Nest — Winter 2023

Staying warm, and ideally cozy, is crucial for getting through a Vermont winter. This issue of Nest explores ways to conquer the cold — from HOME SAUNAS that draw on Finnish traditions to ORIENTAL RUGS that can transport your living room to faraway lands. Providing a home to someone in need imparts a warm feeling, too, and Vermont’s HABITAT FOR HUMANITY groups are laying the groundwork to house more people than ever. In South Burlington, Edie Perkins’ accessible home, with its smart UNIVERSAL DESIGN, gives her the warm fuzzies. Efficient space is something Mary Ann Lickteig is also looking forward to, she writes in a witty essay about LIVING IN A HOUSE DURING RENOVATION. Whether it’s Old Man Winter or remodeling dust getting you down, try a terrarium workshop with central Vermont’s SOUL SHINE GARDENING for clean air and green flair.

BY ANNE WALLACE ALLEN

BY ANNE WALLACE ALLEN

BY STEVE GOLDSTEIN

BY KEN PICARD

BY MARY ANN LICKTEIG

Last Quarter

Vermont housing news

BY ANNE WALLACE ALLEN anne@sevendaysvt.com

The global nonprofit Habitat for Humanity has “a liates” in di erent regions of Vermont, most of which have begun to add multifamily housing to their portfolios.

Habitat, which uses community volunteers to help build a ordable homes around the world, has focused on single-family housing for decades. But due to the rising costs of land, labor and construction, “It’s extremely expensive to build a single-family home right now,” said Eva Loomis, executive director of Upper Valley Habitat for Humanity, based in White River Junction.

She said a home in Lebanon, N.H., for a family of five “might be the last true single-family home that we do for some time.” The a liate’s next project, in Weathersfield, will provide multiple units on a parcel of land with three derelict buildings.

The state’s largest a liate, Green Mountain Habitat for Humanity, is based in Chittenden County and serves northwestern Vermont. Formed in 1984,

the group recently decided to increase production from half a dozen homes annually to 10 per year, CEO David Mullin said. It, too, is moving away from single-family homes.

“Land costs have driven us more and more to multifamily housing,” Mullin said. “If I’m able to purchase a piece of land and it’s large enough to put a duplex on, I’m going to put a duplex on it.”

Central Vermont Habitat for Humanity has big plans, as well.

The group has its eye on a 50-acre hilltop parcel just outside downtown Montpelier, where executive director Zachariah Watson envisions building 115 units of housing over the next several years. Watson said he’s held seven public hearings on the project, and he thinks most neighbors are supportive.

“People know we need more housing,” he said.

Applicants qualify for Habitat homes based on income and other factors, and they put in hundreds of hours of sweat equity through physical labor and by taking classes on topics such as financial literacy. Habitat also provides low-cost mortgages.

It took a stroke of luck for Upper Valley Habitat to acquire the land in Weathersfield.

The mother and son who owned it, Deb and Sean Roberts, wanted to sell to a group that would use it for a ordable housing. Loomis said the two approached Habitat and o ered owner financing for the $175,000 purchase.

“We both hate the way things have been going in the real estate market,”

said Sean Roberts, a local theater artistic director who previously had contacted Habitat when looking for a place to live.

“We have the continuous cycle of people who are too poor to buy places but can never save anything while renting because the rent they’re paying is more than a mortgage would be if they had one,” he said.

He and his mother did not set out to get maximum return on the property, which they had owned since 2017.

“Screw selling it to an out-of-state developer who is going to put up overpriced apartments,” Roberts said.

The 2.25-acre site is home to a small cottage, a duplex and a long-abandoned former restaurant building that is well beyond repair. Habitat plans to use the restaurant foundation for a multifamily building, move the cottage elsewhere on the property, renovate the duplex and add more structures. It also intends to put in a solar array and a green space with a community garden and a play area for children.

ANNE WALLACE ALLEN

Eva Loomis, executive director of Upper Valley Habitat for Humanity, and board member Andrew Grimson reviewing blueprints for multifamily housing to be built in Weathersfield

REAL(TOR) TALK

Vermont’s real estate market is still going strong, despite downturns elsewhere in the country. While the number of listings in November 2022 dropped by about 30 percent compared to the previous November, sale prices jumped nearly 10 percent in that time, according to the Vermont Association of Realtors.

Interestingly, given the low inventory, some homes have remained on the market for months, according to Dianna Benoit Kittell, a broker with Keller Williams in Enosburgh.

“ ere are lots of buyers still out there,” she said, but “some sellers are not 100 percent realistic about the prices.”

Sellers who have watched bidding wars unfold over the past two years expect to see the same interest in their properties, Benoit Kittell said — and many are pricing their homes over market value. As interest rates rise, she said, they’re finding that buyers do have their limits.

Vermont’s average home sale price in November was $343,982; in Chittenden County, it was $429,991.

Year-over-year price changes vary by county. In Bennington County, the median home price jumped a whopping 94 percent, to $628,000 — but in Washington County, it dropped 25 percent, to $328,388. Prices remained fairly level in Chittenden, Lamoille and Franklin counties. (In areas with relatively few homes on the market, the sale of one or two high-priced homes can cause the median to fluctuate widely.)

Benoit Kittell said her company sold 60 homes in 2021 and 45 in 2022.

“Yes, it’s slowing down,” she said in December, “but our team still has six pending transactions for January. at’s a lot.”

A Garden for All Seasons

Williamstown landscaper Tracy Badger has loved growing things since she was a kid planting apple seeds in the dirt.

Today she runs Soul Shine Gardening, a business through which she maintains gardens and houseplants for customers in central Vermont. is winter, she’s branching out with do-it-yourself terrarium workshops.

Terrariums — containers holding small plants — are having a social media moment. Mosses are hugely popular in ornamental glass bulb enclosures because they retain moisture; succulents thrive in well-drained arrangements. Bark, twigs, pebbles and sometimes props are used to create miniature landscapes.

For her classes, which start this month, Badger plans to offer a small selection of plants and containers and demonstrate how to arrange them so they’ll flourish through the dry, heated air of winter and the humidity of summer.

Showcasing indoor plants is a way to add variety and beauty to a room, Badger said. She noted that plants do more than just look good; they also absorb particulates in the air, acting as natural filters. And working with soil and plants has its own benefits.

“Gardening, whether it’s inside or out, is just really peaceful,” she said INFO

Contact Badger at tracybadger31@gmail.com.

“This is the kind of winter we used to have before COVID. Things are sitting on the market longer.”

DIANNA BENOIT KITTELL

Tracy Badger working on a terrarium at her home in Williamstown

Dianna Benoit Kittell of Keller Williams

Saunas were a Friday night tradition in Karen Larsen’s Scandinavian community in northern Ontario. Heating in a fragrant wooden room, then plunging into the cold lake just outside, was a way to soothe the stresses of a busy week and connect with family members who shared the ritual.

Decades later, Larsen has found the same combination of comfort and tingling cold outside her home in Cabot, thanks to the new wood-fired sauna by her pond. Larsen and her partner, Will Ameden, like to relax by sweating in the log cabin and then dashing out to roll in the snow or dip in the pond.

Ameden and Larsen are following the traditional sauna process, which begins with intense, dry heat. After a time, users create bursts of steam by throwing dipperfuls of water on superheated rocks, then sprint out of the sauna for a cold shower or plunge in a lake.

“That transition from that superheated space into the water or a quick roll in the snow ... it definitely makes you feel alive,” Larsen said.

Many share Larsen’s sentiment. While Finns have been using saunas for thousands of years, the heated rooms took the U.S. by storm in the 1970s. Sauna practitioners tout their benefits to body and mind, and over the past 50 years, the rooms have become a staple at spas and health clubs.

When COVID-19 closed those clubs, home saunas gained popularity.

“It’s interesting that it is once again a fad,” said Eric Aho, a painter whose grandparents emigrated from Finland. Aho lives in Saxtons River but built his sauna 20 years ago at a friend’s property in Walpole, N.H., where there is a pond. He saw other friends’ interest in building home saunas pick up during the pandemic, an urge he attributes to the public’s need for stress release and privacy.

New Hampshire sauna builder Bruce Ruotsala seconded Aho’s observation. “I was a lot busier during the pandemic, and especially in Vermont,” he said. Ruotsala, who sells sauna-building kits and also constructs custom saunas through his business, Finn Country Sauna Sales, added, “I saw a lot of outdoor saunas, often in second homes, and it was [for] people spending more time on the ski slopes or lakes.”

Heat Wave

Vermonters find warmth and wellness in home saunas

BY ANNE WALLACE ALLEN anne@sevendaysvt.com

Karen Larsen’s backyard sauna in Cabot

To the initiated, the sauna is far more than a simple heated box. Many transplanted Scandinavians view the sauna as a cultural ritual that, when carried out under ideal conditions, imparts lifegiving properties.

“Sweating is very important for humankind,” said Eero Kilpi, a native of Finland who is president of the North American Sauna Society, based in Rye, N.Y.

As a lifelong sauna enthusiast, Kilpi strives to share traditional sauna do’s and dont’s in an industry largely disconnected from the traditional roots of the practice.

“It’s been an uphill battle,” he said.

On Kilpi’s “do” list: Heat with wood if you can, because that’s more authentic. He frowns on more convenient alternatives, such as the popular Bluetoothenabled electric heaters that you can turn on with a smartphone app just before your last ski run of the day so that the sauna’s ready when you get home.

SWEATING IS VERY IMPORTANT FOR HUMANKIND.

EERO KILPI

Do douse rocks with water to create steam. And do create a place outside the sauna to rest and even socialize with fellow sauna users afterward.

The proper pronunciation, Kilpi said, is SOW-na, not SAW-na.

Another emphatic “do”: Respect that both heat and cold are central to the authentic sauna experience.

“Contrast therapy, hot and cold, and rest and hydration — that’s the whole point,” Kilpi said. “That’s where you get the health benefits. But most of the people, particularly in the U.S., think that the sauna is some kind of a pre-exercise warm-up procedure.”

Sauna proponents aren’t the only ones who think that sitting in heat is good for you. The Mayo Clinic released a paper in 2018 that said sauna bathing could reduce high blood pressure and cardiovascular disease.

Lately, the health and beauty industry has been promoting infrared saunas, which use light to focus heat directly on your skin, instead of heating up the whole room. They provide a fast, economical heat alternative that is very

Larsen’s sauna in Cabot, hand-built from locally milled cedar

A sauna built by Nils Shenholm at his home in Duxbury

JEB

different from the traditional full-body sauna experience.

Kilpi’s verdict on that innovation: “Junk from China.”

Finnish immigrants have long carried their tradition to climates with Scandinavia-like temperatures, such as Minnesota and northern New England, according to Devin Colman, the state architectural historian at the Vermont Division for Historic Preservation.

Colman researched Vermont’s sauna history several years ago and found that communities of Finns who settled in southern Vermont from around 1910 to the 1930s built log saunas on their farms.

“The Finns are the masters of log construction, and it’s very distinctive,” Colman said. “You’re looking for a little building. If it’s maybe 10 feet by 15 feet square, with a door at one end and a chimney pipe at the other, chances are it’s a sauna.”

These days, saunas come in all shapes and sizes. Ruotsala, whose great-grandparents emigrated from Finland, recently completed an elegant barrel-shaped sauna in South Hero that overlooks Lake

cost between $8,000 and $15,000, usually including an electric heater.

Nils Shenholm has been custombuilding saunas for his business, Solhem

Sauna in Duxbury, since the 1980s. He said windows are essential.

“Part of the culture of sauna is the connection to the outdoors, the spirit of forest landscape,” he said. Shenholm, like Kilpi, is a purist, and he has served on the board of the North American Sauna Society.

“Having a wood-fired sauna is by far the most authentic and traditional — and, as far as I’m concerned, is the best,” Shenholm said. He builds a lot of saunas in resort areas and also sells saunabuilding kits. He said he has three saunas under construction in Greensboro, two of them on Caspian Lake.

“Having something near water is key,” he added. But not just any water; salt water and swimming pools, Shenholm said, are not suitable.

“Going into chlorinated water after sauna doesn’t make sense to me, because chlorine is poison, and salt water leaves a film on your skin,” he said. “When you come out of sauna and rinse off with just water, your skin is as clean as it’s ever going to get.”

For those without a freshwater lake or pond nearby, a shower is the way to go. That’s what Ameden has rigged up next

Champlain. Most saunas in the U.S. are traditionally made of cedar or other softwoods. Ruotsala often imports red cedar from Estonia for his saunas, which

COURTESY OF DENNIS GILKENSON

Heat Wave «

Devin Colman’s basement sauna in Burlington

A roadside marker in Andover describing the bathing and social traditions of sauna

LUKE AWTRY

to his own portable cedar sauna, which sits on a trailer on his Cabot farm, ready to be towed to the water’s edge if the opportunity arises. Colman, the architectural historian, is putting the finishing touches on a sauna in his basement in Burlington, and he’s got a shower next to it.

Saunas are generally heated to a temperature of 120 to 200 degrees.

International residential building code stipulates that saunas be equipped with a thermostat that limits room temperature to no greater than 194 degrees, a rule that is unknown to many sauna users. Kilpi, however, said he was familiar with it.

“That seems enough,” he said, adding that he’s happiest at 180 to 185 degrees. “Your body is going to tell you when you’ve had enough.”

Colman became familiar with saunas as a lakeside camp counselor in Minnesota, and he prefers a heat of 180 to 190 degrees. Some sauna users strive to tolerate ever-higher temperatures, but Colman rejects that approach.

“It was never meant to be an

endurance activity; I just don’t see the point in that,” he said. “It should be relaxing and calming.”

Ameden had a neighbor custombuild two small woodstoves for the saunas he made. They allow users to feed wood into the stove from outside the building, keeping the wood and the smoke outside. He and Larsen sometimes emerge from her sauna in winter boots and bathrobes to make the short trek through the snow for a dip in the icy pond. There’s a road on the other side of the pond, so they wear bathing suits.

“Nobody is staying in there to paddle around; it’s a flash immersion,” Larsen said. “Your skin is all tingly, and you make a run back for the sauna as fast as possible.”

Kilpi approves.

“You’re deep into the sauna culture when you do stuff like that,” he said. ➆

INFO

Learn more at finncountrysauna.com and saunavermont.com.

Read about Montréal’s Nordic spa and sauna scene in the Wellness Issue on page 26.

Vermonter Eric Aho built this pondside sauna on a friend’s property in Walpole, N.H.

Design for Living

Living

In South Burlington, a collaboratively built house marries accessibility with style

BY STEVE GOLDSTEIN

On a snowy winter evening, a large pot of water boiled away on a Bertazzoni range — the Steinway of stoves — in Edie Perkins’ kitchen. A saucier pan heated on another burner, prepped with ingredients for a classic linguine con vongole. The extra-low soapstone countertops gleamed; appliances were carefully spaced and also lowered.

Perkins moved easily around the island-less rectangle of space in her wheelchair. With the pantry’s open shelves, everything was within reach. The kitchen connected to a living room suffused with soft music and recessed lighting. There, Addie the cat lay stretched in a savasana pose before a gas fireplace ignited by a push button.

From the street, Perkins’ South Burlington home is virtually indistinguishable from its brethren in the South Village development off Spear Street — except for the switchback ramp to the front door, a modification allowed

by the homeowners’ association. The development clusters single-family homes, condominiums and townhouses around a farm and is advertised as an

Edie Perkins in her kitchen at her South Burlington home

Addie the cat lounging in the living room

Exterior of Perkins’ home

DESIGN FOR LIVING » P.14

Design for Living

“agrihood.” A whiff of Stepford-like sameness is inescapable.

But Perkins’ house is different. Inside, the accessible adaptations reveal themselves slowly, like clues in a good whodunit. And a whodunit is an apt analogy, for this is the work of several authors, and the finale wasn’t conceived until late in the narrative.

Perkins’ home embodies many of the principles of universal design, which provides maximum functionality for the greatest number of people, including anyone with a physical or mental disability. The house conveys a simple grace without screaming accessibility. Perkins, who hails most recently from Los Angeles, was determined that her home be stylish, she said. Her friend Patricia Pomerleau of Burlington calls it “chair chic” — a fresh, sophisticated design that comforts the inhabitant and stimulates the visitor.

You could say it’s Perkins’ dream house — yet it is the result of a nightmare.

An accomplished runner and cyclist, Perkins was out for a training ride in LA on the morning of April 20, 2017, when she was struck by an SUV driven by a motorist momentarily blinded by the sun. The accident caused her to be paralyzed from the chest down. Her recovery was arduous, but eventually she was on a bike again, competing on a handcycle. Burlington’s Kelly Brush Foundation, which aids those who have suffered spinal injuries, took note and hired Perkins as its executive director in January 2021.

Ready to start afresh, and with twoplus decades of experience in business management, Perkins began thinking about her new residence before leaving the West Coast. Working with realty firm Coldwell Banker Hickok & Boardman led her to Sheppard Custom Homes, an Essex Junction-based developer, and discussions about a home in the South Village development. New to Vermont, Perkins thought it best to live in a neighborhood.

Project manager Peter Sheppard admitted that, as a builder of private homes, “we don’t build a whole lot of handicap-accessible or ADA-compliant homes,” referring to the Americans with Disabilities Act, a law that prohibits discrimination based on disability in spaces open to the general public.

“They were brand-new to this, but they were very accommodating,” Perkins added.

“She went to contract with pretty

much our standard plan, with just a few tweaks to it that accommodated her situation,” Sheppard said. Foundations were poured in early 2021. After Perkins shared the plan with Pomerleau — who built her own home in Burlington’s Hill Section based on universal design — the

latter suggested engaging an architect who could focus on accessibility and “make sure that the kitchen, at least, is going to really work,” Perkins said. “And she found Mr. Buckley for me.”

Cleary Buckley is a partner in Smith Buckley Architects of Burlington, a firm

that specializes in commercial projects — Burlington’s Farmhouse Tap & Grill, for example. As a wheelchair user himself, he understands the design challenges and emphasized the importance of weaving solutions into the entire homebuilding process.

PHOTOS: DARIA BISHOP

Edie Perkins dropping a towel in the laundry chute

The dining area and window seats

“From my standpoint, the process was not the best,” Buckley said of becoming involved after construction had begun. “My role was largely coming in and trying to work with stuff that was set [and] just make the plan flow and work better for Edie.”

Sheppard said he was glad for Buckley’s involvement as a person who understood the demands of life in a wheelchair. The developer said he delayed framing the house for two months while changes were discussed.

Sheppard had already installed an elevator for the two-floor home that can accommodate a person in a wheelchair plus one or two standees. Built by

In addition to the front entrance ramp, Buckley made several other adjustments to the original plan. He redesigned a very wide entrance hallway to add closet space and enlarge the main bathroom. “I have room to transfer from my chair to the toilet,” Perkins said. “And the shower is a roll-in, so I can get to my shower chair without having to get over a curb or the side of a tub.”

Buckley moved the laundry room from behind the kitchen to the lower level, allowing for a pantry to be built in that space. He also added a laundry chute.

Finally, Buckley designed the kitchen as an open plan with countertops lowered three inches below the

Savaria of Brampton, Ontario, it cost approximately $25,000, he said.

The original plan required entering the home through the garage, where a ramp would lead up to the main floor. But, as Buckley pointed out, “Edie is head of a disability organization, so it’s not great optics to have a house where visitors have to enter through the garage.” Instead, he added an attractive ramp leading to the front door.

“Something that’s interesting about designing a house for someone who’s disabled is that you don’t really have to follow the codes,” the architect explained, referring to ADA. “There’s no accessibility code that applies to a single-family residence.”

standard three feet. Cabinets were replaced with open shelving. “I can prep food at a comfortable height,” Perkins explained, “and just reach into the shelves for anything I need.”

During a tour, Buckley seemed satisfied that the house would function well for Perkins but wished he’d been involved from the groundbreaking. “It’s easier to design accessibility features in an integrated way,” he said.

For Perkins, the finished house was well worth the delays in the process. “Designing my house from scratch enabled me to dial in conveniences that make it easier to take care of daily tasks,” she said. “All the little things make a big difference.” ➆

Uncommon reads

An 18th-century barn in Richmond is a hidden gem for Oriental rug enthusiasts

BY KEN PICARD • ken@sevendaysvt.com

When Amanda Gustin of Barre inherited three antique Oriental rugs, she knew that the family heirlooms required special care. As director of collections and access at the Vermont Historical Society, Gustin knows a lot about local history and artifacts, “but these rugs are completely outside my area of expertise,” she said.

So when she needed to get one of them professionally cleaned, she contacted Vince Fernandez of Richmond. Fernandez, an Oriental rug expert with 50 years of experience, went beyond cleaning and repairing the rug, which had frayed at one end. He also pinpointed its age as about 100 years old — consistent with stories Gustin had heard from family members — and identified the region in northern Iran where it was woven and the techniques used.

“He’s absolutely got that collector’s mind, along with the technical knowledge,” Gustin said.

Vincent J. Fernandez Oriental Rugs, along Route 2 on the outskirts of Richmond, doesn’t attract much walk-in tra c. Fernandez’s farmhouse and barn, which were built in the late 1700s, are nestled amid large oak trees. From the outside, the place appears as exotic as a Holstein cow.

But for collectors of fine Oriental rugs, the two-story barn o ers some rare and unusual floor coverings from faraway lands: a mid-20th-century Heriz rug from Azerbaijan; a 19th-century Oushak rug from western Turkey; a 1940s Turkoman tent band from Afghanistan that, according to Fernandez, would have been used to decorate a yurt for a wedding.

“That’s a Kurdish salt bag. The tribe is Jaf, 1880,” Fernandez noted as he showed this reporter around his cluttered shop. “I can’t explain to you how I know that. It’s almost become like a sixth sense.”

The 74-year-old Northfield native has been buying, selling, repairing and cleaning rare rugs since 1973. In an era when most contemporary carpets are mass-produced using synthetic fabrics and dyes, and are made to be discarded after a few years, Fernandez deals in fine, handwoven rugs that can last for generations. He’s among a dying breed of

Vince Fernandez of Richmond with his Oriental rugs

experts who know how to protect those rugs and keep them vibrant.

Virtually all of his business comes through word of mouth, often from interior decorators who seek him out when they’re designing a living room, bedroom, office or den for well-to-do clients.

If people are interested in decorating with an Oriental rug, Fernandez recommends starting from the bottom: Choose the rug before selecting a sofa, chairs and curtains, for which there are usually many more color and pattern options.

“‘A carpet is the soul of the apartment. From it are deduced not only the hues but the forms of all objects incumbent,’” Fernandez said, paraphrasing Edgar Allan Poe’s 1840 essay “The Philosophy of Furniture.”

Then he quoted his favorite line: “‘A judge at common law may be an ordinary man; a good judge of a carpet must be a genius,’” he said, before bursting out laughing.

Fernandez laughs easily and often. If he were paid by the word, he’d be very wealthy. A salesman with the gift of gab, he tells stories that begin on one continent and end on another — or lead to yet another story.

Yet one doesn’t come away from a meeting with Fernandez feeling as though he’s pulled some expensive wool over your eyes. While we spoke, I remarked on a beautiful 8-by-10-foot burgundy rug, priced at $3,900.

“You’ve got good taste,” he said, “and I’m not just saying that to be flattering.” Fernandez immediately identified it as a contemporary Turkoman, made

in Afghanistan about 20 years ago. He pulled a book from a cluttered bookshelf and flipped to a page showing similar rugs from that region.

Upstairs in the loft, where more rugs were stacked knee-high in no obvious order, Fernandez pointed out another one, made of wool with silk highlights, with a weave density of 400 knots per square inch. Though I’d long assumed that a higher knot density equates to a better-quality rug, Fernandez quickly disabused me of that misconception, which is often peddled by rug dealers.

“Guess what? It’s just the opposite,” he said. In certain parts of the world, including North Africa and the Middle East, some rug makers never wove

high-density rugs. Because of their techniques, craftsmanship and quality of materials, their rugs can command 20 times the asking price of one with a higher knot density.

“Judging a rug by the number of knots,” Fernandez said, “is like judging a Picasso by the amount of paint.”

Fernandez had no formal schooling in Oriental rugs. After attending Northfield High School in the late 1960s, he spent two and a half years at Norwich University before dropping out.

“I decided I needed more time to chase girls, have fun, ski bum and party,” he said. After a cross-country trip to California with a buddy, Fernandez returned to Vermont in 1972 with no college degree or career prospects. He took a job in a Burlington supermarket.

PHOTOS: LUKE AWTRY

One day, while visiting his parents in Northfield, Fernandez met Joseph Eways, a Palestinian man who moved to the U.S. in the early 1920s, then began selling Oriental rugs in Reading, Pa. Eways regularly traveled the East Coast buying, selling and maintaining Oriental rugs for his affluent clients.

Because Fernandez’s mother once bought a rug from the traveling salesman, Eways called on her whenever he had business in Vermont, invariably arriving with a box of baklava.

During his visit, Eways mentioned that he had a large rug to deliver to a customer in Roxbury. Assuming that the 74-year-old salesman couldn’t haul the heavy rug himself, Fernandez offered to help.

“He looked at me and bristled and said, ‘The hell I can’t! I’ve moved them for 50 years, and I still can!’” Fernandez recalled.

But Eways soon took a shine to Fernandez and offered him a job running his shop in Pennsylvania whenever he was on the road, which was most of the year. Fernandez accepted. He remembers thinking, six months in, “This is the first thing in my life that I get … I just have a feel for these rugs.”

Fernandez worked for Eways until 1976. Eways treated his protégé well, but Fernandez knew that the man would never leave his business to a nonfamily member. (Eways Rugs is still a familyrun operation in Ruckersville, Va.) So Fernandez returned to Vermont and opened his own rug business.

In the years since, he’s operated from the Chace Mill in Burlington, the Champlain Mill in Winooski, and a Church Street Marketplace spot above Ken’s Pizza and Pub.

“That’s when I was young and foolish and could carry rugs up and down a flight of stairs,” he said.

Though his products come from all

over the world, Fernandez said, he’s traveled overseas for work just once — to Turkey. Mostly, he buys rugs at estate sales and auctions, as well as from wholesalers and importers in New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania. Often, his clients will show him a photo of a rug they like, and he’ll find a similar one, with the client under no obligation to buy it.

Recognizing that most people can’t afford the kind of handwoven floor coverings he carries, Fernandez offered advice to those who own one already or plan to invest in one.

First, he strongly urged people to get their rugs cleaned professionally by a knowledgeable expert. This involves “dusting” the rug, or using a mechanical device that shakes the dirt loose, before washing it, usually with soap and water to protect the vegetable dyes from running.

Second, he said, “a stitch in time saves nine.” If an end starts to fray, stabilize it with a needle and thread. Never use tape to mend a tear, because it’ll loosen and pull out the knots. Then have it repaired by a professional.

Third, Fernandez recommended investing in a good rug pad, unless the rug is placed on wall-to-wall carpeting. While most people assume that the pad simply stops the rug from sliding and makes it more comfortable to stand on, its main purpose is to reduce wear and tear. A good carpet pad can extend the life of a rug by years, if not decades.

These days, Fernandez is just happy to find people who still appreciate the workmanship of the products he sells.

“People aren’t into antiques anymore,” he lamented, noting that his sales are a quarter of what they were 20 years ago. “Here I am, a dinosaur. But some people like dinosaurs.” ➆

Don’t Try This at Home

Staying in a house during renovation tests survival skills

BY MARY ANN LICKTEIG

Initially, we thought we’d move out. We’re a family of six. Living in our house during its partial renovation seemed impossible — how would we manage without two bedrooms and the kitchen? But most people stay, our contractor assured us. The idea of saving thousands of dollars, watching our home’s transformation, being on-site as questions arose and saving thousands of dollars made our decision easy.

We packed up half of the house, sending furniture, breakables, and most dishes and cookware to storage. I moved a side table into the nearly empty dining room to set up my espresso machine and mega coffee grinder. Walls could crumble around me, but there would be coffee.

We moved our fridge, microwave, toaster oven and pantry to the basement. It has a cavernous utility sink, and I bought the few additional things we’d need to run a subterranean kitchen: a hot plate, eight plastic plates and four stemless plastic wine glasses. (There would be lots of wine.)

It was fun at first, like having a play kitchen. I had my toy dishes and my tiny appliances, and I could make real food. I fried eggs, sautéed vegetables, baked

fish, cooked pasta and made waffles from scratch. When the New York Times featured a recipe for a potato chip omelette, I made a potato chip omelette.

I was absolutely giddy when rooms in our 100-year-old Burlington house were gutted to laths and bare boards, emitting an old wood smell. It was like the house, which had been holding everything in for so long, sighed and bared its soul.

We could see an old roof line and other evidence of how the house had been changed over time. We didn’t find any great surprises: no bodies, time capsules or hidden treasures. But we did find a tiny room — a pantry or a closet, we suspect — that no one had known was there.

MATT JENKINS

Light streamed between cracks in exterior walls; you could see into the basement through gaps in the kitchen floor, and I could see our future. I had waited 22 years for this. Plans drawn up when I was pregnant with our first child got put aside when we had three more kids in the next four years. Finally, that ugly, cracked linoleum was gone; the warped cupboard under the sink was gone; the collapsing silverware drawer — gone!

Upstairs, the lavender-tiled half bath in the primary bedroom was demoed to make way for a full bath with a shower and two sinks. No more sharing the existing full bath with three teen boys and their raised toilet seat and lower standard of living.

Walls would be reconfigured to give the primary bedroom a sun porch and a bigger closet to replace the one tucked under the stairs. Weaving through the studs, envisioning how it would all come together, was exhilarating.

But we’ve been at this for seven months now. Living through a renovation is like raising kids: You jump in wide-eyed and enthusiastic, but it gets really messy before it’s over.

Our project started in the spring. “You can grill!” our friends said.

“We can grill!” we agreed.

We’ve grilled twice. Prepping food in the basement, and then hauling it upstairs, outside and back in proved just difficult enough to deter us.

While painstakingly planning my new kitchen for maximum efficiency — dedicating zones to individual functions such as food prep, eating and cleanup — I’ve been cooking in the basement on a hot plate next to a sander, a vice, a router and a headless wooden giraffe awaiting repair.

If anyone eats in the basement — it offers seating for one — they sit on a Snap-on stool pulled up to a portable Festool workbench facing the band saw and table saw my husband can’t use because they’re barricaded behind boxes of books.

Eating in the dining room means balancing your dinner as you walk up the basement stairs, unzip the plastic wall designed to curtail dust, then squeeze through. There’s an art to that last step: head first, followed by shoulders, then the rest of your body, the way a baby is born. It’s a plastic birth canal.

Throughout the house, rooms are consolidated. I wedged my desk between two bookshelves in our front room. As light fixtures, ceiling fans, faucets and tile samples have arrived, they’ve stacked up behind me. I can’t say that my makeshift office houses everything but the kitchen sink because it has housed everything and the kitchen sink.

When our hardwood floors were being finished, we

had to come and go through the front door — which automatically locks behind us — and the exterior basement door, which has a tricky, old lock. We looked like prowlers, skulking around the place. When one of my sons got locked out one day, he scaled the bushes, cut across the porch roof and broke into his bedroom.

At least he and his twin brother got to stay in their rooms. My husband and I moved into our daughter’s bedroom — she lives in an apartment and has escaped the chaos. Our oldest son has fared the worst. Four days

The dust rains down. The dog hair drifts like snow. And then the floods came. With downspouts off and scaffolding up, rain somehow gets funneled into the basement laundry room/kitchen to pool near the chest freezer and clothes hampers.

And then the rodents came. I hadn’t seen evidence of mice in our house since one fall about 15 years ago when I went looking for three ears of colorful corn I’d saved to hang on our front door. I found them picked clean, still artfully tied together with a raffia bow.

Now, I find little black flecks on the red-and-white-checked tablecloth draping my Festool table. I’m accustomed to starting my days by cleaning up after my sons, who eat in the middle of the night, but after a few mornings of sweeping up black sesame seeds, it dawned on me: Those boys are not eating everything bagels every night, and those are not black sesame seeds.

I now begin each day with Clorox, cleaning up after the mouse parties — and the mouse party poopers.

While the mice head in, the dog heads out. Rosie has capitalized on doors standing open. In November, a police officer found her twice on the same day, blocks from home. The first time, the officer gushed about our “sweet girl.” The second time, she warned that if it happened again, she’d take Rosie to the pound, and they would decide whether or not to release her to us.

We’ve alienated more than the police. Nothing endears you to neighbors like a home renovation. As if our lame landscaping and spindly tomato plants weren’t enough for them to endure, we parked a dumpster and a construction trailer on the street and planted a Porta-Potty on our south lawn.

And, of course, we’ve got tradespeople streaming in and out of here all day. Even though I work from home, I haven’t minded that. They make a lot of noise and sometimes their air compressor roars to life in the middle of the night, but I’ve worked in a big newsroom and comfortably tune out chaos.

before he graduated from high school, we cleaned out his bedroom and shoehorned him into the basement.

Living with clutter is one thing; dust is another. I expected dust during demolition, but even now, during finish work, the finest powder coats everything. Wipe it away, and it reappears — even in places the laws of physics dictate it cannot reach. We breathe it and eat it. When I swab my nose now, I test positive for Sheetrock.

Our yellow Lab, Rosie, whose fur usually accumulates faster than dust in our house, seems to feel challenged by this. Nobody messes up this house more than I do, dammit. Game on. She’s shedding more than ever.

Honestly, I think this is worse for them. I mean, what’s it like to go to work every day and find a family squatting in your office? She’s still here. And always with that damned espresso.

The end is in sight now, but I wonder if we will ever get there. I feel like I’m living that Zeno’s paradox that says to get from point A to point B, you must first go halfway to point B. Then you must traverse half the remaining distance, then half the remaining distance again, on and on, into infinity.

We’re clawing our way. Maybe we’ll get there. Or maybe, in another 25 or 50 years, when the next homeowner renovates, they will find a body. And alongside it, a plea for help, scrawled in the dust. ➆

LIVING THROUGH A RENOVATION IS LIKE RAISING KIDS: YOU JUMP IN WIDE-EYED AND ENTHUSIASTIC, BUT IT GETS REALLY MESSY BEFORE IT’S OVER.

MATT JENKINS

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