Curating the Casa

Today is the one-year mark of our renovation efforts. On March 14, 2008, we got our first dumpster and started filling it with stuff. Well, crap, actually. The stuff we kept. When we took all the remaining art down on August 23, I looked around the room and felt incredibly glum. Thank goodness I could still amuse my eyes by looking at our view.

The art started coming back on the walls on February 7, 2009, because we needed to get the pictures off the floor as part of preparing for carpeting.

I got to reconnect with our precious family heirlooms, including a tapa cloth. My mom explains that my father hand carried this primitive paper-like bark fabric home from Fiji to Austria after getting his MBA in the United States and treating himself to a trip around the world—instead of flying east, he flew west. It now hangs in our bedroom, so I can see it every day.

With each image I unwrapped, I told Matt the tale of how this treasure came to be part of our collection. Remember Annapolis, New Orleans, New York City, San Francisco, Savanna, Music Fest with Karen and George?

Matt asked what I wanted to do on my birthday—within the context of preparing the house for a visit by Frank and Diana. I wished to get some more of our stuff back. And so on March 7, we headed to the storage unit. My collection of stemware returned to its home in the glass IKEA cabinet I purchased years ago with birthday bucks from my mother-in-law, Jean.


“Bertha” also made it home. And I had found a hand-typed postcard from Matt’s Aunt Jennie, who wrote, “It seems incredible that my ancient icebox which you found in my basement could look so good and become so useful.” (It stores booze.)


And we finally got to hang our key cabinet by the yellow front door, an Uncle Joe Brooks original. It coordinates perfectly with a favorite Don Davis painting. And back above the dining table went my three hand-carved angels. Oma Langer gave my mom the dark angel when I was born. She explains, “It was carved by the son of the old Heissl family who were Imperial (Kaiserlich-königliche Holzschnitzer) woodcarvers to Kaiser Franz Josef.” His heirs carved the other two angels, gifts from Oma to Mom upon the birth of my brothers.

Unwrapping all the carefully packed items was very much like being a very lucky kid at her birthday party.

IKEA adventures

Yesterday, I explained to my Mom that, as wonderful as the products and designs are, the IKEA shopping experience is only for the hardy and handy. If you like service or stilettos and deplore phrases like “some assembly required,” stay away.

First customers walk through an enormous showroom (grab a map; follow the arrows). It is fun to see the wide variety of items in enticing vignettes—like walking through the pages of a very crowed shelter magazine. People run around with tiny pencils and fill out their blue shopping list.

Second, shoppers can catch their breath at the restaurant and café. We usually stop for a mix of Sprite and Lingenberry soda.

Refreshed, is it time for step three: Wheeling an unwieldy cart through an enormous warehouse, never letting it go, as an unscrupulous and less well-organized customer would surely scurry off with your wheels. Another danger is zombies, who—exhausted and glassy-eyed—will run their carts over your heel. I’ve been just such a shopper myself. (Sorry, Matty.)

If you are actually able to,
A) locate the bin and aisle with your selection,
B) find each of the needed boxes in the set and
C) decide they are undamaged enough to seem worth the risk, you can
D) struggle to maneuver the flat, heavy items into your cart.

Now it is time for step four: Trying not to pass out or get into fisticuffs during the endless wait to check out.

Vēnī, vīdī, vīcī. As we hauled our two overburdened carts to the truck, we realized we'd spent less on all the items on our list than for the sexy but too large extension table I admired online. Plus, there was no 12-week wait for the furniture to arrive.

We were also happy because Thursday, February 19, was the last day of Matt's truck lease, and we'd made good use of the vehicle during its final hours in our care.

Then came assembly, step five in the IKEA adventure. Yes, it is impressive how exceptionally well much of the furniture goes together. Great design and engineering. And fairly helpful pictographs. Yet even with the brains and brawn of Matt running the assembly operation, it took hours for us to put Expedit (made in Germany) together for the master bedroom and to add the Lack lighting.

We didn’t complete our mission. At 10 p.m., I needed dinner. I needed sleep. I needed not to be working on this project anymore, Expedit insert assembly and installation be damned. I woke up that Friday with an IKEA hangover.

Bjursta, the extension table, came together after Matt adjusted a couple holes with his power drill. We also installed the four nearly invisible Tobias chairs. And just in time for a visit by our darling six-your-old Goddaughter, Amanda. (Bjursta doubles as a desk.)

The three Pax wardrobes (also made in Germany), meant to replace our demolished entry closet, came together nicely. Until we tried to attach the Drammen doors. There were no hinges. “Sold separately,” we found out when we went back to IKEA on February 22.

Then we decided we needed a fourth Pax. And lighting. And shelves. And a “spacer” so the row of wardrobes would sit perfectly along the wall and hide the ugly fuse box.

So Matt also picked up Benno. It was a quarter inch too tall. Do we “rip” the bottom? No, no, better to add than subtract… That is why yesterday, on my birthday, our chores included attaching poplar trim to the “birch effect” storage units.

We got the desired result. The glossy wall of storage coordinates with our stairs. It glows (thanks to Dioder) like our Chia Tree with Star Light—like Morimoto restaurant in Philadelphia. Like a dream come true.

And all it took was five trips to IKEA (both to Paramus and Elizabeth) to get all the pieces and components we needed. (Plus we picked up some very yummy vittles from IKEA’s Swedish Food Market.)