POST #65: HOW DO YOU HIDE YOUR DIRT?
Hi, I’m Holly Barron, a contestant on To the Manor Build, a super-popular rehab show.
This is my unfiltered, no-holds-barred, honest, behind-the-scenes peek at the craziness of turning a run-down Vermont log cabin into a net-zero awesome house with a hot, sexy guy I am about to marry just married.
My motto: Whatever I can do, YOU totally can do better!
Follow me to see how!
Hey, Fellow Manor Builders!
Hard to believe our Big Reveal is only (counts on calendar) five days away. I cannot wait to show off our energy-efficient, comfy home. I’m so excited, I’m half-tempted to pull back the curtain and let y’all see. But since I can’t (contracts ’n’ all), I’m gonna talk about dirt today. Specifically mud.
People, I’m gonna come right out and say this right now, no offense to you New Englanders, but when I was growing up on the shores of Florida, mud was not a thing. We left our sandals and shoes at the door, kicked the sand off our feet, and entered our house through a breezeway or, if you were fancy, foyer. We did not have mud. More importantly, we did not have rooms for mud. Mudrooms. Whoever heard of such a thing? It’s not like we have “sand rooms” in Florida.
Lemme tell you what: all it took was one Vermont spring to nearly swallow my Rover in two feet of gunk and not only was I insistent we have a mudroom, but I insisted it be the first room finished in the house. Along those lines, there were also three nonnegotiables:
#1 A mudroom must connect the garage to the house in this climate. Look, I am not parking my car in a heated garage and then braving the elements outside before I can enter the house. Not gonna happen. Garage + Mudroom + House all connected. The way Good Lord intended.
#2 A mudroom must have a separate entrance to the outside. This is common sense. You don’t want to have to pass through the garage to access the mudroom. Plus, when we have kiddos (hint hint, Robert), I like the idea of them coming in from playing in the backyard to clean off in the mudroom before setting foot in the house.
#3 A sink. See above: clean off. Every mudroom needs a serious sink. Ours is from Vermont Soapstone, a deep bump out with plenty of room for a good scrub and big enough to wash that Bernese mountain dog Robert’s always threatening to get. (No. Freaking. Way.) Ours is situated under french double-casement windows that open onto the apple orchard. I just imagine a summer day, washing up after harvesting vegetables from our own garden as a warm breeze blows in off the apple trees. Heaven.
BLOG HIJACK!!!
Robert Barron here. My wife’s adorable (yes, sweetie, we WILL get that Bernese mountain dog and you will LOVE him), but she’s missed the most important quality in a functional mudroom, which is . . .
#4 Durable flooring. A mudroom floor’s gonna get lots of traffic. Because I insist we make the most of our radiant heating system, I went with green slate tile. This is a metamorphic rock that was formed by eons of earth pressure. It’s not gonna get scratched by Jasper’s nails. (That’s what I’m naming him, Jasper. Or how about Hagar?)
BLOG REHIJACK!!!
Bye, bye, Robert. See you later, honey.
Phew, he’s gone. It’s me, Holly, to close off the discussion with a reminder that a mudroom must be warm and welcoming. After all, this is the first part of the house to greet you after a long day.
That’s why my interior designer, Vanessa, and I chose a cozy farm theme that’s comforting and cheerful. We painted the walls in Farrow & Ball’s buttery Snow White in modern emulsion so it’s easier to clean and used Farrow & Ball’s deep, rich Preference Red on the doors and benches crafted by a local carpenter who heeded my request for plenty of storage underneath. (Because you can never have enough storage in a mudroom.) A local seamstress covered the bench cushions in an exquisite Scandinavian fabric featuring brown nuthatches amidst falling green and red leaves and blue flowers. (I am DYING for you to see it Monday.)
But wait, here’s the best part: Vanessa found an antiques dealer in Woodstock who had these amazing, authentic black early primitive pegs to hang coats and scarves. They add such a touch of class. Robert balked at the price. (“Three hundred dollars for ten wooden pegs?”) I told him to get over it and deal. They make me happy.
And when Holly’s happy, everyone’s happy.
But when she’s not . . .
Talk to you soon! In the meantime, please log on to ToTheManorBuild.com and let me know what you think of the mudroom. And whatever you do, don’t forget to be there Monday to see it all, live! You are gonna flip your grits!
—Holly
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