When the word “demolition” was first mentioned I had “move that bus!” TV reality show like thoughts in my head.
I certainly expected machinery.
And hard hats.
So I didn’t dream it up.
Or hard hats.
I just naturally filled in the blanks
and fully planned to have a picture taken
with me ON the machinery.
Possibly wearing a hard hat.
Yes! He rode his bike to my house.
To tear it down.
I love that and find it incredibly funny
at the same time.
Two men went to work on the den with a hammer and a crow bar.
They took down each wooden plank, board by board.
No sledge hammers.
HGTV has really ruined me on the
expectations of home improvement.
Thanks a lot, Property Brothers!
I wanted to go out and grab his hammer
and start knocking down the den myself.
Nothing excites that man quite like an empty dumpster.
It’s like a blank canvas to an artist.
Monte had ALL KINDS of ideas of how to fill it
with 15-year-old paint cans and old yard chemicals.
Monte and I were absolutely convinced (with all the leaks this room has had in the past) that this part of the house was completely rotten and could be pushed over by hand.
Not so! By the looks of all the tugging and pulling and pushing and hammering, it was remarkably solid!
Monte and I were also preparing ourselves for the discovery of termites because
1) The number of dead stink bugs I found in the den cabinets.
2) Last winter's lice infestation.
3) Our neighbor found termites in her house a few years ago when she added on. (They probably just shooed them right on out of her yard to ours, right?)
BUGS JUST LIKE OUR HOUSE.
Praise God, we didn’t have termites!
We had carpenter ants.
There were tunnels and street corners and intersections
and apparently a mayor and city council
because they had been there for some time.
The builder showed me what one looked like and I was like,
Oh hey, I’ve seen him before. INSIDE the house.
Why? Because BUGS JUST LIKE OUR HOUSE.
Our interior French Doors have now become our exterior doors.
And not to brag, but I get this sweet view every day right from my living room.
Our dog Nigel is just beside himself.
The den is where his food and water used to be.
His best view of the squirrels and birds from the top of my red chair.
He can’t quite get used to the change.
His toys in the living room.
His food and water in the kitchen.
Yesterday, I caught him banging his head on the French doors MORE THAN ONCE trying to open them to see what in the world has happened to life as he once knew it.
He’s also afraid of the backyard.
Maybe because he doesn’t recognize it anymore.
Or maybe because it’s just a painful reminder of what once was.
“You are a dog. Get over it and poop in the backyard!”
|Can you hear the sighing?|
Interesting lack of compassion coming from the man deeply disappointed that the dumpster was filled to capacity (and there are still gutters behind the Sycamore) and he could not toss in paint cans and chemicals to his heart content.
In preparation to start digging, the air conditioner was dismantled
and put into our garage this morning.
Good thing it’s going to warm up again this weekend.
And McDaniel will be primping to go to the Homecoming Dance.
I think Nigel won’t be the only one banging his head on the doors
and walking around sighing.