There’s an old enameled cast iron tub on our porch and a new still-in-the-box one-piece toilet nearby.

And two completely reusable cut-out sections of drywall resting against a seven-foot primitive cabinet that holds our sacred items (bundles of sage and sweetgrass, tobacco, containers of other medicines for sweats, the odd deer antler and strips of fabric for prayer flags in all the colors—black, white, yellow, red, blue and green).

It’s been a bit hectic ‘round here lately or I’d have posted a reflection sooner. Something lofty rather than practical, but I’m up to my eyebrows in practical at the moment, keeping on top of the logistics of managing two markets alongside a bathroom remodel that sometimes resembles an archaeological dig into the bowels of our 1914 farmhouse. My brother, Mike, in from Hawaii until the job is done, has been gracious in the extreme about changes to the plan; it’s a pleasure to give him room and board and solid meals and eventually a paycheck for his good-natured labors. Did I mention it’s our one and only bathroom? Luckily, we live in a place so tucked away that alternatives to our morning ablutions and middle-of-the-night “necessities” go undetected by our neighbors acres away in their beds. I’ll probably always be grateful for the convenience of flowing water at the touch of a lever, but…there’s something about kneeling in dewy grass at first light, washing your hair to a chorus of morning birdsong while a lazy mist tufts its way across the field beneath the rising sun’s pale yellow sponge cake eye.

This remodel has been on the drawing board for years, a project that’s long overdue, and it’s certainly not the first time residents of this space reimagined the layout and functionality of what some would say is The Most Important Room in the House. Our predecessors (all of them, not just the most recent) were thrifty and creative in their own construction and remodeling attempts, impacted somewhere in the 50’s by the arrival of indoor plumbing. When we appeared on the scene 24 years ago, the room was divided by a non-load-bearing wall that kept the massive coal burning unit on one side and the traditional bathroom fixtures on the other, with a hastily installed chain-and-wire dual bulb swag lamp swinging precariously over the medicine cabinet made from a repurposed contractor’s tool chest (mirrors added to the front “doors” for safer and more precise shaving, teeth-brushing and eyebrow tweezing). I’d gingerly reach the feather duster up over my head to clean the exposed wiring each week because, well, one wants a bathroom to be thoroughly clean, right? A 70’s style sink and vanity completed the look and a serviceable bathroom alcove was born. Over time, we pulled the coal burner and moved an old harvest gold Montgomery upright freezer into the corner, watching as the house settled it into its current slanty position. Bathroom-turned-funhouse—who doesn’t love that? That freezer has more than earned its place in the family, keeping our pasture-raised meat chickens and garden bounty preserved from summer through winter for more than eighteen years. I make no apologies to guests who stop for a split second at the room’s threshold before proceeding to what they came for on the right side of that wall.

Once Mike and our nephew Anthony pulled the remaining 2x4s that framed that wall, we knew we were well past the point of no return on the remodel, and ordered the vinyl interlocking waterproof flooring (a peaceful whitish grey). I’m sure there are still parts and pieces yet identified that we’ll haul home from the hardware store, but as former antiques business folks, we’ll make a few trips to the old goat barn and shop there first. I think this old house can handle a repurposed vibe. In fact, I think there’s an auction-scored green slag glass hanging lamp somewhere in my studio underneath an old mosaic tile-topped coffee table my sister Jane found at a flea market (birthday gift from a few years ago—she sure does know me). I’m sure we can make it work.

Mike and I, and the rest of our siblings for that matter, were taught frugality at the kitchen and workbench tables of our parents. With five children and two adults living on the strength of my dad’s single income and my mom’s household management abilities, we quickly took to an acquisition practice that fully embraced repurposing (which Pinterest did not invent, I can assure you). Dad would only purchase the best he could afford and make the rest do with a strong commitment to safety. His workshop in the basement was an organized treasure trove for the handyman that he was; ask him for a part to fix something and he could find it. He saw the future in a leftover chunk of wood and knew that a handful of drywall screws would do in a pinch. Mike was his lifelong apprentice at an early age and even I learned how to replace the valve cover gasket on Dad’s Ford Pinto one summer at the lake, proudly eating corn on the cob that night with traces of oil and lube grease still staining my fingernails.

Watching my brother plunge headfirst into the crawl space under our old floorboards to inspect for dry rot in the joists, measure more than twice before making that one-time cut and meticulously put the tools away and sweep at the end of each workday, I see him channeling Dad and I smile. I think he would have been right there under the house with Mike, bent double in the crawl space with a head lamp shining a dim light on where the floor jacks would go to brace the wall behind where the new tub surround will go. And loving the challenge of it all. Dad was about doing whatever would make his future self feel proud and accomplished, snacking on a handful of dry-roasted peanuts in between steps (Mike showed up on day one of the project with a large bag of Snack Factory Pretzel Crisps from Costco. The apple fell and came to rest reassuringly at the base of this family’s tree).

I don’t know the details of where Mike learned the rest of what he knows about construction, demolition, leveling floors or redirecting a set of copper pipes to their new location up against the wall between the two windows that will frame a gorgeous view of the field to the east when I take my first hot bath in the new tub, but I will ask him and listen for Dad’s voice echoing in the practicality of it all. Each generation improves on the one that brought it here.

It helps that we were given a solid foundation from which to go forward. Thanks, Mike.

And thanks, Dad.