Building in a finished room is a much bigger challenge than building in a room with exposed studs and ceiling joists.  For one thing, you cannot build a wall flat on the ground and tilt it up.  The framing for my closet had to be installed piece by piece.

The first step in the process, of course, was determining how large the closet would be.  That decision was mostly made for me, because of the placement of a door and window, and an electrical switch and socket.  Unless I was willing to move those things, the closet was going to be about forty-eight inches wide, and thirty inches deep.  (A closet can be made as wide as you like, but if you intend to hang clothes inside, don’t make it less than twenty-seven inches deep.)

Once I had decided on the dimensions, I had to cut some 2x4s to make the top and bottom plates into which I could secure the vertical studs.  Since the ceiling had drywall on it already, installation of the top plates was tricky.  In one direction I could screw directly into the ceiling joists.  In the other direction I used large toggle bolts.  Those toggle bolts required a fairly large hole in the wood, and I used fender washers to ensure that the bolt didn’t just pull through the wood.  To make sure the top plate and bottom plate were in perfect alignment (because the walls could not be plumb otherwise), I used a plumb bob, and marked the location for my bottom plate.  The finished floor is parquet, and below that is concrete.  There are a number of ways to attach walls to concrete floors.  I used Liquid Nails and cut masonry nails.  Those incredibly strong nails can drive straight into concrete.  Of course, the top plates for each of the two walls I built (since I built the closet in a corner, I used two existing walls for the back and right side of the closet) went the entire width of the walls, but the bottom plate on the door wall needed much less lumber, since the door opening was over thirty-six inches.

Once the top and bottom plates were in place, I could begin erecting the studs.  That was straight-forward.  The ceiling in that room has a shallow pitch equal to the pitch of the roof at that part of the house, so I had to cut each stud carefully.  Since I couldn’t build the wall laying flat on the floor, nails were not a practical choice.  I selected a specialty screw called Spax that I found in the decking section.  It has a special Torx drive that held the screw on the bit while driving it, and it is almost impossible to strip.  I screwed all the studs into the plates with those Spax screws.  Where my new walls intersected existing walls, I either screwed the studs into existing studs behind the drywall, or used toggle bolts again.

Framing for the door gets a bit technical.  I bought a thirty-six inch door.  The doors actual dimensions are somewhat smaller, and the finished opening needs to be just slightly larger.  So, I had to carefully account for the extra space that the trim would take up, and that meant that the studs I erected needed to be thirty-seven and a half inches apart.  I made a similar calculation for the height of the header.  Incidentally, since these walls aren’t really bearing any of the weight of the roof, I didn’t worry about building a double top header on edge.  I did install cripples above the header, though.

With the framing done, I carefully measured the dimensions of my walls, and cut the drywall to fit.  Cutting drywall is messy, but not terribly difficult, particularly if you have a long straight edge.  It screws into the studs easily with a power drill.  I made the joints as tight as I could, especially at the one outside corner.  It’s not possible to get that perfect, which is why they sell a corner strip that covers the joint, and gets covered in compound.  Applying joint compound is exponentially easier than using traditional plaster.  It stays moist and pliable for hours.  That’s good and bad.  Good because it allows you to correct any mistakes, bad because waiting overnight for it to dry slows down progress.

With the walls up and the joints taped and plastered, I began my trim work.  Trim carpenters are the best carpenters.  The work they do is highly visible, so it must be precise.  Of course, one is almost never lucky enough to be working in areas that are perfectly square, and there are always small obstacles along the way, and those make trim carpentry harder.  In this case, I was lucky to be dealing with relatively simple cuts and angles.  I had removed the baseboards in that corner of the room before I began erecting the walls, so I had some material I could trim a little and put right back where it was.  On the right front side of the closet, though, I had cut the existing baseboard in place, without removing it.  I cut it in such a way that I would be able to but another piece of baseboard against it at a ninety-degree angle, and my calculations were perfect.  But to put the new shoe mould in, I couldn’t just miter it like all the other pieces.  I’d have to cope it.  I did, and it fit perfectly.

Trimming a door is always a pain, because everything has to be perfect or the door will either not function, or will, at least, look bad.  I took very careful measurements, cut my pieces, and dry fit them in place.  I only needed to shim the jamb in one small place, so that pleased me.  Shims are the most useful, cheapest thing in the world.  The casing was straightforward.  I used a simpler casing on the inside of the closet (where nobody will ever see it) than I did on the outside.  I set all my nails, filled the holes, and caulked the edges of the baseboards and door casing.  I painted the walls and trim to match the existing colors.

The last component was, perhaps, the most important: a rod system for hanging clothes.  We had browsed the various modular systems, such as Closetmaid, but were not impressed.  While they are highly configurable, they can get expensive, and, since all Miriam really needs to do with her closet is hang clothes on hangers, she really just needed some rods.  I decided to make a two-tiered set up, with one rod high, and another lower, to make the best use of the space.  Some website somewhere probably explains exactly where to place rods when building a closet, but I didn’t bother looking; I just took a couple a couple blouses and dresses on hangers, and held them up in the space, and marked for my rods that way, remembering that I couldn’t place the top rod too high for Miriam to reach.

I first cut four equal lengths of 1×4 from a longer piece, then marked out their positions on the closet wall, using a line level to make sure they were all placed correctly.  I used my wonderful Spax screws and screwed the 1×4 pieces through the drywall, into the studs, which I had marked ahead of time.  On the already existing right wall, a stud was situated ideally about twelve inches from the back wall, but there seemed to be no stud at the back right corner, so I had to use toggle bolts at the back.  On the left wall, which I erected, I knew that I had a stud twelve inches out from the wall (again, the perfect position for placing a flange for a closet rod), and I knew that I had a stud butted up against the existing back wall, too, so I could drive my Spax screws into studs at the front and back of the 1×4 strips into which I would screw the flanges for the rods.  Of course, I could have just screwed my flanges by themselves directly into the studs, but by installing them into pieces of 1×4, I made convenient supports for shelves.  For rods I used one and a quarter inch poplar dowels.  They were a few cents more than steel conduit, but much easier to cut, and somewhat less industrial-looking.

Yesterday, Miriam hung her clothes in her new closet, and it made me happy to think that she will get so much use out of something I made.

At first, I thought the puddle of water on the bathroom floor was the result of my having not closed the shower curtain.  But I felt around the tub and it was dry.  When a drop of water hit my head, my heart sank.  A leaking roof was the last thing I expected, and the last thing I want.  The ceiling was saturated, the plaster breaking off in chunks.  So, before the sun rose this morning, I was up on the roof, in the high wind and driving rain, laying tarps over the roof.  Lord, was I dismayed!

But my preliminary survey of the attic was encouraging: there are no visible signs of water intrusion over a wide area of the sheathing.  Rather, I suspect that the leak is occurring where the vent stack comes in contact with the asphalt shingles. I will know for sure soon.  Meanwhile, I’d just like it to stop raining.

Stay tuned.

When I arrived home from work tonight (after visiting the downtown farmers’ market and having dinner at The Top with Miriam), I found that GRU had paid us a visit and done some work in the yard.  There were tractor marks in the grass, and the yard had been dug up beneath the cedar tree.  I couldn’t find a clean-out, if one had, indeed, been installed.

I will spend all day tomorrow writing a paper and looking forward to being able to take a shower while simultaneously washing clothes, running the dishwasher, and flushing the toilet.

My spring break began a week ago, and I spent it installing paneling and a chair rail.  It involved dozens of precise measurements and intricate cuts, but by last Saturday I was putting the finishing touch on the paint.  It looks pretty good, if I do say so myself, and is by far the most cheerful room in the house.  During all my labors I regreted not being able to relax on the sofa–and I missed a couple chances to go to the beach–but, having now finished, I feel satisified.

The toilet nightmare which began on the 23rd seems to have ended.  Early that Tuesday morning I awoke to an overflowing commode.  Tuesday is my long day; my first class begins at 8:3o AM, and my last class ends at 7:00PM.  But I went to Lowe’s that morning at seven o’clock in the morning, stopped at Walgreen’s to get some medicine for the ailing Mrs. Hill, and did my best to repair the toilet before school.  But I ran out of time before I needed to leave.  I took a brutal midterm in the afternoon, and was preparing to head to my evening class when Miriam told me they were sending her to the hospital because her symptoms suggested possible appendicitis.  It wasn’t, thank goodness, and my professor was understanding when I wrote to him later.  But the toilet defeated me that night.  And when I reached the point of maximum frustration–when I stood in the doorway of my bathroom, staring at that filthy sewer hole in the floor with the roaches crawling out–I was on the verge of tears.

It was emasculating to have to call a plumber, and I worked all day Wednesday, so it was Thursday afternoon before anyone could come out.

Meanwhile, we spent Wednesday night at Sweetwater Branch Inn, in the charming 1895 McKenzie House.  The Giovanna Room was delightful, and Cornelia, who makes the breakfast the bed comes with, was very sweet.  In spite of the horrible circumstances, I still had a nice time, and would like to go back some day.

Sara was nice enough to offer to wait for the plumber for me, and he was a nice guy, too.  I was going to have him repair the rusted out cast iron flange the toilet gets bolted to, but he told me I could do it myself and save hundreds.  He told me what I needed to buy, I went to Home Depot, bought it, and had the toilet together by the time Miriam got home from work.  All was well.  Until this past Thursday night.

Thursday night, following a brutal midterm in my Early U.S. Novels course, I took a long shower, and was just beginning to mentally transition into spring break.  After I got out of the shower I flushed the toilet, and it happened again.  The plumber came back out on Friday afternoon, but I missed a chance to go to the beach with Sara.  I’ve talked to both my neighbors, and they, too, have experienced the same problem.  I am going to call GRU on Monday and have them install a clean out by the street, so if I have another blockage I might be able to clear it myself with a rented auger.  I put the toilet in place, caulked it really well, and, as of Saturday night it is doing its job.

And Miriam’s all better.

Then I heard the driver say something–first to his companion, then to me–that both dispelled my fear and surprised me.  “My father planted that tree”, he said, pointing to one of the cedars in the front yard.  The man, who appeared to be middle aged, got out of the van, introduced himself, and told me his parents lived in this house when he was born.  For the next several minutes, in a very animated fashion, he told me stories about he and his brother and father, and what the house was like when he lived here, until his teen years.  He described the inside when he lived here (“the back room [which I now call the middle room] had a built-in wall bookshelf”; “there were parquet floors” [there still are]), and told me stories about how he and his brother used to play in the yard and on the great live oak, which, of course, is much older than the neighborhood.  He told me a few things I had already surmised (our foyer used to be a screened porch; there used to be a building on the slab in our back yard), but I was thrilled to have the opportunity to ask some questions I’ve wanted answered for years.  The square cut out of the slab in the back was where his father had a brick barbecue grill, until he and his brother broke it down with a hammer when he was seven.  The house used to be green.  The bathroom tile isn’t original because his father ripped up the floor to replace a pipe.  Before the Hewetts’ house was built, the block to the west was an empty field.  He told me that for most of his childhood the house had two bedrooms, but eventually they built a small room behind the kitchen.  So, I know now that something preceded the dining room and guest room that stand today.

This man seemed so thrilled to be sharing these memories, and I felt extremely privileged to be hearing them.  I think a lot about all the places I once called home.  I’ve even driven past a few of them just like this fellow did tonight.  I’ve never met any occupants of my former homes, but I would like to think they care for these places as much as I did, and still do.

I know a beautiful old song about a man who visits the house where he grew up, and meets the family that now lives there.  He shares his memories with them and it makes him happy, but he realizes that a house is “a hotel at best”.  Just as my new friend was “a guest” in this house, so too may I be.  Just as this house means something very special to him, it means something special to me.  And some day, ages and ages hence, I may drive slowly past it, and remember everything it means to me.

• I have no working toilet in my house.
• I have several exams and papers due this week.
• My poor wife has been injured or sick for several weeks and I am powerless to make her feel any better.
• My email seems to work only around 50% of the time.
• Cox Cable switched from the national PBS high-definition feed to the local one, and now I don’t get the same programs; other programs I like show at different times; the signal looks much worse; and I will now have to endure the frequent pledge drives, which the national feed doesn’t carry.
• I still haven’t got my motorized bicycle running.
• I changed guitar strings a few weeks ago, and now my Telecaster won’t stay in tune with itself.
• My guitar makes an annoying buzzing sound because the outlet my amplifier is plugged into isn’t grounded.
• I cannot stop eating Girl Scout Cookies and I feel guilty.
• I have a million chores to do around the house and very little time to do them.
• I have to read hundreds of pages for school, and I am not up to the task.
• I am very tired, and it’s only nine o’clock in the morning.
• When I am at school, I cannot concentrate on what my professors are saying, because I am thinking about one or more of the above.

So, too, did the other nightmare of the evening: the death of our computer. Granted, it was old and had worked hard all its life, but losing it is difficult, since it received constant use. There have been occasions earlier where we’d had serious problems, but with help we got through them. This, however, is it, since it no longer seems practical to struggle just to keep it going. I know we need another computer post-haste, but I don’t know when we can obtain one, so my posts may be infrequent for a while.

Many of you may be thinking, “man lived for almost 200,000 years without air conditioning or computers; you’ll survive”. To that I say, the God who created man 6,000 years ago wants me to have access to online smut in climate controlled comfort. Gah, read your Bible!

And I’m far closer to achieving that lofty goal thanks to Kathleen, who called me yesterday afternoon and offered her help with my A/C malady. She and Steve had recently had a similar problem, and she got some OJT replacing her own fan capacitor. Together we knelt down in leaves and reached into spider webs to pull out and inspect the small metal cylinder that controls the fan that draws air across the coils of the compressor unit on the side of the house. It was 4:50 before we could see the obvious damage to the old capacitor. Luckily, the appliance parts store is four blocks from my home. We made it with minutes to spare, and the part was only $5.99. By the time Miriam arrived home from work the house was a fierce cold.

And today is Kathleen’s birthday, so, huzzah, Kathleen!