Tag: house

Gutted

I was showing a friend pictures from our demolition. The friend’s friend had an op-ed she needed to share. One that bit.

“So, if you hate your house so much, why don’t you just buy a new one?”

Ouch! That throw away comment from a grinning stranger really did burn. It freezes, too.

I, in my shock at that unthinkable thought, objected. Too much, in retrospect, methinks. Too much because her unwelcome comment was based on her observation. Of the evidence. That I provided.

Looking at the photos of the bare and picked over bones of the edifice I had sworn to protect I thought, “What hath I wrought?”

The next day, I hesitated as I stepped onto the porch as part of my daily construction inspection. I gingerly inserted my key. I slowly opened the door. There was almost no floor to speak of–just a bunch of planks that forced me to leap from one to the next at the risk of falling through to the basement below.

And I’ve been stuck here. Right here. For two weeks I haven’t been able to move this post forward. Not able to skip past it. Because I can’t skip it. It has to be dealt with. I have to deal with it.

Usually, I have posts and pieces of posts trolling through my head–all of the time. I sit down and tap them out and hit publish. That’s how it works. Sure, there’s a bit more than that, but not the writer’s black hole I’ve had.

Usually, the hardest ones come out the fastest. Usually.

I’ve been stuck in the unusual.

I’ve reopened this page again and again. I’ve tweaked some words, moved a comma about and walked away. I’ve sat down with a brew in hand and a strict self-imposed deadline to put a bow on it. Three beers later, I successfully avoid any accomplishment. I’ll do it tomorrow. I don’t.

I’d walk into the house and take more photos. I’d look at the skeleton of the house, and see that the specimen is incomplete. Some of the bones are missing. No floor, not just exposed joists, but an entirely missing kitchen floor. No stairway to the second floor, the ladder carefully balanced over the canyon of the basement stairs.

The radiators were all piled up in the former toy room, like the mountains of blocks, legos and Hot Wheels from a recent past.

This week the siding was torn off. The chipped paint along the thin wooden boards were stacked in dumpster number six. Or are we up to seven boxcars of the house toted away? What could be left?

I didn’t know what gutting the house really meant.

GUT: to clean out. strip. decimate. ravage. ransack. disembowel. eviscerate. empty.

That was it. Empty.

I haven’t been able to come to terms with what I’m doing to the house. I started counting what was staying.

  1. The roof. (Which we replaced 8 years ago).
  2. The foundation. (Which is getting parged to shore it up.)
  3. Most of the original sheathing that was diagonally hung, keeping out the elements. (It’s being covered with some kind of new-fangled water impervious wood and then foam insulation and then new man-made siding.)
  4. Most of the original posts and joists. Many of which are being sistered with new, man-made materials.
  5. All of the woodwork and trim in the living and dining rooms. The fake fireplace mantels are STAYING!
  6. I saved the floors in the first two bedrooms, now known as the den and the office. (Over objections of some/one. I can’t let them all go.)

I’m looking at this list and the house that I swore to protect that I can’t recognize and I start hearing Obi-Wan telling Luke that Luke’s father is now more machine than man.

And then I get to thinking. And I feel better. Because in the end, Darth Vader was alright. He kept his soul.

Publish!

Posted on by docthink 1

End of Book I

The front yard and front porch. Stylized.

It is officially real. After pouring over the plans. After nitpicking the locations of each electrical outlet and switch by posting up in the hall and peering past what would be darkness but would be lighter because it will be like that.

After staring and staring and staring, again, at the simply white versus white cabinet paint and shuffling those samples along with the tile swatches–in this case white v. biscuit–from dining room to kitchen, from sunlight to cloudy day, to overhead fixture “on,” only to full-circle back to the original selection that was recommended by our guide. 

After sweating the doors that I couldn’t tell the difference between for an extra thousand dollars. After learning that paint selection comes at the very end. And, after kicking the decision about our floors down the road. 

After all that, we signed the contract. It was the contract and the drawings and the biggest check I ever wrote out myself, accompanied by a handshake to seal the deal all pulled close to my chest. To my center. 

It’s the big checkpoint in the game. We have reached a new, boss level, and there’s no going back. Unless we start a new game. But why would we? I like this player, and the progress is in the right direction. 

And, importantly, everyone is still breathing. Sounds like we should play on, player.  Boom shakalaka. 

Posted on by docthink 1

The Vapors

The fireplace and hallway. See the peaceful Buddha

Sometimes I feel like it’s not just the house that is coming under fix-it.

On Friday, the contract proposal was announced by a flicker of blue on the right side of my screen. At that moment, I was reading about category management–because that’s actually a thing–and the quick slide in and out at the corner of my laptop almost escaped me.

Except not really. It was after 5 pm. To be fair, it was just barely. Like 5:04:21 pm or so. I was expecting the email. They said I’d get it by the end of the week. This firm is all about making commitments. I really like that about them.

The email was here and wasn’t going anywhere, so I followed a link to an HBR article about new-fangled procurement models. This is a joke in that I don’t know anything about old-fangled procurement models. I was studying.

The Spouse was on his ongoing work-about, in which he works for daze on end sans respite. But he does have running water. And coffee. It’s not the Outback. It’s The Mall.

My brain was twitching just behind my right eye. It wanted to open the email. It saw that glimpse of aqua and processed the letters to see that they were in the right place–like a partially completed crossword puzzle–to expose the name of our Project Manager.

Open. Open. Open.

The reptilian part of my brain was shutting down that idea. There would be nothing good exposed via that email. My internal crocodile knew that we had blown significanltly past our original scope. The number would be huge. To survive we should slither-swim by. With half-closed eyes. Our tails waving goodbye.

Open. Open. Open.

Enough croc-brain! I have the smelling salts in hand. I opened the email. And I sucked air. But I was still breathing.

The next few days I walked around with a new hallway, a new kitchen, a new bathroom, a new deck, a new den, a new office, a new staircase swirling around in my head. I really liked it.

I also turned the finances around and around and around. It seemed fair for the work. It’s still huge. Like a big rock wall in the desert. How to get to the other side? I couldn’t sleep.

I never can’t sleep.

Big decisions are so hard. What we can do can be different than what we should do. Capacity is as much about pushing limits as being within limits. I turned to Dad.

My dad hated debt. He didn’t want to have obligations hanging over him. He was adamant about keeping things in good repair. He’d replace a roof at year 14 of a 15 year lifespan. He mowed his lawn and shoveled his walk. He was responsible and sober.

As I walked to the subway, I wondered what my father would say about this big investment.  I began the budget analysis, and I heard his words. They were coming from behind my right ear, from the back of my head. It was about those shoes. He was speaking clearly.

In middle-school, I wanted a pair of shoes. They were white and had teardrop cutouts next to the buckles. They would be my first pair of high heels. Many girls at school were wearing these very shoes. At my behest, Dad drove me to Bakers Shoes. I tried on the desired pump. I walked up to him and asked him if he liked them. He said, “If you like them, buy them.”

If you like them, buy them.

Dang. I was feeling like Ray Kinsella from Field of Dreams hearing his daddy’s voice in the cornfield.

If you like them, buy them.

That was it. He was telling me to follow my heart. Not the money.

I wasn’t expecting that. Not at all.

I’m not saying that my dad actually gave me advice. I know that he’s been dead for nine years. I know that. That said, I think that he was telling me something.

I told you. This is not just about the house.

Posted on by docthink 1

Trade Winds

Underneath the sink. There's some pipes and a spare paper towel roll and the compost bin. It's a bit dark.

The trades came today. Like a whirlwind of pipes, wires and wood. They are the elders. Even those who are young. 

They came like the furies, ready to overtake those who have false oath, maybe those who would desecrate the soul of the house. Because the house has a soul. 

And, if we chose poorly, if we made decisions that ignore the bones and heartbeat of the house, if we impose too much au courant…

The mythological furies were tasked to “hear complaints brought by mortals against the insolence of the young to the aged, of children to parents, of hosts to guests, and of householders or city councils to suppliants – and to punish such crimes by hounding culprits relentlessly.”

Yikes. I’m thinking that we better not screw up.

So, I observed carefully. I studied as the structural engineer poured over the outlines, looking at the walls to be moved, seeing where the faults lie.

He was mostly bald and finished it off by a smart shave. His head was long. He had the strong features like my Slavic relatives and the confidence of looking at hundreds of homes. He pointed at invisible beams that framed the center hall. He pointed. Up. 

“This is what’s supporting the house.” 

I’m looking at the hallway anew. It’s a throwaway piece of architecture. Like important, but not like you knew its criticality. And now, I do. Or, at least, its potential.

I didn’t speak with the window guy, the floor guy, the heating and air guy, the electricity guy or the plumbing guy. I think that more guys walked through this morning. 

Me? I couldn’t stay. I had to go to work. We had a thing. But, today, something happened. Things were discussed. And I will know more. 

I’ll know more when the bids come in. They will be full of information. About capabilities. About options. About decisions. And I’m thinking now, and I’m remembering now, about what it is that I need to have done. And I’m listening. I’m ready to allow the house to push back. 

I find myself thinking about going to confession. As a prophylactic. To protect from the demons. Leaning on my historical Catholicism. Against the furies. 

Posted on by docthink 1

House Doc

A floor plan.

As is my wont, I’ve been thinking but not writing. Rest assured, Loyal Reader, you are very frequently on my mind, but this easily distracted mind surely wanders.

I need a new prompt. And I have one. The Big Guy calls it my new hobby. I guess there is truth to that. It’s definitely my new project. Gutting the house.

I know. Right??

So, I’m thinking about chronicling it here. Not exactly sure how it will shape up, but I got some ideas. And I’m going back to a daily deadline. Yikes! I just typed that out loud.

It might be a story. It might be a metaphor. Or it might be an uninteresting diary of stuff. But it will be a discipline for me to write, and to connect with you, my Loyal Reader. And you know that means I’m connecting with myself.

So let me catch you up to where we are. We hired somebody to figure shit out (I have the design acumen of Fred Flinstone), and to draw the pictures that somebody professional can use to make a mess and then–fingers crossed tightly–make a place to live that doesn’t have plaster crashing down in chunks, cloth covered wiring that turns to dust when exposed to air, floors that deliver sprinters into stockinged feet and a paucity of kitchen cabinets that were built (very sturdily I might acknowledge) in the 1940s. Oh, and a second bathroom.

Don’t judge me. I hear your groans. We all survived a single bathroom which helped define our family idea of privacy. 

Current status: first round of pictures, done. Seeing elevations on Tuesday. And The Spouse and I are still on speaking terms. So far. So good.

I’ll tell you more tomorrow!

Posted on by docthink 0

Realty Reality

This is SpongeBob Squarepants' house in Bikini Bottom. I wouldn't really want to live here.

Why the floor coverings, too? That was really close to the last straw.

They were using the famous local realtor. Great reputation for selling houses for big profit. Nobody talks about how bossy they are, though. It seemed they’re more concerned about maximizing their reputation. Like it would be beneath them if they sold your house for less than too much. Sure, they made more money at bigger sales, but it was more than that. They really stretched the seller. It’s like you worked for them.

When they originally bought the house, the fashion in real estate sales was a cleaned up front yard and a great new door–curb appeal! There were to be cookies taken out of the oven just before the open house to make the place smell homey. In lieu of baked cookies, the fallback was lighting some Yankee Candles with realtor scents like Vanilla Cinnamon Chocolate Chip Snickerdoodle or Clean Sheets with Baked Bread Breeze. But, that was then.

Now, it’s all less is more. Cold granite countertops with nary a fruit bowl, but an $80 flower arrangement is welcome and to be replaced every other day, no spent buds allowed. Also, no fabric–not even curtains–except on a well-styled bed with extra pillows that they pushed you to buy at Target. All to ensure a Marie Kondo/Tiny House minimalism aesthetic only achievable by monks or cartoonists. The latter because they can draw whatever reality they wish. Have you seen Sponge Bob’s house? They never have to figure out where something physically goes. They can simply use their eraser.

The famous realtors are monsters who do not have emotions. They have no empathy or human feelings for things like that mug you got from that conference ten years ago that turned into a great career move or those amazing Timon and Pumbaa life-sized cardboard cutouts from that special premiere screening that the kids got to see.

You were feeling tepid at best about this sale anyway. Your wife got the best job ever. It’s back where she grew up and close to grandparents. You? You can work from anywhere. Bonus, you can charge East Coast rates to clients from your Midwest address. The new house is two-thirds the price and two times the size of your city home. But you would be very happy to stay where you are.

Especially today. When they are coming by with the cameras for the house hunting website and just before the open house next Sunday. Those demon realtors made you invest almost two thousand dollars in fixes and upgrades and cleaning and painting to prep for the sale. Intellectually you agreed that it would pay for itself, but your heart objected to the cleansing of your lives from this house that was a home that knew all of your secrets. All of them.

You felt it the most most, or maybe with finality, when they insisted on pulling up the rugs, to fully expose the wood floors that you had waxed, also at the behest of the brutes. The selling strategy was to open up the rooms visually by removing the clutter of patterns of flowers or geometry on woven wool with a fringe–especially the small section of fringe on the dining room rug that the puppy destroyed. The puppy that grew to that great, fat old dog that you and the girls sent over the rainbow bridge last year. You were saddened especially when you rolled up the rug from the middle bedroom that still bore the faded evidence of  a child’s experiment with dye gone awry.

As you walked down the wooden steps and through the dining room to the front door you felt the hollow echoes of your squared heels hitting the shiny floors, making a sound that hit the bare walls where the mis-framed grade school art hung until last week. You looked around at the emptiness of a house that was overflowed with family and was now stripped to an empty canvas for someone else to color.

You walked out the front door obsessing about the carpets in storage and trying to imagine them in a new house. Really, a new home.

Posted on by docthink 0