By Carol-Ann Rudy

The Studio Saga III: The Return of the Native (with apologies to author Thomas Hardy)

This circa 1943 one thousand square foot house has been undergoing renovations to reclaim its former charm so I can once again write and paint in it. But time and circumstance have changed: it will be re-purposed—in a new owner’s hands.

So just how did the renovation progress from its state of gargantuan mushrooms under the kitchen cabinets and stinkin’ chocolate-colored fungi under the floor boards?

Like a lady whose slip is showing, the little house had to be adjusted. And it was adjusted—by thousands of dollars for lumber, paint, hardware, rental of tools, rental of a large, economy-sized dumpster, hundreds of man-hours of labor, and cases of caulking. There’s plenty of caulking under the new maxiplank siding, the new window trim, and the new thresholds. It might have been better if I’d applied caulking to my wallet!

What’s the score? One renovator left town and hasn’t been heard from since. Another renovator finished the job, perhaps because he couldn’t leave town. He’s family.

Like a classic horror story, the little house suckered us in. First it charmed, with sunlight pouring in through the windows lighting the interior and making paint glow, the thwack of bat on ball in the baseball park across the street, the music of the branches of a 100-foot high tamarack sighing in the breeze. The nostalgia of wicker porch furniture and potted geranium.

Then insidiously, an electric circuit died. The hot water heater died. The gas furnace appeared to have died. As the renovator started to repair trim from a window on one side of the house, evidence of leaking and resultant wet rot appeared, covering 90% of the wall.

Floor boards on the porch started to sag. Boards at the back of the house silently rotted from rainwater, invisible to all until the renovator ripped out the ancient kitchen cabinets they backed up to. I like gardening, but I’m not committed to any secret society of mushroom fanciers. The house had been watering mushrooms.

Today, the house is once again its charming self, painted a soft yellow with black shutters, and tight against the weather. Where once mushrooms lurked, their poisonous selves hidden beneath the floor, now lies ceramic tile and new cabinets. Me? My artistic self is long-divorced from its charms, too many months supporting it instead of my artistic efforts.

I recall reading that owning a house has been anathema to many artists and writers: something they seek for beauty and security, but like some women, difficult and costly to maintain.

But I’ll remember my studio for the best reasons: some of my best work!