to see a little dog absolutely lose his mind, leave a pig carcass on your dining table overnight, just inches out of his reach.

7. Be thankful Christmas comes but once a year-364 days of recovery seems just about right.

Until next week-

Jon (and Ron and Atticus)

THANKFUL THINGS

2008-11-24T20:02:00.000-08:00

I am Thankful.

I am Thinking how thankful I am.

Thankful, Thankful, Thankful.

I am thankful I do not have a tumor shaped like a baby.

Let me explain. The older lady who lives next door (I would say she is in her 70's), came home from the hospital today after having a growth removed. Winnie, the past owner of our house (who has the weiner dog, ironically named Baby) drove her home today, and Winnie had pictures of the "growth". They, (the doctors), said that the reason she, (the older lady), was sick to her stomach for 40 years, is that she had this tumor the whole time , but, it was more than a tumor, it was a baby! Yes, a baby! It had eyes and a mouth. The Old lady next door says she feels better now and has lost 9 pounds. She did look like she had her color back. I am Thankful.

I am Thankful I do not have money. Let me explain. This same lady next door was hoping that her lottery ticket was still good from when she was in the hospital, and, if she wins, she is moving to Arkansas. She wants to get away from her 40 year old son, who broke his pelvic bone last week climbing a tree while high on drugs, and she wants to live closer to Branson without living in Missouri. She likes the shows, which keeps us Triple Threat Actors working, and for that I am Thankful.

I am Thankful. I have friends.
I am Thankful. I have a home.
I am Thankful. I have a great family.
I am Thankful. I have a job.
I am Thankful. I have a dog.
I am Thankful. I have an illustrious husband.
I am Thankful.

Thankful, thankful, thankful.

Ron (and Jon and Atticus)

Fallingwater

2008-11-19T21:43:00.000-08:00

I was two miles from home when I got the call.

"Hello."
"Hey."
"You sound strange. What's wrong?"
"Ouch."
"What?"
"Ouch. You know that part of the ceiling we were going to pull down in the dining room? We don't have to. It just fell on my head."
"Are our crystal goblets okay?"
"Yes, but a wrought-iron chandelier fell on my head, and Atticus is pinned under 50 pounds of wet sheet rock. I think I have a concussion. I'm feeling woozie."
"What about my figurines? Did my figurines break?"
"No, but I have a headache, and there's several 2X4s in a heap in the middle of the dining table."
"And the Spode? Is the Spode alright?"
"I'm hanging up."
"Okay, see in awhile. Love you. Thank goodness everything's okay."

Our dining room ceiling collapsed this week, prompting the "Chestnut House Bucket List."

As I have often stated, I realize home maintenance is important. It's just not sexy. Will new wiring get us the cover of Elle Decor? No. Will support beams in the basement be featured in an Phaidon Art Book. Again, no.

Ron has started using a new type of "Decorative Psychology" to explain Chestnut House projects to me, i.e. "We have to install a ceiling before we can paint it," or, "If we repair the floorboards, they'll support the sofa you want to put on them." He's so clever.

Of course, all of this happened as we were preparing our house for Thanksgiving Weekend with our families, planning a party, teching two shows, and generally finding how far a human body can be stretched, mentally and physically, before you hear that dreaded "snap".

Painting and wallpaper are on hold for now, until we can shore up the floor, the ceiling, and make sure the clawfoot tub doesn't fall on the turkey while our guests are seated in the dining room below. Ron calls this type of thinking "prioritizing". That's just a five syllable word for boring!

Until Sunday,

Jon (and Ron and Atticus.)

WHAT IS IN A NAME?

2008-11-10T13:08:00.000-08:00

People constantly ask me where did we come up with the clever name of our home. No really, people on the street, who happen to not read this blog, come up to me as I am shopping at Nell Hills, Limited Express, or even Costco, and say: "Hey Ron Megee,(for some reason, people always say my last name), why Chestnut House?" I smile. This question is new to me. Usually people want to know "How is your sister, Missy, holding up?" or, wouldn't "Who's the Boss" make a great musical for your closed theater Late Night? I smile again at their inquisitive stares, and then, for the next fifteen minutes, while I shop for semi-faux chipped French candlesticks, or an orange and white stripped knit top, or even 80 pounds of toilet paper, I explain the meaning of our house name:
First, I start by telling them a famous quote from t.s. elliot, well, really a quote from my favorite musical of all time, CATS. Remember, I was a kitten (a CATS understudy) for 10 years, on the non-equity Northwest Canadian tour, so I am an expert on the words of t.s., even if I only went on once for the sick Grizabella. So first, I tell them the quote and insert key choreographed moments from the show:
"The Naming of Houses is a difficult matter, (lick paw here)
It isn't just one of your holiday games; (paw ear back and forth)
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter (claw air like you're scratching a carpet post)
When I tell you, a home must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES. (stretch and kick leg above your head and lick your tail)
I instantly collapse on my Costco rolling cart after this last phrase,(I am, after all, 41 years old this week) and start rubbing my cramping thigh muscle. They usually just stare at me after this.
Immediately, I remind them that many famous people have named their homes: Monticello, Mount Vernon, Sunny-brook Farm,..hello, Neverland? They keep staring at me.
I then proceed to tell them that Jon and I went through many names before we came up with this one. We started with the obvious Sixth Street House, but thought that sounded like a turn-of-the-century brothel. Then there was the combining of our names (one Megee + Adams = Megadams.) " Welcome to the Megadams home." We realized this one would be too hard to pronounce once we had drunk too much port. And then we saw one of the last surviving Chestnut trees in our neighborhood dropping seed pods, and thought, this is it. I mean, Green Gables was named because their gables were green, and we once had three Chestnut trees planted on our property until they got root rot and died, so why not? The curious people keep staring at me.
In addition, I tell them, many new couples have moved to the neighborhood, and probably are looking for names for their humble place of residences: Georgianna and Martin's new place could be called "The Buchanan Bungalow", and Scott and Paula's place: "The Hobart Homestead", Jon and Marlin's: "The Piggy-Deen Manor", and Andy and Alan's could be "The AA Fantasy Abode and Leisure Pavillion". Everyone could have names for their dwelling place, their lodgings. A name for the home is important. I look up from the cart and they are still staring at me.
I scream out "Why do you keep staring at me?"
In a dead pan voice, they say " Who knew a 41 year old man could kick his leg up so high and lick his thigh!"
I stare back at them, scream out, abandon my shopping cart and run back home to the safety of Chestnut House.

Until next week-

Ron (and Jon and Atticus)

MAN vs. MACHINE

2008-11-01T21:55:00.000-07:00

Just as living at Chestnut House was beginning to feel like a cross between an episode of P.B.S.'s "1880's House" and "Survivor, Possum Trot," a miracle occurred.

Three appliances, (a washer, a dryer, and a stove) had set in their places, silently mocking us since August. As we passed by, they would whisper catty epithets like, "Sure would be nice to boil some water right about now, huh?" or, "If your pipes weren't missing, you wouldn't be so stinky!"

All of that changed Tuesday when our contractor Tim appeared with a 220 outlet, some Pex pipe, and a wrench. Within a few hours we were thrust, headlong, into the mid-20th Century.

I couldn't have been more excited if I had won the "Showcase Showdown." The appliances surged to life and began the hardest work week they will ever experience. I ran to-and-fro from the laundry room to the kitchen, bullwhip in hand, screaming *THWAK* at the oven, "heat faster!" then at the washing machine *SMACK* "spin harder!"

Ron tore down the street to Aldi, debit-card in hand, and bought a box of groceries. As I watched him put away his haul, I realized he had only purchased food that had to be blanched, boiled, or baked. Cupcakes were started, chili heated, potatoes boiled. As Ron channeled what appeared to be Paula Deen on speed, I loosely interpreted what is considered "washable". Everything made of fabric was up for grabs. As load after load went through the washer, I lost all respect for tags that tried to stifle me with silly words like "Hand Wash" or "Dry Clean Only." Ron turned away from watching his sixteenth batch of cupcakes just long enough to snap me out of a maniacal fit that would've made Howard Hughes proud.

He stopped me just as I was trying to cram two silk Art Deco rugs, an overstuffed club chair,a chimpanzee-fur shrug, and a terrified Atticus into the top of the machine. I still don't know what all of the fuss was about. I'd set the load to "delicate-cold". No harm, no foul.

As we settle into our new "modern" lifestyle, I can't help but feel a tinge of melancholy. Some of our best conversations took place in the backyard, Ron boiling water over a campfire he had started with flint and wadding, while I dutifully beat our Prada slacks against a rock.

Until next week-

Jon (and Ron and Atticus)

MY LIFE SO FAR...

2008-10-26T19:54:00.000-07:00

(READ THE FOLLOWING STORY IN A DEEP, OLDER-MALE BRITISH ACCENT)

Ah right, you are probably sitting there at your computer wondering about my life. How my life is panning out. What my life is like so far. I guess the only way to describe me life at Chestnut House is to give you a little peak into a day of it.

Today, I woke up late, jumped out of bed, stretched, and hopped down the stairs to have a look outside. I stood on the porch, smelled the fresh air, and stared at the New York Times on the lawn. I then sauntered back into the house, headed to the kitchen, and had me some water and breakfast. (Some mornings, my breakfast is so dry!) Once my belly was full, I proceeded to look for a place to take a nap. Naps are important to actors. There are many wonderful places in this house for naps. Either one of the sofas, one of the winged back chairs, or even on one of the rugs. Once I was settled, I proceeded to lick my balls (oh, that's right, they got rid of them years ago.) Oh the painful life of being a dog...

I live at Chestnut House with my two dads. I only found out about this phrase just a few months ago while I was smelling Baby's butt. Baby is the long-haired brown wiener next door, and my girlfriend. We get together each morning to shoot the shit, literally, and she brought up my living situation.

"What's it like living with two dads?" Baby said, inquisitively.

I dare say, I have never thought 'bout it. I pondered it for a moment, and then proceeded to blurt out my feelings like I was coughing up a hair ball...

"Baby, I must say, my two dads have been there for me forever. I mean, I have never needed or wanted for anything in me life. They decorated the house in "dirty country" so that I always feel comfortable on the furniture. The floors are rough and unfinished in case I run in with muddy paws. Old chenille blankets lay everywhere in case I get cold. I am never afraid to throw up a little grass on worn wool rugs, and they even have a beat up throne for me at the end of their bed!"

"And Baby, you are probably wondering if two dads can be great parents? Well, I am fifty-six years old (in human years, of course) and they have let me pursue my dreams of being a model by booking me photo shoots for Hallmark, Indulge Magazine, and the Kansas City Star. They even let me perform in several theatre productions. When I was terribly ill and choking from eating chicken bones out of the trash, both of them bundled me in swaddling and rushed me to the vet hospital. As I was licking their salty tears from their cheeks, I knew I was loved."

As I finished my barking rant, I looked up to see what Baby's reaction would be, but she had already moved on to the Shitzu from across the street. As I wandered over to pee on the dog-and-waddle fence, I thought about it. It really doesn't matter if you have a mom and dad, or two moms, or a single mother, or two dandy fathers, as long as your loved and have a warm home, life is good.

-Atticus (and Ron and Jon)

Night of the Living Designers

2008-10-18T22:45:00.000-07:00

...or How the Zombies Ate Our Living Room

Zombies are very subtle when it comes to stealing accessories and furniture. You'd think we'd hear them break the door down getting into the living room, or their moaning as they drag out our Victorian tchotchkes, but no-zombies are very subtle.

Things started disappearing from Chestnut House a couple of weeks ago. At first I didn't know who to blame. A deer head here, a fireplace screen there, paintings, pictures, pitchers...soon the house was stripped of all personality, Atticus notwithstanding.

Last week our friend Shawn and I snuck into Ron's Coterie production of Night of the Living Dead. Mystery solved. Those pesky zombies had drug all of our worldly goods down Grand Boulevard, into Crown Center, up the escalator, (a fact-zombies cannot climb stairs due to rigor mortis, which is why our top two floors were spared), and had recreated Chestnut House onstage. When we arrived, they were in the midst of violently attacking the actors in an exact replica of our living room.

As my tender taxidermy looked on, stage blood flew over our favorite antiques. A picture of my Great-Grandmother Moran smirked knowingly from her perch on the wall as body parts flew and Molotov Cocktails exploded around her.

During a particularly gruesome scene, where a twelve year old girl gnaws on her father's severed arm while stabbing her mother with a garden trowel, Shawn leaned over to me and whispered, "Have you thought where you are going to hang that lovely pastel floral when you get it back?"

The scene before me looked as if Clive Barker had been named editor of Architectural Digest. A room full of beautiful period details, with just the right bits of teeth, hair, severed digits, and rotting flesh to give it a nonchalant, lived-in look.

Speaking of "particularly gruesome", Ron and I are preparing to thaw and eat our year-old wedding cake on our anniversary Tuesday. I have been dreading this moment for the past 364 days.

When they call the one year mark the "Paper Anniversary," they refer to the bags you have to keep in your lap just in case eating a cake that's been frozen for twelve months doesn't sit well on your stomach.

After the Coterie show completes its run, my only request is that the zombies are as quick and efficient returning our things as they were carting them off, and that they clean off the bits of brain before bringing anything back into the house. I don't know how to get brain stains out of the carpets, but I can tell you the last time I had to clean them up, club soda didn't work!

Until next week-

Jon (and Ron and Atticus)

DAYDREAMER

2008-10-12T19:43:00.000-07:00

I am looking at dew on our grass. Kentucky Bluegrass that Jon and I planted in pots. Grass we grew from seed. One of the few things completed in the house-pots of bluegrass.

And I am daydreaming.

I am dreaming of a day when our house is finished. Stainless steel appliances sit in our new Tuscan-tiled kitchen. Super clean, blonde oak floors glide under my Kenneth Cole shoes as I enter our black lacquered dining room. I place a seven layer meatless lasagna on the Ikea dining room table. Hootie and the Blowfish are playing in the background. Wait. This isn't my daydream. I must of been channeling a depressed person living in a gated suburb community at 145th and Roe. Nope. Not my dream at all. Let me start again.

I am dreaming of a day when our house is finished. When I can step onto my seven inch plush burgundy rug runner, and glide down my stairs to greet guests arriving for the Annual Republican Cotillion. Where my brass lamp fixtures illuminate the guests chapeaux and fur collars, and Winfred, our Butler/maid/servant-man serves port from a cut crystal decanter. Chopin is playing in the background. Wait. This isn't my daydream either. I must now be channeling a turn of the century depressed socialite. Nope. Not my dream at all. Let me try again.

I am dreaming of a day when our house is finished. Where Jon and I can sit in our wing-backed chairs and read the New York Times. A finished house where the coffee is always going, and a wire fox terrier lays at our feet. A finished house where friends and family stop by for no good reason but to say, "Howdy, and here is a pumpkin pie I just baked for you." A finished house where a couple, married for a year, decorates for Halloween, with cobwebs, heirloom pumpkins, and black cats. Where a married couple eats a frozen wedding cake topper in a beat up kitchen. Where Kate Bush is singing in the background. Wait. This isn't a dream...this is my world. I don't need a finished house to have a home. We have already planted the seeds. I just need to sit back, daydream, and watch it grow.

-Ron (and Jon and Atticus)

Blue Corn and Lavender

2008-10-05T21:36:00.000-07:00

When you dress actors as 12' tall giraffes and 6-legged wildebeests, or build a farmhouse set, complete with a graveyard and crypts, as Ron and I have been doing this week, you would think a couple of home projects would seem less daunting. Not so.

"Night of the Living Dead" and "Lion King"-both major productions-have done nothing to prepare us for our Chestnut House chore this week-making a guest room for our very first overnight guest.

One of our dearest friends is visiting from Oklahoma, and will be staying with us later this month. I assumed, with her being a Lesbian, all we needed to prepare for her stay was to scatter Cedar chips on the floor, set up an exercise wheel, and line the corners with old newspaper. Maybe, to be hospitable, I would clean her water bottle a couple of times. Ron had to remind me that, no, females are indeed humans and demand a certain level of comfort. With that explained, our project began.

I am sure the room in question will be my favorite, I'm just not ready to embrace it. What started out as a 2nd floor kitchen will be magically transformed in to a plush guest suite.

We started by removing the appliances. After we had the refrigerator, stove, and dishwasher out, I tried to convince Ron to leave the vent-hood. Where else are you going to find a bedside lamp that also pulls greasy odors out of the room? He didn't embrace the aesthetic, so gone it went.

Ron started the demolition by grabbing his screw gun and trying to remove the overhead cabinets. After all of the moldings, all of the screws, all of the braces were removed, we realized the only thing attaching the 70's era wooden boxes to the wall behind them was the sticky residue of countless meals cooked but not cleaned up after. One solid pry with the crowbar, and the whole row slammed down in a heap in front of us.

"Leave it!" I squealed, "leave it!!! It's the perfect example of Late Period Post-Deconstructionist Sarajevo Chic!"

Ron didn't embrace that aesthetic, either.

As I am writing, we're still in the middle of the project. The only part of the floor strong enough to support the bed backs up to a 2' by 2' hole in the wall that looks into the toilet on the other side. (I wrote that last sentence as a reminder to myself, in case I need to go in the middle of the night while she's here.)

If we don't finish in time, all's well. Ron says if we set out a bowl of blue corn tortilla chips and a bar of lavender soap, she won't even notice she's staying in a room, on the comfort scale, one step under a homeless shelter.

Keeping you informed-

Jon (and Ron and Atticus)

THE EXORCISM OF EMILY ROSE MEGEE

2008-09-28T14:50:00.000-07:00

DAY ONE: BOLT UPRIGHT! I sat up in bed, bolt upright, (jerkingly, to be correct) and stared around the dark bedroom. Something had awaken me at 4 a.m. Just then, the bay windows in the turret flooded with light, illuminating the green velvet chaise and Atticus, who was sleeping with his head on the pile of sock monkeys. "One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand," I whispered. The thunder clapped loudly. Our first storm at Chestnut house had arrived. I slipped out of bed and pulled on a pair of tight jeans and a low-cut orange-crepe peasant blouse and slowly sauntered down the grand staircase, looking for leaks as I went along. "The house is dry!" I proclaimed in a high pitched accent (inside my head), and entered our second living room. I immediately hurled myself onto the second powder blue Georgian sofa. (This sofa is the $7.99 Goodwill knock-off of our other living room's powder blue Georgian sofa). I flayed myself across it and didn't move for four days. Ennui. Something had possessed me with Ennui. I had been possessed with Ennui.

DAY FIVE: Today, I finally broke the Ennui spell by mowing the lawn. It had to be done. Besides, I was feeling ornery. And you can't feel ornery and ennuied at the same time. So I slipped on a embroidered sun tunic, elastic band capri-pants, and a linen garden hat and started the mower. As the lawnmower dragged my cantankerous self around the yard, something caught my eye---a figure in a suit staring out of the third floor window and then vanishing. I fell to the ground and stared up at our grand Victorian like the girl in Andrew Wyeth's "Christina's World" painting. My legs started to itch. Boils began to form. My stomach turned-making me run to our water closet, praying I would make it in time. This is where I sat for four days. Cholera. Something had possessed me with Cholera. I had been possessed with Cholera.

DAY NINE: I finally left the water closet. It was time. I had finally run out of periodicals to read. I changed into my Carhart duck-bib overalls, a Pendleton flannel shirt, and Wolverine work boots and began the second floor kitchen demolition. (The room that will become the grand guest suite.) Just as I hit my "eager beaver" deconstruction rhythm, a door slammed shut, the room plunged to darkness, a kitchen cabinet fell, pinned me to the wall, and I coughed. Oh, and I saw blood! This is where I stayed pinned for four days. Consumption. Something had possessed me with Consumption. I had been possessed with Consumption.

DAY THIRTEEN: Jon finally pried me loose from the cabinet trappings, and I started spewing out my "possession" theory.

"I am possessed by the ghost of Mr. Finch!"

Jon just laughed and handed me coffee in a Gold Crown, semi-vitreous, powder-blue wedding china cup, and proceeded to channel his best Angela Lansbury---"You see darling, the noise that woke you thirteen days ago? The hookers down the street yelling at their pimps to pick them up before it started to rain. The ennui, well, you, on accident, took three of my Ambiens! The figure in the window, that was me, getting a stylish outfit together for Eric's "bad bar crawl birthday." Oh, and the boils--chiggers! The Diarrhea--that late night Taco Bell lava taco. Dust from the debris made you cough and cut through a outlet plug. And the blood is from the drill hitting your hand!...

But, I slowly tuned Jon out, as I often do, and stared at the gold-framed mirror on the living room mantle. There, standing next to Jon's reflection, was Mr. Finch, in a suit-- holding a brown whiskey bottle.

Coughing into a finely woven lace handkerchief, Mr. Finch smiled at me and sat down in the red wooden rocker, where he stayed for four days.

-Ron (and Jon, and Atticus)

Color Theory

2008-09-21T19:17:00.000-07:00

I am focused, some would say fanatical, about color. Before Ron and I had even figured out how, or if, we could purchase Chestnut House, I had ordered nearly 100 paint samples based on interior colors specific to the late 1880's. When Ron would say things like, "How much is our house payment going to be?", "What will it cost to replace the plumbing and electricity?", or, my favorite, "Shouldn't we have at least one working toilet before we move in?", I would hold up a color card in front of him and say, "Who cares? Won't this subtle bronze look fantastic in the hall?"

Paints with proper names like Rookwood, Ravenscroft, even Biltmore were scattered across the floor so I, like a mad scientist, could monitor the effects of direct sunlight on various shades during different times of the day. I would note subtle chromatic changes based on the time of day, the angle of the Earth's rotation in a particular orbit cycle, the amount of pollen in the air, atmospheric pressure, and the way the shades changed whenever various friends came by. You don't often think about it, but a 300 lb. tatooed brunette changes the feeling of a color as dramatically as a wispy 6' blonde. The range of skintones, haircolors, and sizes represented by our closest friends made me work even harder to find the right shades to make everyone appear their healthy, vibrant, sexy best.

I even tried color-matching Atticus, because Nate Berkus said on Oprah to match your interior to something in your home that you already love. (Anyone who doesn't think interior design is a hard profession has never tried to cram a squirming, terrified terrier underneath that little color-scanner in the Lowe's paint department!)

All this work led to one of the most humbling experiences of my adult life. Every shade, every nuance carefully studied and fretted over, I came up with my "perfect palette":

Jubilee Blue-based on a sash worn by Queen Victoria during official functions,

Titian's Portrait Tone-the exact color the artist used as a base for skintones in his portraits,

Library Pewter-the perfect shade of green-grey that bookbindings take on when decades of dust have settled on their spines,

White Hyacinth-a creamy neutral that mimics the shade of a springtime favorite just as it opens and gasps it first taste of the season, and

Bridle Cordovan-a rich red-brown gleaned from saddle leather in British stables.

Ron had a friend over to view the house the other day. I had my hard-won color selections hanging on a wall in the living room. With a flourish, Ron pointed to them and said, "Here are the colors we've chosen."

"Oh," anonymous friend said,"Blue, Tan, Green, Brown, and Off-White. They're nice."

And so my Mister Blanding bubble burst. Oh well, if we don't like them, we can always repaint!

Jon (and Ron and Atticus)

Style

2008-09-14T10:29:00.000-07:00

The other day, while sitting in our depression-era "red wooden rocker room", I wondered - when did Jon's and my style come together? How did we know that old musty rugs, dirty brown medical bottles, and shabby chipped-veneer tables would make us happy together, let alone make a "style" for our Queen Anne home?

Style. or home decor, has been the basis of people's lives since the beginning of time. They say that "INTERIOR DECORATORS" are the third oldest profession (behind hookers and motherhood). I mean, someone had to guide the "cave mothers" to include beautiful stick figure wall murals depicting hunting scenes in their humble cave abodes. Even French prostitutes were helped in creating that lovely 19th century bordello look we all covet today. (dripping velvet curtains, large plush chaises, and enough small throw pillows to say "Je ne sais quoi") So, what influenced Jon and me to do what we do in our decorating style?

Well, you could say we were influenced by our families. I mean, I still remember the Barca-loungers and thick golden shag carpet in my living room, and how I said, in 1974, "I hope I always have a comfy chair to sit in to watch Johnny Quest, and thick jungle-like carpet for G I Joe to hide from the evil Big Jim."

Could it be our friends homes? Could their style be slowly seeping into our decorating "psyche"? I mean, I have coveted our Historic Northeast friends Andy and Alan's "1940's Asian Kitsch" living room for years. Envied Corrie and Matt's modern angular bookcase sitting next to a turn of the century upright piano, am in awe of David's eclectic midtown bachelor pad, and the converging lines of Grandmotherly antiques mixed with tribal masks at Jeff's Brookside bungalow. I still catch my breath when I see the 22 foot long, low-rising, aquamarine, 50's sofa in Peregrine and Mark's Crossroads loft.

No, I realize "style" comes from being comfortable. Comfortable in your surroundings, and what inspires you when you wake up each morning to start your day in Urban Bohemia. I realize this is what our friend's are doing, and this is what those cave women and hookers were striving for - a comfortable style that inspires. So what if taxidermy, skeletons, old chairs, and dirty rugs help Jon and I to see the morning sun? At least we see it together through dingy curtains.

Ron (and Jon and Atticus)

SPARKS

2008-09-07T19:41:00.000-07:00

Ron bought me a pet for my birthday. A perfect pet. A red fox, stuffed and posed, sealed in a huge plexi-glass box.

All of the joy, none of the hassle. My fox stands happily on the mantle, glass-eyed, bushy-tailed, asking for nothing but a good dust-bustering once a season.

Carol, Ron, Jeff, the Cousins, and I all made the trek to Sparks and White Cloud last weekend for the giant flea market/antique fair/people-watching extravaganza held there twice a year.

Jeff and Ron were actually on a quest. Jeff wanted sad, 1940's luggage that gave the impression it had escaped from the Nazis, and Ron wanted a large rug that wouldn't get ruined when zombies bled on it. Not surprisingly, they both found what they were looking for.

The Cousins and Carol. on the other hand, had different goals. They were only interested in buying pieces that weighed 300 lbs. or more apiece. Two cement lions, an enameled dry sink, and a table that feels as if it were made from pieces left over after the Ancients assembled Stonehenge, and our intrepid ladies were good to go. Thank goodness they didn't notice the Special Selection of Really, Really, Really Heavy Things and Assorted Doilies in Section Q, Row 3, or we would never have gotten out of there.

Atticus, I might remind you, is a wire-haired Fox Terrier. A terrier specifically bred to hunt foxes. This brilliant paragon of his breeder's genetic achievements has yet to realize there is A GIANT FOX SITTING UNDER A PLEXI-GLASS BOX NEXT TO HIM IN THE LIVING ROOM!!! He does, however, seem to appreciate the new Bob White skeleton under glass, but that is an entirely different story.

Soon-

Jon (and Ron and Atticus)

SIMPLE LIFE 101

2008-08-31T10:15:00.000-07:00

The other day, as I was carrying a box of books up the 1880's staircase in our 1880's Victorian house, I tried dodging a non-moving lump of Wire-Fox Terrier on the fourth step, tripped and fell. As the box tumbled out of my hands and smashed open, a dictionary leapt out of the box and landed on the landing: opened and splayed out to the page with this definition:
simple |ˈsimpəl|
adjective ( -pler , -plest )
1 easily understood or done; presenting no difficulty : a simple solution | camcorders are now so simple to operate.
• plain, basic, or uncomplicated in form, nature, or design; without much decoration or ornamentation : a simple white blouse | the house is furnished in a simple country style.
• [ attrib. ] used to emphasize the fundamental and straightforward nature of something : the simple truth.

It hit me. (A David Ford painting against the wall literally fell and hit me.) And then it hit me again. "I have chosen to live a more simple life!"
My quest to become simple, plain, basic, or uncomplicated has been a long time coming, and like all good couples, I had decided to drag Jon with me. Our first foray into the simple life was the departing of our massive sound system from that modern 1920's loft building we once called a home/theatre/stage area/performance arena/storage-unit of mismatched decades, when Jon, Atticus, and I moved. We now only listen to vinyl in our home in the Historic Northeast. In fact, as I type this on Jon's black Remington typewriter, we are listening to Sister Adele singing "Dominic-a" with all of its scratches and pops and snaps on a vintage turntable. Simple.

My next step- I banished my cell phone. (Well, really I destroyed our phones in a horrible cup holder "accident" on the way to Oklahoma City. You see, I placed both of our modern phone devices in the holder to make room for the dog to lay up-front in the truck and watch Wichita zoom by. The cup holder had an inch-and-a-half of water in it. These new-fangled items do not care to be submerged, so they died.) So, from now on, it is the aquamarine princess phone in the front parlor for me. Simple.
The "Simple Life" is coming to me much easier now, and each day I make bigger strides to step back and relax. I started to embrace having no washbasin in our upstairs powder room, kneeling after using the water closet and cleansing my hands in the iron claw foot tub. Each morning, waking from the sounds of Jon's wind up "1776" alarm clock (I tossed out the modern one beside the bed the other day), I put my hair up in a bun with a "simple" sprig of baby's breath-slip on a "simple white blouse" and full bustle and skirt and head down to my kitchen area to heat up the griddle that is sitting on our modern stove (that has yet to be hooked up.) To be honest, we just don't have the money yet to have this modern of a device in our home. I start prepare Jon's "simple" breakfast. A "simple" breakfast listed in Helen Corbitt's Cookbook for Housewives, consists of 6 strips of thick bacon, 4 eggs sunny side up, strong black coffee and corn fritters (that you had prepared the night before). Simple.

I keep embracing more of this lifestyle each day. My friends are even jumping in to help me on my quest. David Wayne Reed is teaching me how to ride the city's bus system. No more cars for me! Corrie Van Ausdal brought us homemade bread (she had made, I might add) for one of our meals. (It looked so good, but Atticus pulled it off the counter and devoured half of it by the time I had returned from gathering fresh basil in the garden). Simple.
I really need to go, my copper pots out back are now boiling and I need to add the lye and ash to make my soap. I hand wash all of Jon and my clothes-since we do not have a washer and dryer set up yet, and the last trip to the turquoise washer/dryer LAUNDRO-RAMA down the street has turned me off of the modern world.

It is the simple life for me, tons of work to do. And I pray that I never mix "simple" and "ton" together.

Ron (and Jon, and Atticus)

Peculiar...

2008-08-24T10:55:00.000-07:00

As I awoke one morning this week from an Ambien-induced fog, Ron told me we were headed to the home of Winnie Goldsmith (a former owner of Chestnut House) to help her gather a few remaining things she couldn't move by herself. Our reward for this neighborly deed would be a beautiful 1920's glider for our front porch. What he failed to mention was that he had been "duped". We had to drive to Peculiar, MO to retrieve it. We live on 6th Street. Her house was off of 275th Street. You do the math. Let's just say when I saw signs pointing us towards Springfield, I panicked. All is well though, and the glider is where it belongs. Up until last week, we were going to rip the porch right off the front of the house. Now we can't imagine the house without it.

It has been a wonderful week at Chestnut House. The social life of our new home was introduced quietly on Tuesday, when an intimate gathering of friends celebrated Jeff and Stacie's birthdays.

I've thought a lot this week about the power of friendship. How a disparate group, bound only by their genuine affection for each other, can create moments of magic. The reading of the "Big Lebowski" in Scott and Jen's backyard on Monday raised over twelve hundred dollars for an actor friend battling cancer. These staged readings of movies, that started as a tongue-in-cheek experiment at the Student Union, have taken on a life of their own, becoming creative (and philanthropic) events. I couldn't be prouder.

The same fond feeling spilled over to a gathering at Chestnut House Saturday, when our tribe of artists and bon vivants chose to spend their evening reminiscing amid the rubble. Ron and Cousin Linda brought me hydrangeas from an abandoned house on the corner to help decorate for the evening. They also brought me a wasp, several ants and a Praying Mantis that decided to stay for the party. We were going to usher him out the front door until we realized he likes to eat flies. Now we're thinking of legally adopting him. No one seemed to mind the peeling paint, the missing walls, the layers of debris trapped precariously above their heads. When Ron served his paninis and corn-jalepano fritters among a gourmet potluck supplied by our guests, I truly felt our "house" turn to "home".
(Ron, by the way, created everything on a griddle and a George Forman Grill. I can't imagine what he'll do when our stove finally gets hooked up!)

Our porch became everyone's favorite "room", and we all jockeyed for a spot on the glider. We had to institute a "no saved seats" policy to guarantee everyone a turn. Ron's "Dog and Waddle" fence in the front yard was also a major hit. Thanks to our friend Joanne, we learned the proper English name for it, and don't have to call it a "Bunny Fence" anymore.

Ron and I talk often about "blessing" the house. Now I realize there's no need for sage, horseshoes, or jumping over broom handles. Our house is already blessed.

-Jon (and Ron and Atticus)

HOLDING OUT FOR A HERO

2008-08-17T12:54:00.000-07:00

The other day, while ripping up three levels of linoleum in our Victorian kitchen, I was engulfed with a cacophony of profound words coming from our not-so-Victorian boom box:
WHERE HAVE ALL THE GOOD MEN GONE AND WHERE ARE ALL THE GODS?
WHERE'S THE STREET-WISE HERCULES TO FIGHT THE RISING ODDS? ISN'T THERE A WHITE KNIGHT UPON A FIERY STEED? LATE AT NIGHT I TOSS AND TURN AND DREAM OF WHAT I NEED....I NEED A HERO! I'M HOLDING OUT 'TILL THE END OF THE NIGHT. HE'S GOTTA BE STRONG! AND HE'S GOT TO BE FAST! AND HE'S GOTTA BE FRESH FROM THE FIGHT!
Oh, Bonnie Tyler, you are so wise. Her words propelled me to start crow-barring (is that a word?) the second layer of 1970's gold and brown pattern linoleum and contemplating: do I have heroes?
Well, the answer is yes. Hello! I mean I have great friends that have many times been heroic. And of course, I married one of my favorite heroes in the world, next to Oscar Wilde, Harvey Milk, and Michael Phelps. But, do I have a hero that's " UP WHERE THE MOUNTAINS MEET THE HEAVENS ABOVE! OUT WHERE THE LIGHTNING SPLITS THE SEA. I WOULD SWEAR THAT THERE'S SOMEONE SOMEWHERE WATCHING ME?" Someone somewhere watching out for me?
Well yes. I do. And these prolific words of Bonnie Tyler showed me the light of the past three weeks at Chestnut House.
You see, the other day, Jon, my sister Carol, and I decided to replace the shattered, broken, boarded-up window in the front parlor room of the house. We had purchased a window from The Restore-Habitat for Humanity recycled home item store,in the East Bottoms. The window was huge. The opening for the window was not as huge. So, as I stood on the ladder trying to saw and pry the two windows from there window opening (they had forced a 1970's window over a 1920's old pulley frame) I slipped. And started to fall back but my sister Carol reacted fast and grabbed my backside to save me. Instead of just bracing me in my fall, she reached for fabric of my OP(Ocean Pacific, for the fashionable unknown) cargo shorts, but slipped and grabbed a handful of underwear. And PULLED. And pulled until my underwear was around my neck. She had saved me with a wedgie! A wedgie saved my life!
I then realized that I have had a hero watching out for me all of my life. This woman (who the other day was mistaken for my younger sister) had always been there for me. Through starting a theatre (stage managing 20 some shows), my many moves, and moods, and trips, and up and downs, Carol has been the constant hero. And now, Chestnut House is her next heroic effort. If it is ripping out walls, tearing up dirty pink 70's carpet, or putting in a new toilet (which involved a rotting toilet ring and clogged plumbing with funky bile) this woman is there for me. Whether she is channeling our dear deceased mother's ability to find the right tool for the project, or channeling our lesbian friends for strength and endurance, or channeling Carol Channing, Carol steps forward to be an Extreme Home Makeover, D.I.Y, HGTV, This Old House, kinda gal. A HERO. So, Bonnie Tyler, I am "holding out no more for a hero 'til the morning light." She is here.

Ron (and Jon, and Atticus, and Carol)

DECORATING AMIDST THE RUBBLE

2008-08-10T09:09:00.000-07:00

(...or How Thaddeus Learned to Ride the Squirrel)

Like few homeowners in the midst of a major construction project, the first half of our week was spent ignoring the obvious holes in the ceiling, clogged drains, dead outlets, and grease-soaked carpet in a 2nd-floor kitchen that will soon be a guest suite. Instead, we chose small decorating projects that didn't have any heavy machinery involved. I still feel like wearing a fencing mask every time I pick up a tool, and sharp edges make me flinch!

There were no ghost sightings this week. I don't know what the vacation season is for disembodied spirits, but this seemed a nice week for the Finches to get away.

After placing a Victorian doll (Thaddeus) straddling a stuffed squirrel on our coffee table, I felt my work for the week was accomplished. Ron had other plans. Plans that included the dreaded crowbar that I had left, bloodied and serpentine, ready to strike, right where it lay after it attacked my face last week. That crowbar made me feel like a sissy, a feeling I was ready to embrace and live with, rather than ever pick it up again.

We started late in the week finishing the project I had started in the hallway, opening up the door frame. Ron did the heavy labour, I hauled the discarded drywall around the corner. I thought this system worked great, so we moved to another spot downstairs. We removed a hallway and closet from our dining room. I passed out Gatorade and told Ron everything he was doing wrong, and how I'd do it differently. Again, I thought this was a great system, but if you hear of me getting knocked cross-eyed again by a swinging crowbar, it will be NO accident.

Ever the intrepid Urban Archaeologists, we moved to the kitchen to remove a dropped ceiling that had started dropping on its own. I didn't realize dropped ceilings dropped themselves, but this ceiling took its title very seriously. After removing a ca. 1990's dropped ceiling, we found a ca. 1970's dropped ceiling. Under that was a ca. 1930's dropped ceiling, and under that the original 1884 plaster ceiling. There were assorted dinosaur bones, Jimmy Hoffa, and a garish retro floral wallpaper that I can understand being covered. I would have constructed something over it myself, rather than look at it! We removed it all.

We also took out a couple walls upstairs this week. We still haven't found any treasures, but we did find a steak knife and a half-eaten sandwich sandwiched between the drywall.

We start our Sunday listening to Mae Williams and prepping ourselves to install a huge window in the front of the house. If you know that woman's sad biography, you can tackle any frustrating project knowing she had it worse!

More next week-

Jon (and Ron and Atticus.)

p.s. the Finches just called. They'll be arriving late Thursday.

THE CHESTNUT "AMITYVILLE" HOUSE HORROR!

2008-08-03T15:21:00.000-07:00

"What's Happening!" I screamed as I swung open our large Victorian front door. (I was channeling Dana (Dominique Dunne), Carol Anne's elder sister in "POLTERGEIST")
There, standing on the sweeping staircase, was Jon. Blood pouring down his dandy-featured face.
Jon screamed out,"CROWBAR...fallen..into...nose! Please, rush me to the hospital!"
As, we screeched down Chestnut to KU Med, The tragic tool story unfolded...
"You see, I wanted to surprise you by taking out a wall. I had wedged a crowbar on the ledge, started pulling the dirty 1980's salmon pink shag carpet up , when, well, it dislodged, and landed-point first on my nose!"
"The ghosts!" I whispered. "The Ghosts."
Really. I should start at the beginning of this wild two weeks in our new (old..circa 1884) mansion. You see, the first days of moving in, a stout, solid woman in a casual blue blouse named WINNIE GOLDSMITH stopped by. She, with her husband and two children had lived in the house for thirty years until "the Hispanic Man", as she put it, bought it in 2001.
"The "HISPANIC MAN" is the one who illegally converted this grand dame into five apartments," WINNIE said in a whisper.
Well, on our two hour tour of the house with WINNIE, we learned that the previous owners before the GOLDSMITH'S were the FINCHES. AN ECCENTRIC WIDOW LIVING WITH HER SON (AN ALCOHOLIC MAN WHO NEVER WAS MARRIED!)
"We found hundreds of his liqueur bottles in the walls of the attic. He died of consumption in this very room! "WINNIE proclaimed. (Insert lightning and thunder here)
After this tour, "THINGS" began happening.
First, Jon was taking a "moment" in the upstairs bathroom when the door opened seven inches.
Jon yelled out " Ron, I am in here having a moment!" The door swiftly shut. "Thank you!" But, you see, I was in the front yard planting heirloom plants from the 1880's. It was not me.
Secondly, several days later, Jon and I were sitting in the front parlor on the Silk Damask sofa sipping Spritzers, casually talking about the "moment", when the front door swung open and then slammed. We both screamed. The door was LOCKED!
Third, Jon's nose meeting a crowbar. Seven stitches!
Fourthly, and this is the scariest moment, or as Jon likes to call it "The Amityville" section of our ghost story, thousands of black flies invaded our circa 1970's kitchen and back bathroom.(see photo for proof) Jon's mom and dad say it could be wet mold pockets in the wall where the maggots live. The internet fly web page says it could be a dead bird or beaver, or rodent like thing stuck somewhere making a condo for the flies. But, I know it is Mr.FINCH, the bachelor son. Booze, and drunken dandies always attract flies (cartoons in the 1940's were always drawn that way)
And all the other Changeling things happening? MRS. FINCH. That is the only explanation.
"WE EMBRACE YOU FINCHES! WE WILL MAKE THE HOUSE SHINE AGAIN! BECAUSE MRS.FINCH, WE KNOW IT MUST OF BEEN HARD LIVING, FOR 70 YEARS, WITH YOUR DRUNKEN BACHELOR SON!"

Until next week...

-Ron (and Jon and Atticus and Winnie and The Finches, etc...etc...etc...)

Love at First Sight

2008-07-27T08:21:00.000-07:00

When Ron and I first fell for Chestnut House, she was being sold "as is". A charming Craftsman Gothic home, built in 1884, three towering stories on a corner lot in the Historic Northeast neighborhood of Kansas City, MO, the house spoke to us-even from the skimpy snapshots posted online by a hurried realtor.

Our love affair with the house began the moment she appeared on the horizon. A haughty, yet humbled, grand dame in need of our attention. The type of old girl that, in her day, would never have been seen without her hat and gloves was sitting, crumpled and tumbledown on her corner, stockings ripped and hem showing.

We couldn't wait to explore the house. Our friend (and realtor) Yuri, himself living in a restored Victorian a few blocks North, received an unexpected visit that first afternoon.

"May we see the house on the corner over there?'

"When?"

"Immediately?"

"Alright."

Little did we know "as is" in property-speak means a ridiculous conversion of a beautiful home into five separate apartments, a destroyed air conditioner, expansive windows hidden behind drywall and duct tape, and a musty basement stripped of every copper pipe and wire belonging to the house.

Nothing deterred us. Our hearts were stolen as quickly as the copper had been. We could see through the walls, see through the stained pink wall-to-wall carpet, even see through a full bathroom built unceremoniously in the middle of the living room. Little did we know x-ray vision wasn't the only superpower we'd have to develop to save Chestnut House. It was too late...with that first look, our affair with this gracious girl had begun.