Image hosted by

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Symphony Of Destruction

(Yes, Symphony of Destruction, is a Megadeath song.)

To say this kitchen thing has been a headache could possibly be the understatement of the new millennia. It’s been a month since the pipe burst. Demo work finally began yesterday.


The carpenter couldn’t find anything we wanted (color, brand, style) within the insurance allotment. After 15 hours (driving time not included) over four days back and forth with the guy on the phone, internet and in home improvement stores, we finally said, just fucking do it, we don’t care how, with what material, just finish the damn thing.

How will it look? Only the carpenter really knows, and to be honest, at this point, I don’t even care.

It’ll be nice to take a shower, without one of the kids coming into the bathroom to get a snack. Yup, the fridge is in the bathroom, so much for the not shitting where you eat theory.

Just as I was about to breathe a sigh of relief that they were here working, and I was heading out to the job I hate, they uncovered what took my breath away.

Beneath the sub-floor, in half of the kitchen, the only thing holding the floor joists together was old brick from a previous renovation. They threw all of the debris and rubble in between the wood. When a house is this old, you can bet your sweet ass things aren’t exactly up to code, but this was beyond anything my little brain could comprehend.

The only thing holding the other half of the floor joists together was dirt. The joists were literally set in the dirt, not attached to anything.

As you may suspect, a lot of the wood had rotted.

The house could have easily imploded into itself having no support beneath it. Thinking back to the day the bank said, no dice for a loan, this is a good thing. Had we put out the money on credit, and run into this problem, we’d have been screwed. The carpenter called the adjuster right away to make sure the newest problem would be covered, thankfully they gave him a green light. So maybe a pipe bursting isn’t really that bad after all.

Another sad thing, which turns out to be a good thing, the kitchen was an addition built less than 150 years ago. Even though people stop here all of the time to say, “I lived here in 19(blank) when it was a tiny house/an apartment.” no one seems to really know when the addition went up.

This small town living is so funny to me. I don’t know if I ever told you guys about this but during the spring and summer, I’m outside in the garden almost always, and I can’t tell you how many people have driven up, walked up, drove up…on lawnmowers??? To say, “I used to live here…”

It’s fun hearing their stories, getting some history on the ol’ gal, and seeing the faces that may have slept in my own bedroom, but it’s odd for a city girl like me to experience as often as it does, especially when they want a tour...and a cup of coffee??? They really do! Last week when me, Lane 1 and his girlfriend went to the blood drive, people came up to us saying, “The house is looking really nice, better than I’ve ever seen it. Did I ever tell you my brothers lived there in the late 50’s?” (only every time I see you, you sweet forgetful little old gal) “I lived there in ‘72 in the upstairs apartment.” “It was a mess when I lived there in 1994.” Now that I work in a local gas station, even more people, some who I work with have said they too lived here. It’s weird, right?

As I’ve mentioned jokingly, I wanted to have a birthday party for her, my pain in the ass old house. She will be 150 years old next year. But now, it isn’t a joke. I really want to have a party for her. An open house of sorts to invite all of these people who have their own memories.

As things progress, I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, I’ll be having a snack in the bathtub, bon appétit.