I live in a white 1880s farmhouse with black trim that is nestled in the shadow of golden willows. The branches are bending low with age, reaching towards a small creek that laughs each spring. There are fourteen windows that let in a flood of light and a blue tin roof that sings when it rains. The sash windows are large enough a person can stand within the alcove and if you look closely, you can still spy tiny air bubbles trapped within the glass. Across the creek to the north is a strand of aspen that trembles in the breeze, while a weathered barn winks into view. A flower bed wraps around the three sides of the house and blooms a rainbow of irises, daisies, lilies, and peonies. Though my favourite flowers will always be the lilac bush that’s grown as tall as a tree, planted decades ago, when there was only a dirt road connecting our farm to town. 

If these walls could talk, they would tell of railway workers waking up at first light (*another story for another time) and the mischief of many children as my grandparent’s raised a family. This was my second home as a small child, where my grandfather was always found reading the Western Producer or talking on a rotary phone, while my grandmother tried to teach me the art of crocheting.  

After years of bustling activity, the house fell quiet. Aunts and uncles grew up and moved away. My grandparents aged. My grandmother needed more specialized care and moved into a personal care home and my grandfather into a manor in town. For eight years, the house sat empty and dark. Until 2020, when the pandemic turned the world upside down and I returned to the farm with a small cat named Tofino in tow.  

The house needed a lot of tender love and care. When I first moved in, there were squirrels in the attic, birds in the windowsills, bees in the walls, and mice nesting in every cupboard. It was like Snow White of the prairies, except the creatures did not help me wash the dishes. When it rained outside, I had to set out buckets in the kitchen. The hot water tank had long since broken and the only heat source in the home was a rickety wood stove. It was so cold on the second level in winter that a cup of water would have a layer of ice on it in the morning. There were broken panes of glass boarded over. No water came from the bathroom taps and a thick layer of dust had settled onto every surface. 

When I first stepped into the living room it had been closed off for almost a decade. 

I’ve been waiting for three years to restore it.  

It was in sorry need of a declutter and deep clean, as every inch of the room was filled with furniture, shelves, cabinets, storage boxes, and mementos of the past. Mismatched frames and corner bookcases. All of my belongings collided with a house full from my grandparents. The walls had faded to a butterscotch cream and the windows were covered with dark maroon drapes and broken blinds. Plywood on the lower walls had yellowed to a tone best described as burnt orange. The closets were filled with half-finished colouring books, broken toys, and hydro statements dating back to the 1970s. Underneath it all were a few family treasures.

And so the project began.  

Everything was sorted. This process took many, many days - even with the help of my grandpa to identify items. Heirloom pieces were saved, while six or seven large boxes of knickknacks were brought to the thrift store and whole bags of paper went to the recycling. Drawers full of musty newspapers were recycled. Vintage furniture pieces were mended, as the table wobbled too and fro. Carpets were cleaned of mystery stains. Plastic laid down. Plywood was sanded to scuff the varnish. Walls washed. Lathe was added to the walls to create a board and batten effect, with each piece needing to be individually measured because the house is 150 years old and everything is quirky. Two coats of primer for the plywood. And then came the fun part – actually painting the space! 

Selecting a paint colour was a longer process than I care to admit (read: days). Hundreds of colour swatches were spread across the floor. I went cross-eyed puzzling out all the different possible shades. What started with confidence in a a sunshine yellow and ended up in a quandary when it didn’t match well with the vintage floral sofa. I’m saving the yellow paint for the guest room - stay tuned! In the end, the upper walls and ceiling received a coat of my favourite Benjamin Moore ‘Jack Frost’ (custom colour) white. The board and batten lower walls are Benjamin Moore ‘Harbor Town’.  

And after hours of hard work, the moment that everyone has been waiting for - the final reveal!

I wanted to create a space that allowed the room to breathe - to feel large and spacious. With a colour palette to match the age of my historic countryside home, it welcomes the greens of the outdoors right into the room. I dreamed of a living room that would show off the beautiful heirloom furniture - including the black table, chairs, and buffet that were brought to Manitoba in the 1950s by boxcar by my great-grandparents. The same furniture with a brand new backdrop that highlights it’s beauty, rather than clashing. There will be a few more pieces of art to hang yet - but here’s to making this place feel like home, one room at a time.

Feel welcome to leave a comment or question below!

Much love,

Désirée + Tofino the cat.