A photographic walk through the window replacement

HomoDommi is at this very moment taking a bus back to our rainy city to move into the next phase of kitchen construction.  Since he left, at the start of the month, we have had our good friend Mike the Contractor in to work on the windows.

To start, this is how the relevant corner of the kitchen has looked since roughly the late 1950's (not including the island in the foreground, with the basket of broccoli on it).  We are looking due north in this photo.

For the edification of those tracking the progress of the walls, I refer to the wall straight ahead alternately as, the "north" or "exterior" or "bathroom door" wall. The wall on the left is alternately known as the "west", or "sink" wall (because in the final kitchen, the sink will be there), and very rarely, the "basement stair wall", because it is adjacent to the basement stairs, as you will see in the next photo.

This next photo was taken during the main dismantling of the room in February. Taking out the cabinets on the west wall left no wall at all (the solid bit had been a 3/4" sheet of very high quality plywood, with no studs. The upper cabinets were built down from the soffit, the lower cabinets up from the floor).

(Here, you can see a door to the outside, on the north wall, which opens to a small landing in the stairs to the basement, about 3 feet below the floor of the kitchen.)

The window in the north wall was not original to the house -- the frame was made of a golden pine matching the kitchen cabinets, not the fir everywhere else, and the opening mechanism involved sliding on poles, not weighted sashes. It must have been a mass-produced window that they had to cut to fit the space (except it didn't fit the space -- it is too big, both visually and physically -- the frame was carved around the upper cabinets). The windows never opened reliably.

Our house has quite plain, double-hung, single-pane, sash windows framed in fir (learn about the names of the parts of a window here). The plainness was a cost-saving alternative, we believe, selected by the builder (the identical house across the street, built a year or two earlier, has fancier windows with muntins). We think that the north wall will be a dominant feature in the kitchen, so we wanted something a little more interesting than plain, but still within period for the house.

We shopped forever.  HomoDommi and I actually had bought a beautiful old window to replace this one in 2008, but we mis-measured and it was too big.  There are about four used architectural supply shops in the city, and we haunted them for weeks, trying to find a window of approximately the right size, that would match the original feel of the house.  We could have made one (from individual panes, readily available) but getting the casing to work well with sashes is tricky, so we held out for a complete window. Which we managed to find in late March.

It is definitely period -- lots of houses around here have this style of window -- even if our house doesn't. It is taller and narrower than the 1950s window, but fits securely under the original header used by whatever window was there in 1915. In my opinion, it isn't the perfect window -- it is still just a little too big -- but it is an improvement over what was there, and it was available (hence, good enough).

At the same time that we are reducing the window on the north wall, we want to have as much light as possible in the kitchen. So we decided to add an interior window over where the sink will be, which gets indirect light through the glass in the exterior door in the north wall (see photo #2 above). The view there isn't exciting -- it's a blank wall opposite and the sloping ceiling over the stairs -- so we wanted the window to be interesting to look at in itself, rather than to be something one looks through.

Again, much shopping. The Texan found this window in a local antique shop, among two dozen others. The shop owner said they have stained glass windows of this sort shipped from England as fillers inside the armoires that the shop specializes in -- every shipment is unique and fairly random.  This was the most interesting of the windows available at the time, with that nice little arched brow.

(The stained glass image itself is a kind of Rorschach.  Girl-Child says it is a flower. I see a puffy-sleeved house-keeper resting for a moment in the heat of mid-day.)

The current status of both windows is: installed, but not finished. It's pretty obvious what is needed on the sink wall window -- the rest of the wall.  The exterior window needs to be weighted, and none of the outer finishing work is done (i.e., no siding or framing). Because the wood on both windows is not particularly fine, we are planning to paint, not stain, both of them -- the only departure in treatment from the rest of the ground floor.

Strictly speaking, the window over the sink-to-be is not period to the house, and is something of a stretch in the design. We do have stained glass elsewhere (some nice grapes in the windows over the built-in buffet in the dining room) which ideally we would have matched here in the kitchen. But even that would not have been "kosher" of course -- no right-minded builder in 1915 would put stained glass in a kitchen. The arched brow is another feature that doesn't match the rest of the house, nor does it match the other new-old window in the kitchen.  But this is where I'm counting on the unique charm of the other features of the house -- the mural, the studio, the bike cellar -- to open the overall design to be something a little more organic. This becomes the unique touch in the kitchen.

Weekend work, urr, non-work

[Updated version to correct text over-writing images. At least, I hope so. I also made a few textual edits to clarify some details.]

Saturday ended up being a day off, although we didn't plan it that way. HomoDommi invited me to his book club (which was quite pleasant) and then the household joined old friends for the evening, just to kibbutz.

On Sunday, we geared up for work and almost instantly were at a standstill.  This is what much of Sunday felt like.

That is, staring at a hole in the floor, scratching our heads, in more than a little exasperation.

The cause: the hole we made when we removed the chimney.  It's a nice, clean hole down into the basement, about 18" square. When it was filled with chimney, it was surrounded by drywall (in fact, we only removed the last remnant of the drywall last month during the deconstruction). When it was a chimney surrounded by drywall, contractors would use the small gaps to run wires and plumbing through.

Here is a photo, taken when we began this project 3 years ago.  It shows the chimney still in place in the kitchen (although the front wall of covering has been removed).

Next, the same view after getting rid of the bricks (and the ceiling except for the 2x4s).  You can see all those wires running through the gap behind the chimney, and, less obviously, a couple rigid, pale yellow pipes running up the near corner -- between the chimney and the (still-standing, in the photo) drywall. (I've talked about them before, in my list of infrastructure opportunities.)

I blogged about a ten days ago about the productive day HomoDommi and I had, moving the pipes that run up to the second floor -- some of that involved moving them from the front corner of the space shown back into the true wall, between the joists. And the electricians came in and wired the area for a light switch, and also ran wires through for the ceiling lights in the new kitchen.

In all this, we didn't realize that one wire -- one very fat, large wire -- hasn't been neatly tucked back into that between-joists frame.  You can see it in the two close-up photos.

This wire, which is taut, goes all the way up to the attic and provides most (if not all) of the lighting on the second floor. We need it to not be crossing out into the airspace in front of that hole.




Another issue is, how do you fill a hole?  I mean, solidly, so that a refrigerator can rest upon it (that's what the masking tape shows, the front of the fridge), and so that people might someday walk across it.  That is, without reflooring a massive area around the hole, and while adding a laundry chute to the area.

Still the day was not totally given over to frustration.  The Texan and I installed the second of the two concrete boards backing the sink.  And we picked out a window to install over the sink in that wall (as shown).

Opportunities #4 & #5: Windows and Ceiling

We actually have a working kitchen -- refrigerator, stove, sink and even a dishwasher (which is the odd black and white thing straight ahead in the central photo -- the front panel fell off a couple of years ago).  Only about 1 square foot of counter space however, so no Cordon Bleu meals will be happening soon.  

This photo collage shows the state of the ceiling. From left to right: looking west towards the front hall (e.g., the pantry/hallway), looking north towards the kitchen proper and the little half-bath, and looking up at the ceiling overhead (all photos taken standing just in front of the doorway to the dining room).  I've talked about the black serpent in the upper right corner of the middle photo -- the heating vent to the bathroom upstairs.  The cock-eyed photo on the right shows the one light fixture jerry-rigged in right now, and all three photos show the state of the original ceiling -- a mix of broken lathe and plaster, bare plaster (with water stains) and partially painted plaster.  (The wood-toned division between tan walls and green upper walls is the structural remains of the dropped ceiling -- 2x4s nailed to the wall -- It is hard, but you need to imagine that gone.) 

The wide blue tape (at the corners and along the top) on the window over the sink is roughly outlining dimensions for a new window in the north wall.  (Sorry it's not clearer, I ran out of tape and wasn't thinking of photos when I put it up.)  The existing window was installed in the 1950's remuddle of the house -- as with other windows they replaced then, it is too big for the space, and doesn't match the style of the house (although to be fair, the woodwork matched the "new" kitchen woodwork). Clearly, they were trying to add as much light as possible to the room (to the extent that the 2" frame has been cut into to make it fit the wall). But the light that comes in that window is from the north: it is cold and dim in the winter, and in the summer, it is overly bright and harsh, reflected off the neighbor's light-colored house (that blank wall you see through it in the photo). (Not to mention -- although at this angle you can't see it -- the window looks directly into the neighbor's kitchen window.)

So, we are looking for a replacement window. HomoDommi points out that the window will be one focus of attention in the room -- as you enter from the dining room it is straight ahead, and it will be the only thing on that wall (the sink will be moved -- more about that below).  So we want it to be worthy.  We are searching the antique and rebuilding supply stores for an original. Windows are pretty commonly available here, though -- not necessarily worthy ones, but they do exist -- so I have faith that we will be able to find one (less faith that we will be able to find one in a timely manner -- we may have to consider having one custom-made).

Moving the sink, and possibly adding another window

In the central photo you can also see, to the far left, the red door to the side yard.  There used to be a wall blocking that view, and there will be again (I can't find the words to describe the plane of the wall here, so you'll have to just trust me, and study the photo, if you care -- there is part of a wall still there.)  The sink/dishwasher combination (replaced with new of each) will be turned perpendicular to where it is now, backed up against that to-be-constructed wall.  We are considering installing an opaque window (non-opening) above the sink, in that still-hypothetical wall.  It would let in needed light from the side yard, and give a feeling of openness to the sink.

(A sample "tin ceiling", in white.)

The Ceiling

The default fix for this sort of situation is to throw sheetrock up, covering over any flaws in what remains of the lathe and plaster.  This is, in a way, what the 1950's remuddle did, by lowering the ceiling. And we could do that, too (at a higher elevation) although sheetrock is heavy, and smooth, and kind of boring.  What we're more interested in doing is applying an old-fashioned tin ceiling.  These are 24" lightweight metal squares that you just nail into the lathe and plaster (sort of) -- a lot easier than the sheetrock application, and frankly, it just looks cool. The ceiling tiles can be metallic, or painted.

This house was built at the tag end of the tin ceiling style, but it's not unheard of in period restorations, and -- applied with some restraint -- it can look quite splendid.  Here is a link to some sample tin ceilings. You will note that restraints have not always been applied, making (in my view) some of these rooms look oppressively top heavy.  

No decisions have been made on that, yet.  I expect, when we've got the pipes and venting out of the way, we'll buy a couple of squares and tack them up and see how it looks before committing further.

Girl-Child's Window Art

Last summer, Girl-Child and I ran across a Crayola product -- "crayons" for coloring on windows (washable).  We purchased them, because the threshold for art supplies with Girl-Child is understandably low.

Girl-Child immediately set to work on the dining room windows.  We love these pieces, which were in place from mid-August until yesterday, when I finally washed the windows.  Which I regret, while simultaneously appreciating the treasure of the ethereal.

A melange of images, signed by the artist herself, representing the conflict and counterbalance between urban decay and natural wonders.

The feline residents, at the time. Note Fredness's fierce expression and Harry's fluffy whiteness. I hung a sheet behind the window to capture the line drawings -- otherwise, it had a similar background to the photo above.

Again, with a sheet background, a foray into the veldt.

My personal favorite portrait of the whole wall of images.

Masking functional curtain rods

When this house was built, the dining room had a neat bow window with a window seat, looking south to the lawn and garden of the church next door. (The church building itself was on the far corner of an extra large lot.) Sometime mid-century (we believe at the time the ceiling of the dining room was dropped to cover the box beams, and when the kitchen was remodeled to something workable), the bow window was removed. In an early example of re-use, re-cycle, a set of four sash windows, taken from another house of the same period, were installed. The "new" windows don't quite fit the space -- they are huge (169", 429 cm), taking up the whole wall. The woodwork had to be cut narrower on one side, where the frame abuts an interior corner.

In the 1960's, when attendance was at a peak (from what we can tell, a steep and lonely peak), the charming small Victorian church was torn down, and the entire lot filled with an ugly cement slab church. The nave runs parallel to our house, 16 feet (4.8m) across a not-to-code driveway, three-stories tall. So, the large block of windows, which must have been such a wonderful change in 1948, now looks out onto a looming gray expanse. Sunlight peeks over the steepled roof only in high summer, bathing the dining room in hot light from dawn until near dusk. In winter, the east winds howl down the colorless canyon.

I am much more of a "curtain" person than the other members of the household, and one of the main changes that has occurred since I moved here is that gradually, all the windows are getting covered. This is the first winter we've had curtains in the dining room. We've been using tension rods for the last couple of months, which just looks weird with floor-length sort-of lined curtains (shown here), but finally last week we installed a proper rod, so now the whole set of windows can become a dark red fabric wall, holding back the frigid winds.

The delay was caused by the mural. HomoDommi is illustrating every square inch of wall space. Coincidentally, he had painted a steep bluff overhanging an inlet of the Pacific, to represent the south coast Oregon, right where the window frame met the wall. Right where a standard curtain rod would block the view.

The shallowest "rod" I could find proved to be an Ikea Digitet -- that is, a wire, slung about 2.5 inches (6.3cm) from the wall. Curtains are hung via little clips that slide onto the wire. Very practical, opens and closes well, but far more functional than attractive.

What we did was "pull" out the woodwork to in front of the curtain rod. That is, get some more wood, and hang a sort of box over the top of the window. Sort of like a wooden valance, but less intrusive or decorative than a true valance. As we hoped, it just fades into the woodwork -- which it should, because it is, ahem, woodwork. I got the idea from an article about someone updating their own turn-of-the-last-century house, where they covered insufficient windows with these woodwork-like valances. In that case, they hung the valance at the very top of the wall, so the woodwork blended in with the crown molding. The floor-to-ceiling curtains made a dramatic statement in that household. We had a different goal.

And it works to not-entirely cover HomoDommi's wonderful seacoast.