House Proud

The demo crew arrived at our house this morning--demo as in demolition. It feels final, and jarring. Like an end, not a beginning.

There's a dumpster on our lawn, and masked men we've never met in our lives are taking sledgehammers to our walls.

The tree fell through the roof Saturday night, March 13, almost three months ago. It has taken this long to get everything in order with the insurance company and the mortgage holders, who keep the money in escrow and dole it out to our contractor. I'm not complaining about State Farm; they've been excellent. And our contractor is known for his work.

Wake-up Call
But when we were at the house for a little while this morning, H. thought it was funny. He asked to take a swing or two in his office. The guy told him to be careful.

"I'm sick of this house," H. joked, swinging the sledgehammer and laughing.

"No, not like that, like this," the man said, helping him out.

I didn't think it was funny at all. I feel sad, and told H. so on the ride back to the sleek, modern condo in Clifton.

"Ali, come on now," he said. "They're fixing it all."

Thanks for the Memories
Hardworking hands built this house in the 1920s, and they did a fine job. A well-built home is a beautiful, even romantic thing. Those walls are sturdy, hard to force down. But because of that towering tulip tree and the damage it did when it fell, we have to tear them down to their bones and rebuild them--in about two-thirds of the house.

They don't have to take down Figgy's room,or the dining room or kitchen. But the entire attic floor, living room, sun room, bedroom and H.'s office have gotta go.

Those are the walls that sheltered H. while he wrote three books, staying up late into the night. Sug often snoozed by his side. See that bed the guys just brought out? We took turns reading Figgy her bedtime stories on it every night--Reindeer Baby, The Going to Bed Book, The Wizard of Oz. Figgy's bassinet and later, Punch's crib were in that tiny bedroom with us; we barely had room to walk, or wedge open the closet.

Those living room walls were painted sage green when Good Housekeeping made over our room for the magazine, in 1999. Do you like my sun room office? My friends Anne, Moey and Elly came over last spring and helped me scrape, sand and apply that pretty Caribbean turquoise color. It was hard work, and it took days and days. One thing is for sure, I'm getting that color again. When Figgy saw my freshly painted office, she said it looked like a Tiffany box.

See the attic? It had a separate cedar closet, like a lot of the homes around here. The closet had a door with a frosted glass window. Now it's going, going, gone. All gone. Without even knowing the tales of the previous owners--the hopes they had, the dreams they built. I know a little about some of them, but not nearly as much as I'd like.

Mystery Man
Who built this house, anyway? Man, you did a remarkable job. Kudos. I no longer think of art only as the fine work Figgy or my cousin Linda does, or as the carefully crafted writing I love to read and strive to achieve.

No, I now see building a house as a beautiful art that stands on its own. I am just so sorry to see these sturdy walls being knocked down to their beams. They are trying so hard to stand tall and resist.

They were built to last, to inspire, to nurture, to protect and distract us from the raw truth of the elements--just like the finest artwork.