Welcome.

The Grandview Project started the day we stepped onto this land, realized we were in over our heads, and decided to stay anyway. The house sat nestled against the hills, half hidden by overgrowth, stalwart but weathered, and humming with that particular silence old places have when they’re waiting to be cared for again. From the first walk-through, it was obvious: this wasn’t going to be a quick project. It was going to be a reckoning.

What we bought wasn’t a turnkey home; it was a long-term relationship with a structure that had outlasted its caretakers. The roof leaked. The paint was holding the siding together. The heating system wheezed like it was on its last breath (because it was). But beneath all of that… beneath the peeling trim, the cracked plaster, and the smell of age that only decade after decade of neglect and absence can create… there was a home, and a story, worth saving.

That sense of history is what pulled us in. You could see it in the endless custom millwork, the leaded glass windows, the subtle curves and asymmetries that made it feel human-built rather than machine-made. Grandview wasn’t just a house; it was a story with missing pages. And once we stepped inside, there was no way not to finish reading it.

This project isn’t renovation content. It’s not about curb appeal or resale value. It’s about the work of learning a place from the inside out - its systems, its quirks, its secrets - and figuring out how to live with them. There’s no crew here. No sponsorships. Just me, my family, and a slowly expanding toolkit of patience and improvisation.

We’re doing everything we can ourselves, not because it’s easier or cheaper (it’s definitely not), but because there’s something deeply honest about earning your way through the problems of a place like this. Every repair teaches you something about the next one. Every mistake becomes a part of the story. All of it brings you closer to the heart and the story of the home itself.

Here, you’ll find a documentation of that process: the hard lessons, the painfully earned victories, and the evolving rhythm of building a life around the work. You’ll also find meaning tucked between the tools — reflections on family, failure, resilience, and the satisfaction of choosing the harder path simply because it’s yours to walk.

Why This? Why Here?

My family and I moved to Grandview to slow down — though “slow” isn’t quite the right word. What we were really chasing was presence: the kind that modern life makes hard to hold onto. After two decades of chasing deadlines, navigating cities, and measuring progress by how busy we were, something in us broke loose. We realized that pace and purpose aren’t the same thing, and that somewhere along the way, we’d lost touch with the rhythm of real work — the kind that leaves you tired in the right ways.

We didn’t come here because it was practical. We came because it felt necessary. Because there’s a kind of clarity that only returns when your hands are busy and your phone isn’t. Because there’s something sacred about being able to fix the things you depend on.

This part of New Hampshire has a gravity to it — a quiet insistence that draws people back. My wife and I both grew up in the region but had been gone for almost twenty years. Coming back wasn’t about nostalgia; it was about reconnection. About showing our kids the same kind of wildness and independence that shaped us. About teaching them that satisfaction and stability don’t come from comfort, they come from learning to solve your own problems.

When we first arrived, we thought we were moving to something: a simpler life, a slower pace, a house with a view. What we found instead was that we’d moved into something — a process that doesn’t really end. Every wall we open, every system we touch, teaches us something about endurance, patience, and humility.

The truth is, we didn’t pick this house because it was perfect. We picked it because it wasn’t. Because we wanted to build a life that required care. To take on something that would push back, and in doing so, give us something tangible to push against.

It’s been harder than we expected, and better than we hoped. There are still moments when it feels like we’re in over our heads, but those moments have become less about panic and more about purpose. That’s the gift of a place like this: it humbles you, then rebuilds you on its own terms.

What You’ll Find Here

This site is part journal, part workshop, part evolving field manual. It’s a record of the work — physical, emotional, and otherwise — that goes into rebuilding an old place and a slower way of life. Some days it’s about sawdust and splinters. Other days it’s about what happens between the projects: the lessons that sneak in through exhaustion, weather, and trial and error.

It’s not a tutorial site. There are no blueprints or perfect answers here. What you’ll find instead is a growing archive of lived experience — notes from the field, written after the work is done (or, just as often, halfway through it). My goal isn’t to teach so much as to share — to offer an honest account of what it actually takes to care for something old and make it work again.

The Logbook

This is the heartbeat of the site — an ongoing record of life at Grandview. The Logbook blends narrative writing with field notes, tracing the rhythm of seasons, repairs, and small victories. It’s not just about what we’re fixing, but what the work teaches along the way.

Some entries are reflective — quiet essays about family, failure, or the strange satisfaction of good, hard work. Others are straightforward updates from the field: what broke, what got built, what we learned the hard way. Together, they form a living chronicle of what it means to take on a project like this and let it reshape you.

Projects

The Projects section is where the hands-on work lives. It’s organized by category — structure, systems, exterior, interior, grounds — and each project dives into the process from start to finish. You’ll find detailed write-ups, photos, material lists, and lessons learned, written for anyone trying to tackle similar work themselves.

These aren’t glossy before-and-after reveals. They’re process-driven stories — unvarnished accounts of the mess, the missteps, and the small, satisfying moments when something old becomes solid again. Each project exists as both documentation and proof: that progress, however slow, is possible.

The Toolshed

The Toolshed is an ever-expanding library of the gear, materials, and methods that make the work possible. Every review here is written from real use and experience — no sponsorships, no unboxings, no stock opinions. Just practical, field-tested notes on what’s worth owning, what holds up, and what doesn’t.

You’ll find write-ups on everything from hand tools and heavy equipment to paints, primers, and epoxies — each categorized by trade or task. Some reviews are technical, others more reflective, but all are grounded in the same philosophy: good tools matter, but how you use them matters more.

The Philosophy

At its heart, The Grandview Project isn’t about renovation, it’s about stewardship. About what it means to care for something that will outlast you.

The house is our medium, but the real work lives underneath: learning patience, precision, and humility. Every time something breaks, it offers a new lesson in cause and effect — in how materials fail, how systems age, and how human hands can either preserve or destroy depending on their intent. The goal isn’t to make the house perfect. It’s to make it honest again.

This work has a way of slowing you down, whether you like it or not. Paint won’t dry faster because you’re impatient. Wood won’t stay dry because you’re in a hurry. Progress happens on the house’s timeline, and learning to live at that pace changes the way you move through everything else. The restoration becomes less about the house itself and more about the practice of care — of paying attention long enough to understand what something actually needs.

There’s also a deeper thread here — one about meaning and inheritance. When you repair something old, you’re part of a continuum. You’re keeping alive the choices, craftsmanship, and stubborn hope of the people who built it in the first place. That act — of maintenance, not reinvention — feels increasingly rare in a world that’s obsessed with newness. But there’s something sacred in fixing things instead of replacing them. Something grounding. Something human.

If you’ve found your way here, chances are you know that pull - the unspoken satisfaction of solving a problem with your own hands, or the ironic comfort of a job that never really ends. This space is for you.

The Grandview Project is still unfolding, one post, one board, one lesson at a time. Some days the work feels endless, but that’s part of the point. Good things are built slowly, and the story is still being written.

Thanks for reading - Jonah