Jar of Goodness 11.13.22: Sunporch Storm Windows Done

. . . The weekly virtual “gratitude jar.”

This week, I’m expressing thanks for having the storm windows be up.

I’ve blogged about our storm windows before, and you know I have mixed feelings about them. Enough that we’ve come to rate each spring and fall transition to and from screens and storms on “the cussometer” scale. Some years, it’s been an 8 on the cussometer. This year, Sue gives it a 0.5, which is about the lowest it’s ever been. “It went just like clockwork.”

The fall operation involves moving furniture and blinds on the sunporch to clear space for the operation. Removing the screens (blissfully lightweight) and wiping down the sills and other framework. Hauling the storms out of the coal bin (which is a storage area in our basement), and cleaning them. Carrying them out the basement doors, up the steps into the backyard, across the backyard, up the porch steps to the porch. Fitting them into place. Putting everything back together.

A subcategory is putting the storm window in the porch door, which involves a screwdriver.

Another subcategory is using a screwdriver to stuff styrofoam insulation noodles and bits of fiberglass into the gaps. It really makes a difference on windy days. I’ll get to that this next week.

Another subcategory is removing screens and putting in storms (plexiglass) into our front storm doors. I did that yesterday. That has its own kind of cussometer.

But regarding today’s project, I gave it more of a 3, since my left shoulder’s been painful, and it just seemed like more of a chore—something I really didn’t care to do.

BUT having it done is a lovely thing. Being able to have the sunporch windows all closed means it can be more like a little greenhouse out there on sunny days, even when it’s cold outside. We will get some more weeks, or at least days, of being able to enjoy the sunporch.

And Lois is going to be able to enjoy sleeping in the sun in the mornings.

I said I have mixed feelings about these elderly storm windows. No one today still has heavy wooden storm windows that have to be hauled in and out of place each year. In all honesty, it’s a bitch. They’re unwieldy. We’re always having to futz around with them. (This year, one of the hooks came out of the wood, so we’ve got to fix that.) Why not get modern, expensive, do-everything windows that stay in place 100 percent of the time, and you just, like, open them temporarily, if they came with an openable, screen feature? (Wait, do people open their windows anymore?)

The answer for me has something to do with that sense of transition. It feels completely different out there, now, with the storm windows in place. It’s not breezy and open anymore; it’s cozy and protected. The outdoor sounds are muffled. And there’s a genuine feeling of warmth—like having that first bowl of ham and bean soup on a crisp fall day. There’s a perfection, and a rightness, to it.

Likewise, it’s a real pleasure to switch them to screens in spring. Suddenly, it’s like being in a treehouse! I feel a sense of glee—like if you have a convertible, and it’s the first day you can drive with the top down!

But also, why would we need to replace something that isn’t exactly broken?

Sunporch Screens

Well, it was about time! Now that we’re having an entire week of 90-plus temperatures, you’d think we would have changed them sooner.

Taking out the storm windows and putting in the screens: This is the easy part! This year, it barely registered a “2” on the cussometer.

The hard part is in fall: attaching the windows on the hooks, not un-attaching them (usually). To get them on the hooks, you have to position the window angled outward and lifted up, just so. And you can’t see it very well. And the storm windows are much heavier than the screens, yet more fragile. So the screens are easier. Lots easier.

And when we’re done, it’s so nice! All that fresh air, and nice breezes. Lois can look out the screens and sniff the air, and watch the birds. It’s so much more interesting with the screens in, like being in a treehouse.

Why the heck did we wait until the middle of June to do this?

Ohhhh it’s a long story. Here are our excuses. First, in April we decided to wait a few weeks because of all the pollen. Man, it was pretty bad again this year. Even Sue was suffering. In previous years, I’ve been able to write my name in the coating of yellow pollen that covers the table and chairs out there. So it just stays cleaner, and the air quality is better, to keep keep the storm windows up through pollen season.

And then we got rains here and there. And the windows are wood. The sunporch frames are wood, too. When it’s damp, it all swells up just enough to make a serious, 5- to 7-degree difference in the cussometer rating, so we’ve learned to wait a few days after the rain is gone to do this procedure. And as it happened, our occasional dry storm-window “windows” never happened at a time when it was convenient for us.

And finally, we’ve spent a lot of time enjoying the backyard, when the weather’s nice, so we haven’t been on the porch much to miss the screens.

Anyway, that’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it.

We got the screen windows up. Hooray!

Storm Windows Cussometer Report, 2012

Last weekend we took out the screens and put in the storm windows. As you know, in our lil’ ol’ National Register home, doors and windows that fit perfectly in 1931 don’t quite fit soundly any more. So we need a “cussometer” to keep track of the ongoing storm-window fittage issues.

“Issues,” as you know, is the twenty-first-century way of saying problems.

But we just expect it at this point. We build in time for planing, sanding, Dremeling (if necessary) surfaces of parts that won’t fit. And we keep notes on how much of a bitch it is each year! Hence the “cussometer.”

This year, we were dumbfounded at how easy it was! The biggest worry is always the biggest storm window, the one facing north. It’s at least forty pounds, it doesn’t fit easily on its two little hooks, and it’s far too high above the back porch stairs to even see well (much less manipulate from outside).

We just expect it to be a pain, but this year, it simply went on its little hooks and slid right into place. We secured the hooks inside, and stared at each other in disbelief. Wow!

Why was it so easy this year!? We chalked it up to the drought, and the settling and resettling of our back porch. Well, the drought was good for something! It rated a zero on the cussometer. A zero!

Then, we did the three little side windows, that face east. These are easy-peasy. Being smaller, they’re lighter, plus we can reach them from outside, from the top portion of the porch steps, which go right past them.

And uh-oh! We had celebrated a too early! The last window to go in simply didn’t have enough space. What the heck? It’s usually the easiest one of all! So we had to go to the basement for the planer to make the window narrower. It took a while, but at least it wasn’t on a window that was heavy or impossible to access from the outside. But it did take a couple of hours . . .

Oh, well. At least it’s done, and the cold air we’re getting now will be outside and not in.

Are your storm windows in? Are you keeping warm? I hope so! Because it sure looks like winter’s arrived now!

Autumn Transitions

I’ve been thinking a lot about the progression of fall this year; I mean, I usually do, anyway, because it’s a dynamic season, intense and dramatic, manic-depressive. But with Teale’s Autumn across America fresh in my mind, I’m more thoughtful about it than usual.

Unlike in springtime, where there’s no clear-cut time when the growing season officially begins, in fall, the first hard frost and freeze slices a distinct boundary between animation and dormancy, juiciness and dryness—the vibrancy of “red autumn” and the dullness of “gray autumn.”

Here in Central Missouri, our average frost date is about the middle of October, which also happens to be our usual fall color peak. A hard freeze can zap the fall color pretty abruptly. Then, the abcission wind comes in late October or early November, often with rain and dreary skies, to knock the leaves off the trees and thus prepare the trees for snow and ice. (Remember the abcission wind? We talked about that last year!)

So much of autumn seems to be about preparation for the winter.

But although we had wind and rain this past week, we still haven’t had a freeze yet, or even a hard frost.

There are many pleasant things about this situation—for example, Sue and I were able to bring in our tropical plants at our leisure. We dug up the elephant ears and hibiscus a few weeks ago, and Sue brought in her bonsai that can’t survive the cold. The Fukien teas and what-all. Some years, we get caught by surprise; we put off bringing in the plants until the last minute, then suddenly they’re predicting a freeze, and we’re out there with our spades, sometimes in the dark or the rain. Which is not quite optimal!

And then there are the brugmansias, which have multiplied over the years like bunnies. Like hibiscus, they must be brought indoors during winter. We’ve found, however, they only really begin to bloom about the beginning of October, so they’re usually in full bloom when we tell them, like moms tell kids on summer evenings: Time to come in!

So we always have to trim back the bruggies so they are, say, not taller than ourselves, which usually means hacking off all the glorious, footlong flowers. And we cart them and their big pots indoors. Into the basement. It’s kind of sad.




This year, Sue couldn’t bear to chop all those blooming heads off, so she set them, pots and all, at an angle. We have sideways trees in our basement! They’re blooming right now, even as I type this on the third floor of our house, and I can smell them all the way up here.




And we swapped the screens for storm windows again. By the way, there were big numbers on the “cussometer” this year—but it’s long story I won’t go into. Here’s a picture from my parents’ collection of my Grandpa and Grandma dealing with the storm windows. It was the early sixties, and judging from their smiles, the storm windows fit better forty years ago!




I also, quite at my leisure, picked all my basil and made pesto the same day I picked it.

Another day, I picked all my cayenne peppers and dealt with them: The smallish green ones went into freezer zip bags—they will heat up my Indian curries this winter! The mature, red ones, I dried: Trimmed off the green calyx on top, sliced them once lengthwise, spread them on a huge cookie sheet, and let them enjoy the dry warmth of Grandma’s incredible oven, all night long. Next morning, I turned them into “dynamite dust.” Lookie!




I didn’t deseed them or remove the “membranes.” (Hey, want a more precise name for that pithy stuff? It’s the placenta, that middle part that the seeds grow on; and the part that connects it to the fruit wall is the septum).

Dynamite dust! It’s just whole, ground cayenne. None of that sissy stuff for me! Good for what ails ya!

With all these preparations, though, there was no rush; we just found time here and there to get it all accomplished.

And yes, it’s rather pleasant to still have flowers around—chrysanthemums, and all that autumn-purple ageratum that grows around this yard for free. My herb garden’s still going at it; just today, I picked a handful of red-veined sorrel and some mint to go in a little salad at lunch.

. . . So when will it freeze?

Cussometer Reading: Only a "2"!

Wednesday, when my folks were visiting, I asked Dad to help me with the worst storm window of the bunch: the big one on the back porch. I told you about this process last year. Remember? The storm windows out there on the screen porch were salvaged from steamboats by my great-grandpa.

Click here to refresh your memory; there are pictures and everything.

Man, that storm window is heavy. It must weigh about thirty-five or forty pounds. It's about three feet high and five and a half feet wide. Real wood and real glass--yeah--and it's that old-fashioned, warbledy glass from history.




Every year we've lived here, getting that thing in and out--but especially in--has been a pain. It always sticks on one side, and we have often sanded or even planed that edge to get it to fit.

Worse, we usually have a hell of a time getting it to go on both hooks at once. It's a two-person job at best. The bottom part must be held far out beyond the side of the house in order to get the top part on the hooks. Then, the bottom part is pulled inside and locked in place with more hooks.

It's heavy enough that you want to use both arms to hold the bottom edge of the storm. What, then, do you use to move the top part into position on the hooks? Your head? I have actually tried that. (And no, it doesn't work.)

The dialogue usually begins like this:

Person A: Okay . . . I think it's hooked on my side . . . how about yours?

Person B: Nope, I can't get it on. We need to push it out and try again.

(Pushing, lifting, grunting noises; squeaking of metal hooks.)

Person B: Okay, it's hooked on my side. Are you on on yours?

Person A: No, it slipped off and now I can't get it to go on. We've got to lift it out again.

(More pushing, lifting, and grunting; squeaking of metal hooks.)

Person A: Okay, I think it's on on my side . . .

Person B: Dang it! Now it won't fit on my hook again.

(More pushing, lifting, and grunting, etc.)

Person A (or B, take your pick; whichever person represents ME): Okay--hang on--I've got to rest a second, my arms are getting tired . . .

Let the cussing commence. If there's a Person C, he or she stands in the yard, watching. The job of Person C is to let Persons A and B know if the window is actually hooked or not. That knowledge is reassuring when it's time to haul the bottom inward, usually with some real force, since it always sticks.

So even if you can manage to get it on both hooks at once, you sometimes still can't get the window to fit into place. It's at this point that we've unhooked the window, lugged it completely back inside, and run down to the basement for the sandpaper and planer. . . . Then, to start all over again.




For years, now, Sue and I have been rating each fall's back-porch storm-window experience on a scale of 1 to 10 on the "cussometer." Most years, it's about a 7 or 8. Some years, it's been a 9--especially if we're trying to do it after a rain, when the wood swells and makes for a particularly tight fit.

. . . So Wednesday, Dad and I put up that blasted storm window, while Mom reported on our progress from down in the yard.

And--what happened? What did we do? I had been dreading the whole operation--but it was actually very easy this time. Yes, it took us a few tries to get it hooked, but it wasn't very bad.

And then, when we pulled it inward, at first it seemed hopelessly stuck in the usual place; then Dad did something--what??--to the top, on his side, and whoosh! It slid right into place. Did he lift it? Did he push it outward a little right there? He says he doesn't know--he had accidentally gotten his fingers caught at the bottom and was pushing it outward in order to free his hand--and then--

Wow! What did we do?? Was it because I had parted my hair differently that day? Was it the shoes we had on? Was it that I had just drank a Diet Dr. Pepper? --I mean, What??




Ta-dahhh!! It was only about a 2 on the cussometer this year!

I was almost afraid to tell Sue about it that evening; I was afraid she'd feel gypped out of the one easy time we had with the storm window. I wish she could have seen it, because I don't think she completely believes me!

Broadway Storm Windows

First, a note to my regular readers: Thank you so much for checking in so faithfully! Every click helps me remember that something I do is actually appreciated enough to be sought out by someone. Don't stop! I apologize for not posting very much recently--I've had a head cold for about a week, and I'm still fighting with it. Both of us have been suffering. And you know how it goes--just because you feel like hell doesn't mean there isn't still a lot of stuff that needs to get done. The following is a case in point.

Sue repainted the old wooden storm windows on the Broadway side of the house, which needed it; their last reglazing and paint job was about eight years ago, thanks to my mom, who loves to paint stuff and did a wonderful job on these.




There are ten of these storms; four each on the first and second floors, and two (thankfully smaller!) on the third.

I often wonder why the heck Grandma didn't replace them, when she did all the rest, with aluminum ones? My guess is that it was probably the expense, for one thing; also, Broadway Street is noisy and an abundant source of sooty black street-dirt. Also, those windows face northwest, whence come the icy cold blasts, and she'd want a good seal on that side in wintertime.

When dealing with these storm windows, a big part of the work is simply getting them in and out. Each one weighs nearly twenty pounds, and they're about five feet tall. My Dad (having messed with them most of his life) knows the tricks for getting them in and out, and he taught me some of them this year.




Maybe you will find what follows boring, but to me it's crucial information. One of the reasons I'm writing this is so that I will remember it for next time, so I can fuss with these windows by myself.

First, naturally, it's a given on all the storm windows on this house that you absolutely need to keep track of which window goes where. They are not interchangeable. So each storm is marked at the top with something like: "2nd floor dining room north" or "1st floor living room south."




Getting them in and out is pretty scary for me, considering that during the process you can only grasp them by the bottom foot or so, which is difficult given their weight and height. Don't try it on a windy day!

To reinstall them, you must grasp them about a foot above their bottom edge, using an elbow against the base as leverage. The elbow-thing is one of the tricks that Dad showed me.

The side that will face the house should be facing up, and you push the storm window out the lower part of the open window. Then, using the strength of your hands and wrists, you have to flip the storm upward so it's more or less in position. For me, that's the scariest part. I can't help but think that I'm one wrist spasm or sneeze away from disaster. I consider that my car is parked three stories below.




You can rest the storm window temporarily on the brick sill (but don't let go of it, of course). Then you have to hook the top part in place. To do this, push the bottom outward, away from the building, to get the hooks at the top of the storm to slip over the tabs at the top of the window frame.




This is often easier said than done. Usually, you cannot actually see the hooks and tabs as you're doing this, so it must be done by feel. It usually takes a couple of tries. Is it on?




The final bit, once you're pretty sure the window is hooked at the top, is to draw the lower portion inward and hook it in place at the bottom. Again, that is often easier said than done, since sometimes it's a tight fit--layers of paint--and there's sometimes no way to "push" on it from the outside.

(Another handy hint: keep track of which storm window of each pair fits most tightly, and try putting that one in place first, so you can utilize the neighboring open window so you can lean out to do some pushing, or to inspect.)

We do think about replacing these heavy antique storm windows, which we leave up throughout the year, with more "modern" aluminum sliding storm windows with screens--like we have on almost all the rest of the windows. I try to imagine what it would be like to have those windows be open-able, and it appeals to me, especially during the summer. But the cost is prohibitive, and it seriously isn't very high on our list of priorities.




Mom has counseled us not to fool with aluminum storms, anyway. She says we should set our sights on full-fledged, insulated replacement windows on that side of the house--but then if we can't afford simple storms, I don't know how we can afford that.

So this fall Sue repainted the good ol', bad ol', storm windows, and we've got them all back in place, and I think we'll be able to get another ten years out of them before we have to revisit the issue.

She did a great job, and they do look really nifty. They, and the old-fashioned sash windows they protect, are in marvelous shape, considering their age.

And yes--I'm rather proud.

Storm Windows

Sometimes I think it’s an exercise in sheer perversity when we insist, each fall, in removing the big screens from our back porch and replace them with the heavy wooden storm windows that are original to our house.




Actually, they’re not original to our house. Originally, they were windows on a steamboat. That’s what my dad says; his grandpa salvaged them from a steamboat.

I’m posting this mainly to let you know what we go through each fall, and to let you know what most people went through in previous generations. These “real” storm windows are virtually extinct these days, and for good reason—they’re a bear to lift and to fit into place.

They hang from hooks the size of a thumbnail attached to the outside of the house just above the window openings. On our house, these hooks (like the storm windows themselves) are ancient and are coated with layer upon layer of green paint.






The windows are truly heavy, especially the one on the north side, which is over the lowest part of the back porch steps, so there’s no way we could use a ladder to help put it up. It all must be done from the inside.




It’s a three-person process: A pair of us on each side of the window, on the inside of the porch, holding the storm completely outside the opening, and then trying (mostly blindly) to attach it to the two hooks above, then to pull the lower part inward so we can attach the bottom to the inside of the frame with ancient hook-and-eye hardware.




Getting it on the hooks properly is where the third person comes in: This person stands outside in the yard and hollers up at us to let us know if we’re “on” the hooks or not. It usually takes us three or four tries to get both sides hooked at the same time. As we struggle, the window starts getting really heavy . . .

The process is complicated by the inevitable swelling of wood, settling of the house, and other factors that make the storm window a tight fit. It is scary to pull such a heavy window inward, with force, when you’re not quite sure it’s really attached at the top. To make a “mistake” would cause a tremendous crash and mess. And there’s no way for anyone to get on the “outside” to do the natural thing: push.

After we get the “big” one up, the three smaller windows that face east are a piece of cake. They’re much smaller and lighter, and a helper can stand on the steps and assist with both positioning as well as holding and pushing.

Once they’re up, the porch’s character changes drastically. Suddenly, sounds are muffled, echoed, and the air seems still out there. No more fresh breezes. Even though these windows are incredibly drafty, they are much better insulation than the screens would be.




The kitties have the worst time of it—the storm windows block off their direct channel to the sights and smells of the backyard. But then this gives them something to be happy about in the spring when we swap the screens back in.

And now there’s one less thing left to do this fall in preparing for winter.

(Whew!)