enough with the demolition

There is something deeply therapeutic, in the purest sense, in doing serious house renovations.

I walked into that house knowing it needed lots of work. Not just TLC or a coat of paint, but rip-out-the-walls-and-start-fresh work. That little house had been minimally maintained over the years; enough so as not to be condemned, but certainly not enough to call it fresh. Things that used to work as they were supposed to - like the knob and tube wiring, or the ancient windows, or the old plaster walls - had become decrepit and were sorely lacking for today's needs.

I took evenings, a few weekend days, and two days off work, and with the help of some friends as well as paid workers, tore out some old walls and floors, and all the old wiring.

The house today is stripped down. There are holes everywhere in the walls and the ceiling. Some rooms have walls stripped back to the studs. The bathroom is gutted. There is dust and dirt everywhere. It is ugly.

And this is the starting point.

It is now time to rebuild. To reinforce some floors and sister up the joists. To put in a kilometre or two of new wiring. To put in copper piping where there was once lead. To put in new windows to keep out the drafts.

And over the recovered, stronger bones, it will be time to put up new drywall and smooth it out with fresh plaster. To sand down the floors. To roll on a fresh coat of paint.

I, too, have had creaky, unstable floors. Walls that were crumbling. Wiring that wasn't quite right. I've stripped that all back. And it was ugly. And exposed. And vulnerable. But it was a starting place. I still have moments when I feel I am there again, at that starting place. Still digging up some old habit that needs to be torn out. I'm ready. It's as ugly as it gets.

Time to get this thing put back together.

obituary

Henrietta (Henny) Hamster, passed away peacefully this evening in her sleep. She is survived by her two loyal companions and caregivers, The Bean and Boo, as well as her home-mom, Momma.

Henny lived life to the fullest. She enjoyed climbing, running, monkey bars, and chin-ups. When she wasn't busy doing exercise, Henny was constantly organizing her home. She built the most intricate and beautiful nests.

Henny will be remembered for her zest for life, and her deep love and devotion to her friends. Even in the deepest of sleep, when she heard her friends enter the room, she would poke out her little nose from her piled-up nest and get up to greet them. The greeting was almost invariably followed by a vigourous round of calisthenics to get her friends' attention. Her fervour and love for her friends, though she'd only known them a short time, was undeniable.

Her sense of adventure - and seemingly, her sense of humour - knew no bounds. Henny was known to do a flying squirrel imitation as she leapt from the arms of one friend over to the other, which would leave her them squealing with laughter.

Henny will be sorely missed. A private funeral will be held for her in the coming days. Henny's final resting place will be in the yard of the home she had not yet known, where she will be remembered for years to come.

Henny, we love you. Rest in peace.

tonight the house is dark

The electricity has been shut off. The house is completely dark. The electrician began his handy work promptly at 7:30 yesterday morning, and now there are holes in the walls and ceilings. There is plaster dust and sawdust everywhere. And wires poking out. And step ladders reaching up to work that has yet to be done.


There is more work to do at the house. There is always more work. I could have gone in to measure the bathroom walls to figure out how much insulation I need, how many 2x4s. I could have tidied a bit. Could have papered some more shelves in the kitchen. Swept. Taken out some trash. But it will have to wait.


Relief and panic: odd that I can feel both simultaneously. Relief that I get a break - at least from the work. (There is never a break from the endless to-do lists I have rolling around in my head.) But panic, too. The house, at this very moment, is a complete disaster and unliveable: no bathroom, no electricity, walls in pieces. If my crew - and that's what I have working at the house right now - were to abandon me, I would have nothing. My house is only as good as the promise of the work that will be done. I have to rely on Walter the Electrician, Will the Apprentice, Frank the Plasterer, Chase the Plumber and trust that they will do the work. These are the people in my neighbourhood. And while yes, I am paying them for their work, they are part of my community that are making this dream possible. Total strangers.

Then there those who have been part of my life, of my community, for a good long while, who have been pitching in, one way or another. Friends who helped me rip out walls. Who did more than half the plumbing in the house. Who scrubbed a kitchen that hadn't seen soapy water in at least a few years. Who will help me build a wall and insulate it. Who gave me advice on light fixtures. Who let me bounce countless decorating ideas off them. Who give me names of people they trust. Who just very simply, but very importantly, care for me. Who listen to my panic and tell me I've got this.

So for tonight, the house is dark. Gloomy. Unwelcoming. An empty shell. Soon, Walter the Electrician will install those gorgeous light fixtures, and Frank the Plasterer will make my walls beautiful and smooth, and Shane the HVAC specialist will install the new furnace, and my house - the bricks and mortar - will become a home. With a warm glow in the dead of a cold winter. I can just about see it.

"it's going to be so beautiful!"

Thank goodness for the optimism of a child.

I got the keys to the house yesterday. As I was walking away from the lawyer's office, with the legal-size envelope and its contents - including my new keys - I started to panic a little. It felt exactly the same as the day I visited the house I'm currently renting. That day, nearly two years ago, I walked down the street, having left what seemed like a hole of a house, realising that it was the only thing in the neighbourhood that was affordable, big enough, and available. I nearly had a panic attack. But I got through it by giving myself a pep talk. It's going to be fine. Everything is going to work out. It's good.

Those were the exact same words I whispered to myself yesterday as I walked out with my new keys and the biggest debt load I've ever carried. By the time I got to the bus stop, I was adequately calmed and ready to pick up my girls to go see the house.

It was their first time inside. I had warned them that there are lots of renovations and cleaning up to do, so it doesn't look perfect now. But it will be better before we move in.

We got to the house, I pulled out the key, and turned it in the lock. This is it. No going back. And we went in.

The first thing that hits you is the smell. The entire first floor of the house smells rancid; like an old, sick woman. And it's dark. And the light switches, if they work at all, are fritzy and fiddly (that's knob and tube for ya). And the colours are horrid: a 1950s turquoise in the living room, pink in the dining room, and a sickly yellow in the kitchen. The sticky tiles in the kitchen are coming up, and the cupboards are cheap and ugly.

Upstairs is not much better. The bathroom is at least 60 years old; the floor is mungy, the toilet scary-looking, the sink likely original to the house (80-90 years). The Bean's room, with the sink, has cupboards that need to come out, and that neat sink? The plumbing is wonky. Boo's room looks okay, but the pine floor has been painted - but only along the edges where it's not covered by the cheap roll-out cushion floor. Same for the floor in my room. And both our rooms have skinny closets that are too narrow to hang a hanger.

The windows throughout are original and falling apart. Some don't open. Some open with effort and are hard to close. Some have unattractive and broken roller blinds on them.

And that's all I could see yesterday: the problems, the work, the cost. I felt so defeated in that moment. And then Boo, in her cheery manner said, "it's going to be so beautiful!"

She had heard all the stories I told about what work we were going to have done. She had seen the tile I picked out for the bathroom, and listened to the design ideas I had for it. She knew the floors were going to be restored to gleaming hardwood throughout. She knew that I can work magic with a paintbrush and the right colour and that the kitchen was going to rock, despite its long pedigree. She knew that her room and her sister's were going to be fabulous, just like they are in our current, rented home. She just believed and overwrote the plans onto the current mess, and she saw.

I'm still in a bit of a lingering panic. I don't have all my workers lined up yet - that's my project for this week. I'm not 100 percent certain that it'll all be ready when we move in. Maybe it won't be. But it's livable. Completely and totally livable. With a bit of an airing out and a fresh coat of paint, of course. Boo is right: it'll be beautiful. It will just take some time and a lot of work. One bit at a time.

anniversary

Today would have been our 12th wedding anniversary. For the record, it was a beautiful day, full of love and joy and hope. I wouldn't trade it for anything.

It is good to be able to hold the past close, to own it and not colour it with too much of the present. No regrets.