Entry #1
June 21, 2023 — 8:30 AM
Closing was two days ago. Yesterday was the first proper day inside, most of it in late afternoon light. I’m starting this renovation journal to keep myself honest: scope, costs, problems, fixes. No stories, just what’s here and what it needs.
The listing called it a 1920s farmhouse with updates. It feels older than that. Not in a romantic way—just in the materials. Wavy glass in two parlor windows, hairline cracks in the plaster that show the pattern of the lath beneath, wide baseboards cut with a profile I don’t see in newer trim. Mortise locks with skeleton keys that stick. The staircase treads are worn to a slight dish under the runner, not something you get in a few decades.
Visible problems on first pass: a brown halo on the back bedroom ceiling, directly beneath the roof valley. It’s dry now but recent—edges still sharp. Attic inspection showed damp sheathing near the valley flashing. Add “roof valley repair” to the list. Front porch has a sag on the northeast corner; the post there is soft at the base and the footing is heaved. Temporary shoring will do until I can pull the post and pour a new pier. In the parlor, two outlets test dead; the cover plates are mismatched and one box is loose in the plaster. The bathroom exhaust fan vents into the attic instead of outside, which explains the faint mildew odor up there. None of this is fatal; just more than the listing photographs suggested.
Yesterday’s air had a cool edge to it for June, like the first nudge of early autumn. Might just be this ridge; it drops off to a stream valley and the breeze runs cold out of it when the sun goes. The house holds that temperature oddly. The front hall—narrow, with the stair rising straight up—runs colder than the rooms it connects. You can step from the dining room into the hall and feel a change on your skin. I put the infrared thermometer on it: about five degrees difference. North-facing, no southwest sun, tile over what’s probably an uninsulated crawl or slab, and a stack effect up the stair pulling air from the gap under the front door. The weatherstripping there is brittle and the threshold is scalloped with age. Fix the seal, insulate the return path, and it should even out.
The floors carry sound well when I’m moving—boots thud, nails ping somewhere inside the wall when weight shifts. But the house has an odd stillness when I stop. The road is set back; you barely hear it. Trees break the wind. With the vents closed and the windows tight, there’s no constant hum. Just occasional clicks as the cooling wood contracts and the distant gutter tick where last night’s dew gathered and let go.
It’s an old envelope with a few leaks and a long memory in its materials. Today: call the roofer, pull the porch post measurement, buy weatherstripping, and open the attic window long enough to air it. I’ll leave the hall for last, after I’ve warmed the rest of the system. No reason to chase cold through the house before I’ve sealed the obvious gaps.
When I stop moving, the house sounds different.
— Thomas Hale