I wrote moments ago about two glorious vintage sewing machines I got within the last few years for almost nothing. Like most of my scrounged or bargained purchases, they bring me only happiness.
But occasionally …
You may remember this door. I scrounged it out of a landfill four years ago this week.
Well, finally I’m at the point of having a place to install it. But I think I’ve learned to hate it.
Several summers ago, I spent hours — OMG HOURS! — outside stripping and scraping and sanding. When I stopped, it was still … shall we say, less than perfect. But I was out of stripper, sandpaper, and patience.
Now, the The Wandering Monk is scheduled to come back to frame and hang it, and here it is as of today:
I thought I’d just get it out, Bondo the most rough and gouged parts, let the Monk put the door up, then take it back down later for a proper finishing. But it turned out more paint had come loose. Well, that’s good; haul out the scraper and see how far I can get this time.
It’s raining today, so all scraping and Bondo-ing and wood filler-ing has to be done in the kitchen.
No matter how much I do, this damned door always needs MORE.
This is the major Bondo area, and it has a thumbtack (?) in it that seems there to stay.
Elsewhere, some of the wood under the old paint is dry and rough. You can tell it served for a long time as an exterior door; one side is merely dingy and dinged; the other has suffered decades of hard weather.
I am not a patient, diligent, or masterful craftsperson. This door could be utterly gorgeous in the right hands. And I’m going to patch it up and use it even though those right hands clearly are not mine.
But oh, I could cuss over the labor and futility of this particular project.