Fixing It Once and For All

After the many years of neglect, of being soaked with rain in slow degrees, the little ceiling under the side roof could no longer support a simple patch and paint job. One of the boards had to be replaced completely



These were tongue and groove pine boards, not like the ceiling that runs everywhere else outside. I could have just put a new board in place, but instead I cut a new tongue and groove board just for fun. It fit on the second adjustment.



Evidently this area was repaired once before, and I'm guessing that the boards in this section were leftover from the time that our bedroom was added to the house, possibly about 70 years ago. The boards are pine floor boards, just like the ones in our bedroom.

If my assumptions are correct, this water leak has been tormenting the house since World War II. Today I finished painting the wood. The project is pretty much complete except that I still have to wait another 2 weeks (according to the Internet gurus) before I can paint the new stucco patch on the wall. And then the next marathon rain storm will decide whether I have finally broken the curse and fixed the leak once and for all times.

Willow has assigned her two flunkies to oversee things. She must think my chances of success are pretty slim.

A Tree House for Tools

The problem with my leak is that it required an interdisciplinary solution. I would need a carpenter, a masonry person and a roofer. And not just any roofer--I'd need someone who works with Ludowici tiles.

Of course, I could do it myself (after studying all about the Ludowici Mission-style tiles), but the work site is about 14 feet above ground, and I can barely breathe at that altitude, at least when there is any chance I might fall.

So I built some scaffolding, something I've always wanted to do, like a little tree house except for tools.


My suspicions turned out to be true. Water had been wicking in behind the wall for years and years, rotting out a small section of roofing. The water was running down the wall. It ruined the previous window (the one I replaced), and now it stupidly thinks that it can ruin our new window.

I found evidence of at least two different attempts to repair the problem. In the first attempt, from decades ago, someone had cut out a section of stucco and then sort of pasted it back. This section just crumbled when I removed the roof tiles. Whatever the intent, the repair did not work


The second repair was done out of apparent desperation. The leak would not go away, so the person used massive amount of mortar as a sort of filler on the seam of where the roof meets the wall. The mortar, of course, had become black with mold because mortar is as thirsty as a sponge. Despite the mess, I was able to chip away at the mortar until I could pull up the tiles (I broke only one of them).

I replaced the roof, put on some new tar paper, and filled the hole in the wall with braces so that I will be able to attach some wire mess and put in new stucco.


Here's the section of crown molding I installed under the roof edge.


Next, the stucco,and then replacing the Ludowici tiles.

Watery Hubris

After nearly 5 years of apparent success, the first evidence of distress has now worked its way to the surface. I guess I've always known that my confidence was misplaced, that the rain was not really defeated from finding its way behind the wall, somewhere, somehow, and that it would eventually find the precious, soft, thirsty pine and give it a drink, which is OK for a while but only until the drinking becomes a problem and the wet wood invites mold and mildew to set up. I knew this would happen, and I could have done more to prevent it if only I had better understood the process back then. And now I can see a dark stain on the trim of our breakfast room window. The horror.

Water doesn't flow into a wooden structure, not like water flows down a ditch. No, the wooden boards pull it in, one cell feeding another, sucking it along the path of least resistance. I should have used a vapor barrier like tar paper just behind the trim. But I suppose that seemed overly cautious at the time.

Now the question is: where is the water getting in? Nothing invites superstition more than that question. After 10 years in this house, I have given up on the leaks. It rains, and when it rains long enough, the water gets in. The roofers I've called just shrug their shoulders--what can be done? Nothing. Rain will seep into the tiniest of tiny cracks, the skinniest of skinny pin holes.



I see what needs to be done but am lacking the will to do it. I can see that someone attempted a repair to the tiles by slathering them with concrete. These tiles need to be removed and replaced.

By god, I will do it.

Branch Down

The wind ripped through our back yard this week and twisted the big cherry laurel branch until it snapped--this is the branch that has provided shade for the fish ever since we moved in. A benevolent branch but not of a sturdy stock. I've watched it over the years, hanging there in defiance of gravity, much too fat for its own good and holding onto the mother trunk with no regard for common sense. More than once I considered trimming it back.



I was able to cut most of it down and carry the big limbs to the street. But since then it's rained and rained. I look out at the messy pond, the broken fern branches and the little remains of tree. What a soggy mess, all because I was too tired to finish the job when I had the chance.

Jam wanted to steal my t-shirt from the table, so I let him wear it for a while. Looks better on him than me.

A New Bridge

The old bridge over the upper pond is black and creaky and tired after several years of duty. Whoever designed it had good intentions, hoping that the graceful arch would add some additional grace, but the arch is too steep, and even the dogs are reluctant to walk over it for fear of slipping on the moldy foot boards. I can count the number of times I've crossed it in nine years, and I can count the number of times I've slipped onto my butt, which is once, just the other day. Once is enough.


So the Fall-Winter backyard project has a new sub-project (in addition to the pergola/gazebo and new flagstone walkways). Because I'm getting better with SketchUp, the design only took an hour or so, and I'm pretty happy with it. I've flattened out the arch, and the thicker bridge posts will have caps like the ones on the fence, so hopefully things will tie together.


In the meantime the summer rains have been very agreeable to our new plants, all thriving in their pots. Maybe by next Spring, when the hardscaping is complete, we can find a permanent home for these guys.


Our new pepper plant is in a state of compulsive production, which is OK, but I've been talking to her and telling her to chill out and take a break--we don't need 40 peppers every day. Maybe she's telling me that she prefers being potted. Maybe she knows how many of her species have met a bad end in our yard after I forced them into the ground.


Time is running out for my decision on the pergola/gazebo, but I just can't find the right design, something that is simple, practical and beautiful, and with just enough arch to make us happy. I'm looking.

Mystery Pagodas

I continue searching everywhere for a gazebo design that speaks to me. I love all the mini pagodas that I find, with their dramatically curved roofs, but they are a mystery because not one of them have plans or drawings or a clue about how to build them. How can this be?



I can sort of imagine what lies beneath the roof, but not with sufficient confidence, and I seem to more cautious these days, less likely to just make something up on the fly.

And then I wonder if such a thing would be appropriate, anyway, for our backyard Florida hammock, to be tucked under those big oaks and surrounded by philodendrons and viney things. Wouldn't a more rustic structure blend in? And so the waffling continues.


I consult my assistant project manager, Jam, but he insists on a beach theme. What a good boy