When I was little I couldn't say 'porch' correctly because I talked through my nose. Instead of a nice "or" sound, as in 'Oregon", some unbeckoned, nasal, almost french-like sound slipped out every time I breathed the word. Dad tried to cure me of it by encouraging me to pinch my nose and practice saying it properly, but then all I could say was 'Pmmphgh.' I couldn't say 'rose's either--same stupid r, except this time it came out as a w. Dad would say, "stephanie, say 'rows and rows of running red roses' and I'd repeat "woes and woes of wunning wed woeses."
I kept at it though, and eventually I did get my r's right, though I guess we'll never know if it was the nose exercise that did the trick. But if you could hear me say right now, "I've been painting the porches this week--the porches with the roses on them," you would never guess that just a short 17 years ago, that was an impossible sentance.
I have indeed been painting the porches this week, and I could even tell you about it with proper r's. I've been mostly in the cleaning/sanding/priming stages so far, but they're coming along. A few pictures of my progress:
Here we have the "before" pictures of the front porch, and as you can see, it desperately wanted a face lift.
The weird thing is we just painted the porches two summers ago! Primed, two coats of proper Northwest-ready deck paint, the whole bit. They shouldn't look this bad! This time we read the directions and noticed they recommend coating the knots with shellac before painting. NOW they tell us...pshh.
This is the front as it looks this evening with its first coat drying and the whole thing looking shiny and brand spanking new (minus a few little visible "oopsies" that I have to fix tomorrow. What can I say...not really a detail person). Round two, including corrections, are scheduled for tomorrow.
Steph bonding with the power tools. Nifty sander, huh? Why are there five hole sanders and eight hole sanders? Why not just one or the other? One of life's little mysteries.
Sanding. My nose is hot.
I had to consult dad for a little advice and some sand paper. Here he is 'supervising.' He doesn't really like being on record standing around while I'm doing all the work. Take for instance, the time we got a flat tire in a parking lot. Well! It sure seemed to me like a good chance to practice my tire-changing skills, in case I ever need to change my own tire when I'm out on the highway. I mean, I sure can't be trusting just anyone who happens to offer to help, right? So I convinced dad to let me change the tire, and he watched to make sure I jacked it up right and didn't forget to tighten the bolts. But poor dad! Just about every passerby shot him dirty looks for loafing while a girl did all the work. By the end it was "That's it, Stephanie. Next time I'm changing the tire."
My muse for the porch project? Rosie the Riveter, of course.