Summer of renovation

The upper level stripped in early june 2026.

This summer, Jeff and I dove headfirst into renovating our home—a project we're calling Mapache. Neither of us had done anything like this before. What followed was four months of measuring rooms by hand, agonizing over floors, trying to communicate with contractors without accidentally being a nuisance, and spending an average of four hours making a single decision. It’s been a lot. It’s been worth it.

I came into the project knowing almost nothing about home renovation. I can talk to you about kerning and color theory all day, but electrical load plans? Kitchen cabinetry specs? The difference between a soffit and a fascia? I was starting from scratch—and the house wasn't about to hold my hand.

That said, I didn't wait for summer to begin. I started measuring the house back in February, long before a single wall came down, working up renovation spec plans that would eventually reach Version 5. By the time the dust literally started flying, I had months of planning behind me. What I didn't have was a cleared house. Jeff's mother's belongings weren't fully moved out until early May, which meant I spent a few days off hauling items to a rented dumpster—solo—while the demolition crew had already started on the other end. There's something both absurd and clarifying about that image: me dragging boxes out the front while a crew worked through the back. Project Mapache, from the very beginning, did not wait for convenient timing.

Getting to know the house, inch by inch

The first thing I discovered was that Mapache had no floor plans. None. So before I could sketch a single layout or start placing furniture in my head, I had to measure the house myself—every corner, every window cutout, every span of wall between door frames.

It took days. I crawled around with a tape measure, noting dimensions in a notebook that quickly became a chaotic but oddly precious document. Wall-to-wall in the main bedroom. Distance from window edge to corner. The depth of the kitchen alcove. Every segment told me something about how the house was put together. And as tedious as it was, something unexpected happened: I started to really see the place. The layout that felt modest at first glance was actually quite considered. Rooms flowed sensibly. Natural light landed in the right spots. The house had thought put into it—and getting intimate with it that way gave me a genuine appreciation for what we were working with, limitations and all.

The part where our budget assumptions got humbled

I'll be honest about money, because I think people don't talk about it plainly enough: the costs were a regular source of low-to-high grade anxiety. Every decision has had a dollar sign attached to it, and the numbers added up faster than we expected.

One of the early surprises came when we went looking for vinyl wood plank flooring—our original plan, chosen practicality and price. Turns out, local installers simply didn't carry it. The options that emerged through our search led us, somewhat unexpectedly, to engineered hardwood walnut. Which is gorgeous. And also not what we had budgeted for. We made the call, and we don't regret it, but that pivot reminded me early on that renovation has a way of quietly but quickly rewriting your spreadsheets.

We also made a deliberate choice to support local contractors, even when their quotes ran higher than outside options. That felt important to us. Supporting the community that's supported us isn't just a feel-good idea—it's something we genuinely believe in. Still, writing some of those checks required a deep breath and a moment of quiet acceptance.

Kitchen cabinetry progress in early september 2026.

Learning an entirely new language

I didn't know how to read a lighting plan before this summer. I do now. Electrical circuits, junction boxes, the logic of three-way switches—I absorbed it all out of necessity, Googling furiously between contractor conversations and asking probably too many clarifying questions.

Color scheming the whole house was its own extended exercise. I'd tape sample strips to the wall and live with them for days, watching how they shifted from morning light to evening lamplight. Kitchen cabinetry involved more decisions than I thought a row of boxes and doors could possibly require: door profile, finish, hardware placement, interior organization. Each choice connected to the next one.

And then there was the landscaping. Jeff has more gardening experience than me, but the garden spaces at Mapache genuinely excite me. My goal is to get at least 50% of the plantings to Idaho Zone 4 native or naturalized species—plants that belong here, that can survive a Wood River Valley winter without being coddled, and that give back to local pollinators. It's early days on that front, but I've been doing a lot of reading and a lot of dreaming—really excited to keep bees.

On decisions: Four hours per item on average

I tracked this at some point, and the math was rather humbling: roughly four hours of research, comparison, and deliberation per major-ish decision. That's not four hours of panic—it's four hours of try to be diligent. I didn't want to choose something we'd resent in five years. I wanted economical choices that would actually last, materials and finishes that would age honestly rather than look dated or wear out early.

Learning to communicate with contractors was its own skill set. These are professionals who've been doing their work far longer than I've been asking questions about it, and I was very aware of that. I tried to come to every conversation prepared—knowing what I wanted, being clear about constraints—without hovering or second-guessing their judgment. It was a balance I'm still refining. Some days I got it right. Some days I probably asked one too many follow-up questions.

Kentucky coffee tree ready for planting in late september 2026.

What's still ahead

We're not done. There are finishing touches to sort, a garden plan to execute, and—something I'm genuinely counting down to—a hot tub installation. That last one feels like a reward for every hour spent measuring doorframes and comparing grout colors.

Here's to Mapache

Jeff, my bubba, thank you for trusting this process with me. For sitting across the kitchen table while I agonized over whether or not the kitchen range hood would work or not. For letting me take six hours to choose a light fixture. For being game for walnut floors when vinyl didn't pan out.

Mapache is turning into something we’re proud of—not because it's perfect, but because every decision in it was made with care, and with you.