Furuby Road
“There’s no place like home”
My childhood home in Shafer MN, built in 1892.
Tomorrow marks the 1 year anniversary of the sale of my childhood home. August 22nd, 2018.
Approaching this date with a pause, I would like to reflect with you on nostalgia, roots, and the concept of home. As I look at my life today, I can see how all of the defining roles I identify with now :
Painter > Designer > Crafts Person > Foodie > Harley Rider > A LITTLE Redneck > Nature Lover
comes back to this beautiful place.
In 1986 I was born. At that time, my parents (Marsha & Howard) lived in a trailer in Forest Lake with my older sister Mallory. It was a dream for my mom to own a farm house of her own to raise her children, garden, and live a peaceful country life. My dad had grown up on a farm a few miles away that had since burned down. I am sure the location, & the 5 acre lot with a 100 year old house looked like heaven on earth when they decided to call it home. I know I always felt that way growing up.
Despite the draw of the idyllic land and architectural charm of the late 1900’s, there was a lot of work to be done. When my dad wasn’t working the swing shift at Anderson Windows, he was either sleeping or working on the house. My mom was pregnant or breastfeeding 3 girls for 5 years straight between the years of 1984-1989. We grew up with second hand smoke, drywall dust in the air, and splinters in our feet. Outside, our 5 acres were surrounded by corn and soybean fields. Our childhood was special : calm & full of nature to explore, boring most of the time, & a health hazard. But I have more fond memories than not, & most of us are still here.
My parents took the farmhouse down to the studs and over the years my dad rewired the electrical, updated the plumbing, replaced plaster & lath with drywall, installed hardwood floors, and had new wood molding milled to match the original. Much of my early years hold visions of un-taped drywall, bed sheets hung as curtains over uncased windows, and tiny gardner snakes slithering up between the original floor boards.
A question I often get asked is : “Where did you learn how to do all this?” in relation to my craft. The best answer would be to say it is in my bone marrow. I come from a long line of farm people, factory workers, and truck drivers. All whom mostly lived in a class where DIY was a necessity, resourcefulness was a required life skill, and working on the house or the yard was all apart of family life. The next time you see me wearing work boots, faded jeans with paint & caulk smeared down the leg, and a camo trucker hat - don’t feel sorry for me for being such a grub - I am wearing my uniform > every rip & stain a badge of honor.
I love this photo of my Dad working on the piano room. As we prepared the house for the market after his death in November of 2017, my mom snapped the adjacent photo of me working on the main bathroom. I learned a lot from my Dad both in watching and helping him in those early years, and later as I started my painting company. Whenever I would get in over my head on a job I would call him and he would come down to a job site to help. Mostly, he would calm me down and act as emotional support as we worked through the problem I created. I even hired him in his retirement to help on bigger jobs. He always knew how to do everything, but didn’t do anything particularly well. Often he would tell me what I needed, demonstrate, and by the end of the day I was better at the thing we were doing than he was. He had the knowledge, I had the eye for detail & patience to finish the job. Aside from his copious cigarette breaks, we made a pretty good team. Now, when I am working alone on a job site, I turn some Joe Cocker or The Proclaimers on my radio, and imagine he is there with me. My work has become a way for me to feel connected to my dad everyday, and for that - I am so grateful.
The house that built us > the landscape that shaped us
This time last year, my sisters, mom, & I were letting go of the most cherished parts of us. Our Dad, the rooms we grew up in, the center of our own personal compass through which we navigated the world. It is so much more than a house, a plot of land. It’s where we had birthday parties, bonfires, fights with each other, holidays, accidents & injuries, loved, and grew. As we spread some of Dad’s ashes under the willow tree, we left little pieces of ourselves too. We will always be there with you Dad, and know there will always be a little piece of - you & this place we called home for 30 years - with us.