Curb appeal!

Did you know that you can recycle asphalt?

For a girl who is a reluctant user of petroleum products, this was welcome news. For a girl who's asphalt driveway was decades old, full of cracks, and sinking into a series of borderline-dangerous potholes, this was GREAT news!

I knew that I needed to replace my driveway. But acknowledging that fact was the home improvement equivalent of opening a can of worms. A can of very expensive worms. How would I tear the driveway up? What would I replace it with? How would the replacement deal with the wear and tear of winter and snowplows? What would I do with the massive amount of asphalt the project would displace?

I started my research by simply driving around town. Each street I turned down, I figured the ratio of paved driveways to dirt driveways. Admittedly math is not my strong suit, but let's just say that my very scientific research turned up that here in Kennebunkport, dirt driveways rule.

But even if I tore up all the asphalt, did I want to leave it at just dirt? Would that improve my curb appeal or downgrade it even further? What would this summer's visiting renters think?

With those questions in mind, I turned to nostalgia. I grew up in a house with a pea stone driveway. The sound of feet walking on the pea stone path to my front door always makes me remember my first home. The sound of tires on pea stone could only enhance that. I decided crushed stone was likely the way to go.

Then I turned to the Internet. RH Brown is located right down the road from my house. Their website confirmed that they sell both pea stone and loam (the loam for a new grassy area). A quick call informed me that they would also accept my old asphalt. And recycle it. For FREE.

And finally I turned to Boyfriend. He has muscles. I figured we were good to go.

Thank goodness for those muscles... and those of his helpful friends! The scope of the project was... intimidating.

And due to a terribly-timed herniated disc (or... perfectly timed?), I wasn't allowed to help. Although... I did pose for a photo anyway!

Like most Freedom Farm projects, the driveway project took place in phases. And things got a lot worse before they got better. Thank goodness for friends with tractors - the new 'friends with trucks'!

Or I guess I should really say 'thank goodness for friends with farms'... as we also took advantage of our friend's dump truck for a total of THREE full loads of asphalt down to RH Brown for recycling!

Once that was out of the way, we were ready to have our crushed stone and loam delivered.

I could not get over the size of that pile of dirt. Again, thank goodness for Boyfriend's muscles - and those of his friends - as they turned two huge piles into a whole new look for Freedom Farm.

Where there used to be asphalt there is a now a crushed stone driveway with space for three vehicles, a new lawn to separate the house from the road, and a crushed stone path to our sliding barn door.

No more asphalt and no more potholes. And thanks to the attention of our first summer tenants, our new grass is coming in beautifully.

Of course now that the project is officially wrapped up, my herniated disc is no longer considered surgical. I still can't decide if that was perfect or terrible timing - although Boyfriend would likely vote 'terrible'! I'm just excited to move back home this fall to an updated version of our barn, now with some curb appeal.

Oh, and in case you're curious... asphalt gets recycled into new roads. Seriously! Apparently the crushed asphalt kicks up less dirt than a traditional dirt road. I'm just relieved it did not end up in the landfill...

Adventures in Landlording

I've come to the realization that being a good landlord is all about having the right tenants. And boy, am I glad to have scored the family currently staying in the barn.

Wait, what? You rented out the barn?

Yes. Let me back up. Because a LOT has happened.

About a year and a half ago I met a man. We dated for three months before deciding it was serious, and then for 12 more after that before deciding we might want to move in together. Because I am a homeowner, and Boyfriend is not, it was easy deciding where to reside. Or... it could have been easy.

Except that I had the hairbrained idea that I'd like to join him on his lease and try living in Portland. And hey, my house is in Kennebunkport, so why not rent it out for the summer?

We shared our big news with our parents, and got their support. Or rather, their acknowledgement. When you're already in your thirties, your parents don't have much to say about you moving in with a man, other than, "Finally!"

Then we listed the house, and waited for interest.

What followed was a crazy few months that could have broken us, but instead made us stronger, through late night painting projects, overdrawn bank accounts, and never ending DIY home improvement.

Overdrawn bank accounts? Aren't you making crazy money?

Well, we're charging what should add up to crazy money, sure, but each penny we've collected has already been reinvested. Which is fine by us because the barn we return to will be exponentially better than the barn that we left, with new siding, new windows, and a new stove, among other things.

Other things like a new toilet. And here is where I get to my point.

My first renters, a family of five on a five-week beach vacation, have been fantastic. They love the house, they are taking amazing care of my gardens and new grass, and they are very communicative. And when something isn't acting quite right, being communicative is a really good quality in a tenant.

The email about the toilet came last Wednesday morning, a day I was already scheduled to swing by the house to meet up with my homeowners insurance company. (Insurance companies are not huge fans of my non-conforming structure, but hopefully they at least enjoyed my new windows and siding!) The family was heading out for the day and wanted to give me a heads up that the toilet appeared to have "stopped", and would I mind taking a look at it?

In the hours that passed before I made it to the barn, I imagined every scenario possible from a simple plunging job to a completely backed up septic system. The actual situation fell somewhere in between, with the ancient copper mechanism inside the tank having finally given out. I managed to get both myself, and the bathroom, covered in toilet water before calling the plumber. He pronounced the toilet "at least sixty years old" (!?) and jerry-rigged it for the night, until I could swing by Home Depot for a much younger model.

While there's a more colorful story behind the adventure of the spraying water, actually getting the plumber to come by, and buying the new toilet, the point of this story is really just to emphasize how awesome my tenants are. Because as responsive and timely as I was with addressing their issue, nobody wants to deal with a broken toilet while on a beach vacation.

Wednesday night I sent the family a long text updating them on the plumber's report and promising their new commode come morning. Their response?

The fist bump is my favorite part.

Yup, I got lucky. These tenants rule.

#buylocal

When it came time to buy this year's Christmas wreath - also known as the saving grace to the increasingly unkempt outside appearance of my barn - I skipped my usual trip to Home Depot and decided to buy local. After several compliments on the 36-incher I found Patten's Berry Farm, I headed back down to the small shop for my tree. And once that tree was in place and almost entirely decorated, I headed back downtown to shop locally for a tree-topper.

In all my years of living outside my family's home, and buying my own Christmas tree, I have never had a real tree-topper. When I lived in Vermont, my roommate Erin usually folded an overly large crane, and stuck that up near the top. When I moved back to Maine, I simply skipped it altogether. A lot of Christmas decorations are pretty hokey and I've just never found a tree-topper that I liked.

Until this year I remembered that I had seen buckets of starfish at everyone's favorite downtown gift shop, The Best of Everything. And what better way to nod to the tradition of a tree-top star, while also celebrating living on the ocean?

I fought the Christmas Prelude crowds, grabbed a starfish for a whopping $1, and using some floral wire leftover from my Pippi Longstocking Halloween costume, I did it up barn style.

Oh heee-ey! Check it ouuuuutttt!

(Please ignore the falling ceiling behind the Christmas tree.)

Prelude!

Ever since moving to Kennebunkport full time, I have faced a bit of trouble getting people to visit. It's a problem I have a hard time understanding, considering that I am offering free lodging in a premier vacation location, but hey. My high school friends are city kids. And Kennebunkport is no city.

So I decided to try a different tactic, skipping the usual 'come lie on the beach with me' summer invite, to instead invite them to this year’s Christmas Prelude, the annual celebration that earned Kennebunkport the title of #2 Christmas town in America by HGTV.

(Don't ask me who #1 is. We don't speak of that here.)

The result? My absolute favorite of my 16 Christmas Preludes to date. And so, following in my mother's tradition of making detailed notes after each party/gathering, I am sharing some tips to make Prelude Weekend #2, next year's Prelude, and all of your future Preludes, just as successful.

Don’t be afraid to skip the tree lighting on Weekend #1. My friends arrived in town just a few minutes too late to head downtown, which was fine with me as I was still baiting barn mice and in no mood to fight Dock Square traffic. Instead, I plan to attend the tree lighting for Prelude Weekend #2. Anticlimactic? Sure. Probably less crowded? I’m going to go with yes. Also, this year the Prelude Weekend #2 kickoff will include fireworks by New Hampshire’s Atlas Pyrotechnics to celebrate the event’s 30th anniversary. Atlas are the same guys that do the Phil Matthews Lobster Bake every year, so I can say from my own experience that they put on an amazing display. Watch from the bridge, behind Alisson’s, or on the Best of Everything lawn.

A lot of the chowder in this town is comparable. Actually, to be totally truthful, a lot of the chowder in this town comes from the same food distributor. Rather than buying a bowl at 'sit down' price, I picked up bulk containers at Port Lobster early in the day and prepared it on my own stove at home later for my guests. The ladies at Port Lobster are super friendly, and also incredibly generous with oyster crackers.

Watch out for Prelude. Beer, that is. Each year around this time Shipyard releases its popular seasonal brew, Prelude. And each year unsuspecting visitors drink without realizing the punch that it packs. From what I remember, last year’s Prelude ABV hovered around 6.8%. This year the Prelude on tap at our local brewpub, Federal Jacks, clocks in at 7.1%. You might want to cab-it home.

Speaking of cabs, don’t forget that our town only has one. And please also remember that if you live anywhere outside a two-mile radius of the bar, you will be heckled for monopolizing said cab. (To which I say, if you live inside a two-mile radius of the bar, WALK!)

Don’t be ashamed to check out the craft fairs. Does it sound like something your grandma would do? Yes. Is it actually something that all the cool kids are doing? Yes. It’s hip to support your local artisans, and also the organizations hosting them. Which brings me to my next point.

Buy local! While I didn’t do much holiday shopping this year, I did opt to skip Home Depot and instead pick up my barn door wreath at Patten’s Berry Farm. Prelude may be a Christmas celebration at the surface, but it is also a way to extend our tourism season and thank our local merchants with one last hurrah before many shut down or switch to shortened hours for the winter. Help them pay their heating bills with some local support.

Check out the historic trolley ride at the Seashore Trolley Museum. While much of Prelude centers around Dock Square and Lower Village, the Trolley Museum is just a short drive up Log Cabin Road. It is far enough out of the way that there is no crowd and lots of available parking, but what it lacks in people it makes up for in holiday spirit. The trolleys are decorated with fresh wreaths and there is plenty of hot chocolate (with both marshmallows and whipped cream!). Plus, if you're lucky enough to get the same museum volunteer that we did, you will be treated to a rendition of the Christmas story involving Kennebunkport history, trolley trivia, and some (humorous?) nods to modern travel regulation.

Visit the Cape Porpoise pier. Goat Island Lightstation is literally my favorite place in the entire world and to be perfectly honest, I did spend a good chunk of my Prelude out on the island. The lighthouse is currently undergoing a restoration to the 1950’s era, with much of the exterior work now complete. In keeping with the retro theme, the island is currently decorated with large, colored Christmas lights, easily visible from Cape Porpoise. Drive down after 6 PM for the full display.

Speaking of which, drive slowly. Is it frustrating that after three months of relative freedom the port is again packed with confused out of state drivers? Sure. But try not to rush around a curve so fast you slam into the back of Rockin' Horse Stables' horse drawn wagon. Remember, Prelude brings a whole slew of road obstacles, including my ever favorite noncommittal pedestrians who just can't decide if they want to cross that crosswalk.

If you visit the Franciscan Monastery for the annual carol sing, definitely accept the chestnuts you are offered on the way in - if only to say that you once literally ate chestnuts roasting on an open fire while singing Christmas carols. Also, they're delicious. And BYO-votive, and glass. After 12 years of dealing with wind blowing out our standard-issue candles, my family finally got smart.

Carols too tame for you? Don't worry. Karaoke prevails for the Prelude night crowd. Weekend #1 highlight was definitely a Saturday night trip to the all out sing along that is Christmas karaoke at Alisson's. I loved walking into a bar where everyone present had a red solo cup in hand and was belting out "Sweet Caroline". Boston North? Yeah, that's us.

Cap off your weekend with an all you can eat brunch back at Federal Jack's. Maybe it is because my friends and I always make it on the early side, but I honestly have no idea why there is never a longer wait for this brunch. For $10 you can get full access to a hot food bar including eggs, bacon, sausage, biscuits and gravy, homefries, hash, waffles, pancakes, crepes, and pastries. Plus there is an omelete / benedict station, weekly special, and coffee is included. Pay a visit to the friendly bartender to buy your Allen's seperately. And please tip him well. He's my baby brother.

The result of the above formula? My high school friends had so much fun that they are already planning their next trip back. Even with all the barn mice.

See you all out in the Port this weekend?

Ebenezer

I just opened the door to my office and almost had a heart attack.

The office is a rarely used room, so earlier tonight I took it over as the space to organize all my Christmas gifts. Well, just now, I opened the door to add a treat to the pile and for about a minute I was convinced the room was inhabited by the ghost of Christmas Future.

I realize how stupid that sounds, but when you live in the middle of nowhere and you open the door to a dark room and you hear clattering and sleigh bells... what else do you think?

I should probably get used to it.

After all, my house in "the middle of nowhere" is right down the street from a horse farm that hosts holiday themed carriage rides. Clattering is actually horse hoofs. And sleigh bells? Well, they are just that.

You cursed brat!

You know that part in The Wizard of Oz where the Wicked Witch of the West gets doused with water and starts screaming?

"I'm melting! I'm meeeelting!"

If my barn had a voice, it would sound just like hers.

"I'm leaking! I'm leeeeaaaaking! I'M LEEEEAAAAAKKKKKKING!"

I really hope this rain stops soon.

It's bad for my barn, it's bad for my car, and frankly, it's really bad for my bangs.

That's Jo-Incidence, with a C!

The series of coincidences in my life this past week has been enough to send me back to church. Except, in another strange twist, just last night, a scheduling conflict between my dance class and an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting ended with my sister and I teaching Irish Ceilis on an actual alter. So don't go calling me born again yet.

This morning I had the incredible opportunity to sit down and talk with one of the two girls who spent their childhood living in my barn. Among a slew of coincidences throughout our chance meeting, came one that struck me as particularly funny:

My name is Bridget Mary, and I live in this girl's former home.

Her current home is a duplex, of which she and her husband rent out half.

Her tenant's name?

Mary Bridget.

I am not even kidding.

Now if only I could have coincidentally mowed my lawn and weeded my gardens before her arrival!

Squirrels in my pants!

Ok. I know I often rant about the creatures who co-habitate my barn, but bear with me while I broach the subject one more time.

For those not familiar, I live in a property that one might call "unconventional". Actually, that's not what one might call it, it is exactly what it is called, according to the paperwork that denies me homeowners insurance.

But you can always get insurance! You might insist.

Sure I can. I just don't happen to have the luck of sneezing gold, and I'm not quite willing to sign over my first born.

Anyway.

"Unconventional" properties sometimes come with "unconventional" residents. And true to form, I share my barn home with one brother, one cat, some bats, a few chipmunks, some persistent squirrels, and about a bajillion mice.

Which is fine.

I mean, it's really not fine.

But ever since last year's fiasco when the squirrels invaded and broke the heating system and I retaliated by KILLING THEM ALL, me and the wildlife seem to have reached a truce. They stay in their part of the house, and I stay in mine. They leave my wiring alone, and I don't call back the pest guy to, in his terms, "get them buggers".

At least until now.

Kids, someone's gone rogue.

Lately, around 9 PM, and then again at 5 AM, the rodent racket in my closets is ridiculously hard to deny.

I have the best bedroom ever. It is huge. And the only room in the house in which the ceiling was build ABOVE the beams. When means I have this neat, sort of... gambrel ceiling, that slopes up from the wall behind my bed, and then back down to the three closets that face my sleeping area.

[Yes, three! THREE! Mmm, closets.]

[And yeah, I totally just whipped out "gambrel". Whattup.]

Anyway. The slope is mimicked in the attic above me, with lots of nooks and crannies for the creatures to explore. And lately, one such creature, seems to have taken a liking to riding the slope right down into the closets. Then, the rodent scratches around for a while, trying to figure out how to get back out. In truth, the animal might not be going rogue so much as he might just be stupid.

But in any case.

I know my rodents... and the volume of the scratching has lead me to believe the animal to be a squirrel. But, with no long visible scratches on any of the closet walls, I'm thinking it is probably more likely a chipmunk. Whatever it is, it is much too loud to be a mouse. And frankly, has too big an appetite.

Because when I opened the closet this afternoon, this is what I found:





One of my favorite scarves ever - and a cashmere JCrew one that has matching gloves no less - has been destroyed!

Oh, rogue chipmunk. You think you're so clever? Game on, buddy. GAME ON.

He out popped the Buzzard and Oriole!

For the past three mornings, I have been greeted at one of my barn's windows, by a robin, tapping on the glass. Every morning the sound jerks me out of my 7-AM-haze as I look around desperate to find what animal has infiltrated now. And then I notice the robin. Tap, tap, tapping, until, as soon as it sees me, it flies away.

If the bird were a cardinal, I would believe it to be a sign from my Grandmother, who has shown up before, and who will likely be making an appearance in a couple weeks when we all gather together in Wisconsin for a Burns family reunion.

But a robin??

I know I live with squirrels, chipmunks, and mice... but that doesn't mean I want any resident birds.

I'm not Cinderella.

Although... the timber framing in that bedroom does look familiar...