From my Briefcase: Reporter's love for 'charmer' home unrequited

I was rudely awakened by the sound of a crashing thud in the wee hours recently. Thinking it was one of the plethora of felines who live with me, I resumed my snooze.

Later that morning after coffee, when I wandered semiconsciously into the den, I saw what caused the thump in the night a large hole loomed ominously in the ceiling exposing the joists which support my upstairs bathroom's "convenience."

Below on the floor lay ceiling tiles and a gloppy mess of ancient, crumbling, wet lathe and plaster. A plumber quickly confirmed that the wax seal around the toilet had leaked and could easily be repaired, but for the rotten wood beneath the floor. That had to be fixed first, or someone in a sitting position in my bathroom just might end up in the living room.

I swore by the memory of Thomas Crapper, 18th Century inventor of indoor plumbing facilities, then started to cry. All I needed right now was one more thing to have to fix in this Money Pit house of mine.

It didn't start out this way, my love affair with the house.

I purchased the old white clapboard Southern-styled home with the long front porch on Weller Avenue in 1989. Falling in love with her "potential" as an uncared-for 80- to-100-year-old house, I knew all she needed was love; and I had plenty to give.

What she really needed was cold, hard cash. An architect friend of mine, Martha Shepard, walked me through after the sale was cinched, and came out with a wild look on her face. That was a big clue.

But it was already too late for me. Upon my first view inside, when I squinched up my eyes to see the entryway not with the peeling, crumbling pea-green paint-plaster that covered the walls, but as it could look, I was hooked. I envisioned new floral paper, antiques, and a shiny floor covered with a warm, charming rug.

The previous owners had lived there 45 years and it seemed that the last time they decorated was 1950. The living room was covered in red indoor-outdoor carpet. There was not one fluff of insulation in the entire house, no dishwasher or air conditioning; and the electric wiring was to die for, and I mean that literally. One bathroom, no shower. Closets with enough space for one suit each for working, marrying and burying.

But it had 12-foot ceilings, tall light-flooded windows and was chock-full of that quality known as "character." The entryway bragged a Victorian acorn-style hanging chandelier. On either side of it were two rooms a parlor with a fireplace and another parlor which I planned to convert into my law office. Three bedrooms upstairs, two with bay windows and built-in windowseats, and a bathroom. What a charmer!

Years later, Ann Webster, a Realtor friend, gave me a quick appraisal and frankly advised me to get out while I still could or the house "would eat me alive." Unfortunately, I didn't take her advice because I'm in love. It makes no sense to be anthropomorphic about real estate, but there you have it. She was to me like Tara was to Scarlett O'Hara.

Unfortunately, I have no Rhett Butler with hammer and nails to help, so I've learned to do plenty for myself. It's no surprise to my friends that my daughter, Robin, gave me a Skil jigsaw for my birthday a few years back. I've learned to paint and paper, sand, stain and polyurethane wood floors, install vinyl tile, hardwood floors, and glass shower doors, fix plumbing, reface cabinets and put up plank paneling.

I've had others re-roof the house (it had only one layer of shingles), hang gutters, paint the outside and install a dishwasher, new furnace, air conditioning, French doors, oak paneling, fans and light fixtures; but I've done most of the rest. Yet despite all the work, deterioration continues - both in the house and me. And it never comes in small bits.

Last summer just before I was to go on vacation, I ventured into the attic above the great room. Now, it's not that I wasn't forewarned. A few years back at Christmas-time, while rooting around for lights and decorations, I noticed one of the attic rafters had split. "'I'll have someone look at that." I did. "Better get that fixed, ma'am," he said. I will, someday. "It's no danger now, is it?" "Nope."

But when I looked again last summer, the rafter had split in half, as had all of its neighbors, and not just on one side. I quickly ran outside to appraise the roof for that portion of the house. It sagged at about a 90 degree angle. Oh crap! I prayed.

Emergency help installed supports beneath to prevent the sagging ceiling from dropping further and to allow workers to walk in the attic without falling through. How had I not noticed the drop in the ceiling?

A carpenter went to work shoring up the rafters, but downstairs, the supports are still in my living room two unfinished walls right smack in the middle on each side of my ceiling fan. At Christmas I hung decorations on the studs and creatively rearranged furniture in my new, divided living room.

My engineer brother, Martin, has devised a plan to strengthen the ceiling from below so the studs can be removed. It only takes more money.

So here I continue to live, with my cats, dogs and children, waiting for the next shoe to drop. But, thanks to Stormy Cox, who took time from constructing even more space at Cartoons to rescue me, at least what falls next won't be the toilet!