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by David Leonhardt
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Last year, we bought this big ol' 1887 house. We are just now coming to grips with the magnitude of the "upgrades" planned.
With a baby on the way and Little Lady all of two years old burning calories faster than pillagers burn the Amazon rainforest, how tough can "upgrades" really be?
Ever since we bought the house, my wife has been urging me to tear "that thing" down.
"That thing", at the foot of our lane, had been a shelter to keep kids dry while waiting for the school bus. It had seen better days. Like when paint could still be seen on the wood. Like when it stood upright – taller even than the weeds! – before gravity won the battle.
"That thing" was our very own Roman ruins ... minus the Roman part, of course. So I finally tore it down.
"What?" my wife asked. "You tore it down?"
"Yup."
"But how will people find us, now?"
We had used "that thing" as a marker, even a beacon. "Turn right on County Road 7, and just keep going until you see the eyesore. You can't miss it. That's us."
Houses grow and age just like people. Sometimes the old gets in the way of the new. Sometimes you have to rip things apart to build them up.
Recently, I was ripping apart a couple walls of the soon-to-be nursery. I assured my wife it would be a two- to four-hour job. To avoid inhaling an overdose of plaster dust, she and Little Lady escaped to exile at Grandma's for the afternoon.
Twelve hours later ...
The clock ticked past midnight before those two to four hours showed me mercy. Little Lady and her pregnant mom wisely chose to remain in exile overnight. Instead of resting my weary muscles, I had a jungle of – hack, hack - plaster dust nearly a foot deep to dispose of. Beach party, a |
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