The Etymology Of A Kitchen Island

“Please, let’s keep them, we can store 'em in the basement.”

I was pleading a little. A group of men stood in a circle in the parking lot, listening.

“Look, I’ve restored houses, sat on a committee that loaned money to restore historic properties and been a Realtor selling hundreds of historic homes, so trust me, I've learned this: people do work on historic properties convinced their project is the final word – that no one will ever want to change their perfect remodel. But that’s almost never true!”

The Presbyterian Church was being restored. I was begging the construction committee to put the weathered, original 1893, quartersawn white oak doors in storage rather than throw them away. The committee chair was a good man. He gave it a solid think, then shook his head and said, “Throw them in the dumpster.”

So I hauled the doors to my garage, a block away, stored them on-edge against a wall. I spent years trying to find them a home, banging my car door against them a couple times a week.

The back & sides of the new island, under construction in my garage.

A month ago I cut up 2 of those church doors to make the back and sides of our new kitchen island.

I’m a windows open guy. For years my family’s Sunday mornings have been anchored by the ringing of that church’s bell. When my middle son, Jack was an acolyte, he donned a robe and took his turns ringing the bell to announce the start of services.

When the island is installed, you’ll be able to cook or sit at it and look out toward the church bell tower.

When I first moved to town, my ex and I rented the first floor of a big, late 1890s home a block and a half down the back alley from here. There, our first baby, Cal, had textbook colic. He’d start crying at about 5:00 each afternoon and shriek like he was on fire until around 11:00. Nothing calmed him.

Nothing that is, but music.

The old house had a built-in, 10-foot long white oak bookcase we'd filled with books, albums, CDs, and a sound system. I’d sit beside those honey-colored shelves with baby Cal laid facedown across my lap, drinking a beer and patting his little back as he cried, listening to R.E.M., Ella Fitzgerald or Crash Test Dummies, soon discovering that his crying would stop for 20 or 30 seconds at the start of a new song and it's fresh sound or rhythm. So I slid my chair close to the bookshelves, pulled down it's little raised panel cabinet door to rest my beer upon it, and I changed the track on the CD the moment he started to cry. His sobs would stop in a sputter, his body pulling inward, as if clutching the sound against his stomach, and he was silent for half a minute – like the gears were turning in his tiny head, puzzling over the wonder of the compelling rhythmic noises. Then he’d start screaming again. I’d advance the track. He’d fall silent again. And on this went.

At lower left, the raised panel door from the old rental down the alley.

Lemme tell ya, babies react to the cosmic swoon of Ella, the baritone proclamations of Crash Test Dummies and the sometimes anxious, sometimes urgent pleading of Michael Stipe.

When Cal was a teenager, long after we moved to this house, the city was demolishing that grand old rental for a parking lot. A friend and I went in and did the salvage. As I was pulling the planks of that bookcase apart, Cal appeared in the doorway and spent an hour exploring the place.

The cabinet framework and little raised-panel door on the kitchen island I’m building came from the bookcase where I once worked for an hour or two each night trying to quiet that troubled baby.

Cal got a degree in Japanese, teaches English just outside Tokyo, and married a brilliant and beautiful Japanese woman. Visiting with them last October, many nights Cal and I drank beers around their kitchen table playing songs we liked for each other on our phones or youTube: “Have you heard this one?”

Twenty years ago I'd walk my youngest, a daughter named Sally in a stroller around the neighborhood. One evening we passed down an alley and found 3 old table leaves leaned up against a trashcan. The stain was dark and the finish dirty, but I could see they were white oak. I struggled to keep them tucked under an arm while pushing Sally home.

Those table leaves make up the drawer fronts on the new kitchen island.

The 7 layers of floor that were on top of the original artificially-grained kit-
chen floor. The top left, yellow/tan was the first added layer. Lower right is
an 1926 newspaper stuck to the floor beneath the oldest layer.

There are new children from a 2^nd marriage in this house now and we’re totally renovating the kitchen. Stripping up 2 solid inches of flooring, we counted 8 floors– an 1890s artificially-grained poplar floor covered with 7 later layers of linoleum and vinyl and 2 added layers of sub floor. Beneath those floors, the timber-frame, barn-like joints of the original 1870 incarnation of the house were revealed, attached to the “high-tech” balloon framing of the 1895 additions.  The new island, this “Frankenstein island,” made up of pieces and parts of ancient virgin forests that were timbered and milled into lumber that outfitted this neighborhood 120+ years ago, will straddle the confluence of the various eras of this house.

Nothing here is one thing. It is not just the existing neighborhood you see, nor one house or one marriage or one family, it is many generations and more than a century of architectural styles and interior décor fashions, pulled apart and pushed back together, the gloriously loved and beautifully fucked-up DNA of our old house, embodied in a brand new kitchen island.

This late 1890s photo of boys playing with tops beside Noblesville's Presbyterian Church shows (top/center) one of the doors I used for the side panels of my kitchen island.

Buyer Kurt's latest novel, The Salvage Man

“A broken man, an abandoned house, and a lonely woman—all the makings for a beautiful, haunting tale of loss, forgiveness, and redemption. The Salvage Man is a lovely, bitter sweet story you won’t soon forget. I loved it!”

Sherri Wood Emmons, author of The Seventh Mother

Buy Kurt's first novel, Noblesville

“Meyer turns the pages of history with gentle care and a warm heart, creating a story I’ll remember forever. Thank you Kurt Meyer for opening a door to my beloved town’s past and allowing me to travel the streets and meet the people of Noblesville 1893.”

Susan Crandall, Author of Whistling Past the Graveyard

Confessions Of A Dumpster Diver

“I wouldn't go in if I were you,” Russ said. "Something bad happened in there."

I raised an eyebrow toward the 1870s Italianate farmhouse, pushed askew by a backhow, looking like a house from a Dr. Suess story. “No house has ever given me a more threatening vibe,” he mumbled, shaking his head.

Stove pipe collar with removable central snowflake, salvaged from a farm

house in southern Michigan. When the stove is in place in the winter 

the snow flake is removed. When the stove is moved to the summer kitchen 

in the summer, snow flake is put in place to cover the hole.

We were at an old Hamilton County farmstead. Russ asked me to help him move cut stone steps he planned to use at his historic home in town. We were restoring houses a half block apart. The neglected farmstead was about to be leveled for a new subdivision.

I’d arrived late and wanted to check out the house for architectural salvage, but if Russ said don’t go in, I wasn’t going in. He’s a no bullshit guy. We loaded the cut stone (and amazingly found a native American ax head under the slabs) and left.

I started doing salvage when I was restoring my first home. Living on a teacher’s salary and restoring an 1890s Victorian cottage while raising children made buying reproduction hardware, rebuilt vintage light fixtures, and fresh-milled woodwork unthinkable. Salvage was the only answer.

Empty, aged, abandoned houses – once they’re free of the clamor and glare of a modern homeowner’s technology and decorating and the echoing vibe of personal belongings, their own rich, deeply burnished personality can radiate like a rolling wave spun from a 150 years of babies made and babies born, weddings, parties, dinners, blizzards and thunder storms, Christmases, son’s off to war, funerals, engagements and breakups, Sunday brunches and lonely afternoons, tens of thousands of cooked meals and just as many canned goods grown in the yard and stored in the cellar, faithful dogs and sleepy cats, grandma’s last breath and babies’ first steps, creating an emotional rush that can greet you with welcoming warmth, but occasionally a cold shoulder of rebuke.

Assorted escutcheons salvaged over the course of 25 years

Or not. Sometimes you feel nothing. It’s just wood, nails and plaster. But still, sometimes an old house on its deathbed speaks to you.

I started out picking trash. Pushing a child in a stroller on evening walks I’d find a pile of star bricks discarded behind a garage, knock on the back door and be told I could take them. I built my first patio with street paving bricks taken from an alley where my town’s judicial center is now and built the table that sat on that patio with disguarded oak planks found in an alley while walking a child in the evening.

I began digging in dumpsters parked in front of old house renovation projects. The dumpsters almost always yielded a decorative floor grate or long plank of quartersawn oak baseboard. These were hauled home, filling my little garage and back basement.

It allowed me to replace my 1960s front door with a proper ornate, stained glass door with a matching transom overhead, both salvaged and outfitted with salvaged hardware cast with elegant floral patterns. My porch had been enclosed with cinder block and cheap aluminum windows. Riding my bike to the dentist’s one day, I parked in his garage and saw a complete set of porch posts and ornate brackets stored in the rafters. Once I tore out the cinder blocks and shabby windows, those porch posts and brackets were put in place.

And most of it had been free. Most people I encountered thought it was trash and thought me odd for wanting it.

It may have been a fascination with archeology that kept me salvaging even when I didn’t need anything. My garage got filled with goose neck toilets, porch posts, fireplace mantels, and hand made Civil War-era doors, all of which I had absolutely no use for, they’d simply been in the collapsing old house or dumpster for the taking. I couldn’t bear to see them go to a landfill. Eventually I held a garage sale, promoting it weeks in advance to historic preservation groups throughout the central part of the state.

Carved stone pulled from an Indianapolis demolition site.

And there I faced my nerdy preservation bias. When someone wanted old woodwork or ornate iron just to decorate their walls, it felt wrong. But if it was being used to restore a house, I’d sell it at a bargain price. When you’re restoring a house, salvage isn’t just a compelling decorative item, it’s a necessity.
 

I bought the rights to salvage a couple houses and ducked into buildings to unscrew and pry thing off, just days, and at times, moments before they were demolished. Once, in Bluffton, Indiana, salvaging woodwork on the 2^nd story of an 1880s house that was being slowly demolished by a crew with sledgehammers and a Bobcat, I finished my work to find the stairs had just been pulled free. I had no way to get out. Fortunately, my father-in-law knew I was there and checked in to see how I was doing, shouting up from the street. He brought over a ladder, I tossed all the woodwork from a window into the yard and climbed down.

By the next day the house was gone.

Nickel plated hinge from men's lodge door. Downtown Tipton.

When you love old houses and want them restored, salvage can feel creepy, like you’re stealing wallets and jewelry from a dying person. I’ve had a house give me a cry of mercy (or I was projecting it onto the house myself in sympathy), saying, “Why are you doing this to me?” 

Once I stripped an entire turn-of-the-century farmhouse in Henry County. Six months later I decided to drive by and grab a piece of hardware I knew I’d left only to find the house crawling with workers renovating it.

That made for a pretty shitty feeling.

The doors, floor grates, woodwork, transom windows, lightening rods–you name it, were back in my Hamilton County garage. I called the farmer who’d sold me the rights and asked what happened. He said, “Somebody called and wanted to buy the house and a couple acres, so I sold it. But don’t feel bad. They hate old houses. They want to make it like a new house.

That made for an even shittier feeling. Like I was Dr. Frankenstein and I’d taken all the good parts, leaving someone with the dumb creature that was good enough for their homogenized sensibilities.

Some houses don’t make you feel anything. And dumpster diving is that way, too. At an old house construction site, the dumpster is the organ donor repository. You’re disconnected from the donor. But at several old houses I got a tingling on the spine and hair stood up on my arms, like ghosts were watching me, outraged as I dismantled their stairway with the handrail they’d run their hands along for a lifetime–gripped as a toddler when learning to walk and eventually gripped in feeble old age, not understanding that I was saving it from going to a landfill or being burned as fire department training.

Still, more times than not, the houses felt welcoming, especially on warm, sunny days, like they understood completely what you were doing and why you were doing it, and glad to be of service to another old house.

My salvage experiences inspired my second novel, The Salvage Man, a story about a man trying to salvage his own life, while he strips a Civil War era farm house.

Buy Kurt's latest novel THE SALVAGE MAN

“Kurt Meyer’s The Salvage Man is a gentle Midwestern fantasy made up of one treasure after another. Part historical fiction, part love story, and part rumination on modern day life, this novel asks hard questions about the world we live in and the world we leave behind. I couldn’t put it down.”

Larry D. Sweazy, author of A Thousand Falling Crows

Buy Kurt's novel NOBLESVILLE

“Meyer turns the pages of history with gentle care and a warm heart, creating a story I’ll remember forever. Thank you Kurt Meyer for opening a door to my beloved town’s past and allowing me to travel the streets and meet the people of Noblesville 1893.”

Susan Crandall, Author of Whistling Past the Graveyard

Seeking Spirituality At The Cash Register

Hamilton County Courthouse: Seat of the wealthiest per-

capita county in Indiana.

By midwest standards, I live in a place of wealth. In my day job as a Realtor, I often encounter homebuyers leaving dying Midwest towns, eager to live here, in a place of economic vitality. I share that urge and don’t blame them one bit. But there’s a tiresome side to living in a place where people have lots of goodies.

Last year I worked harder than I’ve ever worked and made more money than I’ve ever earned in a year. When I see some of the ways I spent that money, it embarrasses me.

There’s a funny thing about people with lots of goodies; nothing is ever quite enough. No matter what you have, the next thing - the bigger thing – “If I just had that, then I’d be happy.” But somehow we never are.

Many of us already have more material comforts than we need. How big must the SUV be? How flat and large a TV do we really need? How many iPhones and computer games must a child have before they're happy?

The biggest, shiniest cars won’t instill our sons with virtue. Clothing from Polo Ralph Lauren won’t guarantee our daughters grace. Lawn service and a hired house cleaner won’t make our kids honest. A 3D television won’t make them hard workers. iPads won’t make them creative. Lavish birthday parties won’t make them appreciative. A Bluetooth home theater system can’t insure peace of mind.

Sometimes as I drive about Hamilton County’s ever-growing sprawl before Christmas, buying gifts, I get depressed watching grumpy people shop. Post all the photos you like of folks in trashy clothes at Wal Mart, but there’s nothing uglier than unhappy, well-dressed people shopping – sighing heavily and eyeing their trendy wrist watches impatiently at long lines and slow store clerks.

We are materialistic beyond calculation. Too often material possessions are our currency of affection, the way we show our loved ones we care. The goodies can be counted and measured, while things that truly matter in life maddeningly defy calculation. That simple fact probably explains why we focus so much attention on things instead of people. The armchair psychologist in me thinks that sometimes when we’re shopping, we’re looking for things that stores don’t sell.

And the truth is, I’m as guilty as the next guy.

Our ministers share these truths in church on Sunday and we nod our heads in solemn agreement, "Of course. Yes, yes." Monday morning we go about another week like we never heard a word.

It’s easy to count money and measure square footage, but not so easy to measure love, beauty and quality of life. Counting up things you can hold in your hand is comforting, a way to size things up, a way to measure ourselves against other people, a way to keep score - which is pretty pathetic when you think about it. If adversity brings out the best in people, perhaps excess comfort brings out the worst, for I fear that as wealth increases, our imagined needs become more petty.

We think we’re measuring quality of life when we measure standard of living, but often we’re not. Quality of life and standard of living can be the same thing, but often aren’t. One measures comfort and happiness. The other measures money. But oh how easy it is to confuse the two.

So what’s the alternative to this strip mall culture and its worship of crap? My short list is this:

I wish we found more pleasure in loving rather than feeling superior to people – I noticed during my teaching days that some children can’t have fun unless someone else isn’t. There are adults like that, too. I wish we lived in places more interested in beauty and community than profits and patronage. I’d rather we were bored with the wealthy and fascinated by the poor. I wish more people knew how to plant a garden than construct Ikea furniture.  And when it comes to life’s opportunities and pleasures, I wish we worried less about what things cost and more about what things are worth.

None of that can be bought at Wal-Mart. None can be found on-line shopping. Still, sometimes I find myself working and buying as if I thought they could.

Can my wish list be fully realized? No. Like Bob Dylan sang, it’s all, “blowin’ in the wind.” The things most valuable in life are hard to capture, hard to hold in your hand with any certainty, hard to nail to the floor or count like money in your wallet.

Maybe we need to put all our efforts to the “deathbed test.” What of the things we spend our days on will we be most proud of as we lay on our deathbeds? Will we be thankful for kitchens with 6-burner commercial stoves and Internet-ready refrigerators, self-driving cars, Fossil watches, gadgets from the Apple Store, and undies from Victoria’s Secret? Or will we think about spiritual wealth – love, family, kindness, laughter?

We all know the truth, but live much of our lives like we haven’t a clue.

*Another reason I love my brilliant, funny wife – I was particularly proud of the line in this piece, “sometimes when we’re shopping, we’re looking for things that stores don’t sell,” and read it to her.  She smiled and said, “You obviously haven’t shopped at Amazon.com. They’ve got everything.”

Buy Kurt's latest novel The Salvage Man

“A broken man, an abandoned house, and a lonely woman—all the makings for a beautiful, haunting tale of loss, forgiveness, and redemption. The Salvage Man is a lovely, bitter sweet story you won’t soon forget. I loved it!”

Sherri Wood Emmons, author of The Seventh Mother

Buy Kurt's first novel, Noblesville

“Meyer turns the pages of history with gentle care and a warm heart, creating a story I’ll remember forever. Thank you Kurt Meyer for opening a door to my beloved town’s past and allowing me to travel the streets and meet the people of Noblesville 1893.”

Susan Crandall, Author of Whistling Past the Graveyard

& The Flying Circus