Fire Happens

This morning I had a heart-stopping moment- when what I was seeing was in total conflict with my ideas of what is probable. A moment when an entire alternate future took shape in my imagination.

There’s a loft above the kitchen of our rental house- a snug space with two low windows and no access except for the rope ladder I rigged up. Since moving here I’ve been climbing up the ladder every morning for twenty minutes of meditation. I’ve been proud of my consistency, even on those mornings when it seems like a big waste of time and I’d rather go straight to a cup of tea by the fire. Pride, of course, is the opposite outcome from ego dissolution that meditation is supposed to produce, so that gives you some idea of where I am on the curve of spiritual enlightenment.

Yesterday, I did skip it. Had a cold, didn’t feel good- forget it. And this morning I almost bagged it again, but managed to disengage from the mental dissent long enough to get myself up on the kitchen counter and half way up the ladder. That’s when my line of vision cleared the loft floor and I saw the burning candle. What?? How could that be? I haven’t lit it yet- I’m not even in the loft yet so how could it already be lit? My brain is a little slow at 7am. But oh, now I’m getting it. I left it lit. Oh . . . wow, I wasn’t even up here yesterday. Shit- 48 hours! I stare for a full minute while my self-image as a responsible, aware-of-my-surroundings kind of person goes up in smoke.

I blow the candle out. It was one of those fat, heavy candles, and it was down to half an inch from the cloth covering the low altar. The sides had split open, and green wax had run across the altar, onto the floor, and had puddled up against the wall. The wick was tall, and a good inch high flame was happily bouncing above the pool of melted wax.

I stare at the trail of smoke rising from the blown out candle as I see the whole thing unfolding differently in an alternate future- how easily I could have not been there this morning- could have been grocery shopping while flames spread across the surface of the wax, licking up the wall until the window sill caught, until the loft was filled with flame, until the whole house turned to raging fire. I slowly realize how completely oblivious I have been to this quietly developing disaster- all day Thursday working across the canyon while the candle burned, then all day yesterday sitting at home with a cold, while the candle burned. Sleeping all night for TWO nights, while the candle burned.

I am completely humbled. How could I do that? Is this a sign of early Alzheimers? And what other things are slowly burning, out of view? What catastrophes are already cooking, right under our noses? Growing tumors, slowly clogging arteries- my mind won’t stop. I am shaken.

How odd it is that fire shows up in the literal world, when we have been thrashing it out with the county about their over-the-top fire wall regulations. Our east and west walls are less than five feet from the property line, so we have to have walls that are constructed to stay standing for one hour with a fire burning on either the inside or the outside. Don’t even try to find the logic between distance to a property line and fire safety. There is none, but it’s a good way to pad the pockets of the construction industry with thousands of dollars of extra materials. I won’t bore you with all the details, but we’re talking about TWO layers of Type X 5/8” gypsum on the inside AND the outside, running all our furnace, bathroom, and stove vents all the way to the north wall, and the possibility of no windows at all on the east side. Fortunately that’s not our view side, and we have hopefully surmounted the window issue through discovery of a product that the county may accept. For $250 a square foot, we can have a section of ‘transparent wall’. Normally, such a thing would be called a window, but not in the language of ASTM E-119, which is the language in which I am learning rudimentary phrases so that I can converse with Larry P**., the lead plans examiner at the county (see 11/19 posting for my very disheartening initial encounter with Larry).

Larry has a voice that sounds like over-cooked oatmeal. I have spoken to his voice mail many more times than I have actually spoken to him in person, and I can now perfectly mimic the mushy, drawled-out intonation of his mechanical greeting. “Hi . . . this . . . is . . . .Laaaaar . . .ry.” By the time I hear ‘Hi this . .’ I am already pissed off. Let’s just say that Larry P** has not exercised his brain much beyond the boundaries of the Boulder County Building Code. ‘You knoooowwww . . . . this is for your own safety’, he says, and I want to scream at him that a raging fire at our doorstep is about as likely as his brain coming up with an original, creative, or helpful thought.

But look. Every stance has an equally true opposite stance. Fire happens. And not that I think we need to be wrapped in gypsum, with no windows and 25’ vents to protect us from it, but my certainty about how things are has been scrambled. Larry P** may not be the brightest bulb on the tree, but I’m not so right or invincible either. Fire happens, gypsum walls happen, and it’s all just going to unfold in the only way it can. Next time I talk to Larry I’ll try to remember that he’s just on a mission to protect Boulder County residents from the candles they leave burning.

**P.S. I returned to this post to edit out Larry's last name after I realized that if Larry likes to spend time googling his own name, (which I can easily imagine him doing while he procrastinates the returning of my phone calls), the perspectives offered in this blog would not work in our favor. Our house would be toast.

What Lurked Beneath the Bed

First, a warning. Those of you who live above clean cement basements where the kids watch widescreen TV will be appalled by this story. And if you are grossed out by dead or smelly things, skip this one.

Yesterday we unearthed the crawlspace below the bedroom. But the day wasn’t going so well even before we got to that part. Rebecca and I have been spending virtually 24 hours a day together for the over three months, and overall, we’ve been thoroughly enjoying each others company. But some days, we have different opinions about every stupid little thing.

Yesterday was one of those days. We argued about whether we should leave the pile of roofing boards on the ground, or put it in the back of Black Beauty (the pickup truck for those of you who haven’t been following every detail of our lives). We argued over whether the cracked bay window would make a good cold frame. About whether we should keep it or dumpster it. About where it should go. Our disagreements usually have the underlying theme of efficiency versus quality, and on those off-days we judge each other mercilessly for the opposing stances that we take. Of course, when we can balance each other on the center point of that seesaw, it’s a winning combination. If either of us were to win all the time, we would have either a perfect house that never got finished or a crappy house that got done in record time.

Wanting to win the argument is a bad strategy. Because then you’re stuck with a loser. But it’s one of those stinky aspects of human nature, one that usually lays underground until you’re with someone you know well enough that you can be your worst self. When it finally comes up, it smells bad. Kind of like the dead skunk that we discovered under the bedroom floor.

We’ve been working long, hard days for the past three days- getting the roof and walls off of the back portion of the house and the floorboards up before the big snow that we knew would come last night. Putting ourselves on an early-to-work schedule has probably contributed to our general grumpiness. And we knew that whatever was under those floorboards, it wasn’t going to be pretty.

The embarrassing part of all this is that we knew- knew in a way that is all too easy to forget. The scuttling sounds that lulled us to sleep were frequent enough that they became normal. But once or twice a year, we’d be woken in the night with anguished squeals coming from under the floor, followed by the thick, musty stench of angry skunk. We’d mumble something about ‘there’s that skunk again’, and go back to sleep. But the smell would hang in the air for a couple of days before settling back down to smolder in the odd collection of insulative things that Rebecca stuffed into the 18” crawlspace many years ago. We never knew if these annual skirmishes were raccoons killing a cluster of shrieking skunk babies, or if skunks were invading the raccoon hideout. Or maybe it was a domestic spat in the skunk family. But the final evidence of dead skunk suggests that in the end, the raccoons won.

I have utmost appreciation for the fact that Rebecca took on the task of bagging up all the mess. She must have felt somewhat responsible since she was the one who stuffed all those things in there in the first place. In her elbow-high yellow rubber gloves, her green kneepads, her respirator with the pink filters, and her rocket scientist safety glasses, she looked like she was headed into the plutonium room at Rocky Flats. She pulled up huge wads of chewed up pink and yellow fiberglass, a shredded sleeping bag, and six enormous, unexplainably heavy couch cushions. There was a desiccated skunk with a fluffy black and white tail that was attached to an unrecognizable black mummy of a body. There were piles of raccoon shit, a rusty can that had been opened with two nail holes, and a crushed pie plate. It was unbelievably disgusting. But even more disturbing was the realization that for twelve years, all that separated our sleeping bodies from this mass of filth were floorboards, carpet, the collection of rollerblades, river gear, sleeping bags, and boots that were stuffed in the not-to-be-wasted storage space under the bed, and one six inch mattress.

Is there a metaphor lurking here? About the rotten, invisible stuff in relationships that we choose to sweep under the floorboards? Let’s not even go there. I prefer to think that rather than a metaphor, it’s a simple matter of cause and effect. I once read that clutter under your bed can keep you from getting pregnant. I don’t think it was the clutter that kept either of us from that fate, but if clutter under your bed has that kind of effect, what horrible influence could piles of raccoon shit have on one’s matrimonial relationship? Seems like if that led to some minor judgments and a few useless power struggles, we’d be getting off easy.

Those of you who are judging us as backwoods hillbillies living in piles of filth can pause now to generate some empathy. Yes, we knew something bad was going on under there, but what could we do? Wiggling on our bellies into the crawlspace was unthinkable, and besides, once we were face to face with the skunk or the raccoons, what would we do? Shoving a trap underneath the house would lead to a whole different set of problems once we had to deal with a wild animal in a trap. Poison was just too violent a solution. So we put up with the occasional gassings, and forgot about it the rest of the time.

But the question remains- can we blame the everyday struggles of an 18-year relationship on the bad feng shui of putrid filth under the bed? I’d like to think so. Because although it has taken us twelve years and a major production for the past three months, the problem has been eradicated. The dead skunk is in a black plastic bag at the bottom of the dumpster. And we are looking forward to a sealed, rodent-proof cement basement, and under our bed a clean space with solar heat radiating from the floorboards. Who knows? Maybe we’ll even get pregnant.

A Good Day to Die . . . the house speaks again

Last night I thought it was all over- that in the end it would be hypothermia and loneliness that would take me rather than the final dismantling of my bones. For two days it has been snowing. Lightly and gently, but enough to pile a good ten inches on my roof. Now I’ve weathered a lot more than that in my day- just a few years ago I carried three feet of heavy, wet snow- branches were popping all around me but I held up to it. My rafters were sore for weeks, but that was nothing compared to this. That was back when I had a good warm coat of insulation everywhere. Walls, floors, ceilings. I had asphalt shingles, and siding all around my underside to keep the wind from whistling through. There was fire in my belly, and hot smoky breath rising up through the chimney.

But the biggest difference was that I had people. They were depending on me. It’s a job that most people don’t even notice is being done, but imagine the disaster if I didn’t hold up the roof. They would perish. The cats would freak. And so even though I knew they were taking me for granted, knowing how much they would NOT appreciate it if I let them down was almost as good as being outright appreciated.

But these past two days, they didn’t even show up. They’re across the canyon in that warm and fancy house (which is a little pretentious if you ask me, but if that’s what they want . . .), looking at plans and pricing materials for my replacement. Sure, they probably looked out the window a few times to make sure I was still standing, but no visit, no shoveling, no fire. All around me I saw smoke drifting up from chimneys, I saw warm lights in windows, I saw walkways being shoveled. I couldn’t help myself. By morning there were big icicle tears hanging from my eaves.

I’m ready to go. I know it’s coming, and it’s time. This morning the sky is clear, and I see the sun hitting the ridge behind me. Soon it will be coming in the windows, and they’ll be back, bundled up and complaining about the cold and wind. But I’ll take them any way they are. I guess that’s been my gift all along- holding this space for them no matter how grumpy or happy or loud or quiet they are on any given day. I don’t care- I just want to feel their feet on my floorboards and their hands on my frame, even if they’re taking me apart. Its better than being empty. What is it that the Lakota say? Give me a good sunny day, my two favorite girls carefully dropping my rafters and lowering my walls, and it’s a good day to die.

Savers and Shingles

Last Friday I took an afternoon off to go stock up on cold weather work clothes. Snow is starting to threaten our work days, and while the wood stove can take some of the chill off, there are cracks and holes everywhere now- dinner plate sized holes in the roof, vent holes in the floor, and inch wide gaps in the siding. The cold wind whistles right through, stirring up dust clouds as it goes. Not only is it cold, but this is the dirtiest thing I have ever done. When I pry off a board, torrents of dirt fall down on my head. Sometimes when I get home I have to drop my clothes in the entryway, and step back out on the porch in my underwear to shake them off before I let them in the house. The laundry has been piling up faster than my limited wardrobe can keep up. Between the cold and the dirt, the proper outfits are essential, and lots of them.

So the green cotton sweater I’m wearing has the distinctive Savers Thrift Store odor- overtones of laundry detergent and mothballs, with mysterious underlying scents of the former owner. Savers is a saviour when it comes to the need for lots of cheap, warm clothes. For $57 I got eight things, including a preciously ugly grey insulated parka that makes me look like a skier from Texas who just snowplowed through the lift line. Some scotch-guarded jeans would go perfectly with it. Winner of the best deal category was a Patagonia capilene long underwear top for 99 cents. Most coveted item was a green canvas jacket, suitable for evening wear, that Rebecca tried to talk me into giving her. In the Questionable Purchase category was a grey fiberfill vest with a stain that grosses me out a little bit. A grey fleece sweater and three other warm shirts, all grey or green, were featured that night in the fashion show that Rebecca always requests after a Savers shopping trip.

The whole closet smells like Savers now. But yesterday I wore that fleece sweater while I was up on the roof in howling December winds, and I was toasty warm. We have finally arrived at the penultimate stage- taking down the roof. Next will be the walls, then the floorboards, then the joists and timbers. Everything in our timing and sequence right now is oriented to trying to keep the floorboards dry once the roof comes off, since we plan to re-use them in our new living room. We’re betting on sun and racing the inevitable big snow dump. I have three tabs in my browser set to three different weather reports, and they’re all always different. So we’re just plowing ahead.

Yesterday we were pulling asphalt shingles off the roof. A windy day is not the best day to do this. The shingles were so happy to finally be free of their flattened state that they flew off into the neighbor’s yard like birds escaping their cages. But it was glorious to be up on the roof. The sun came and went, and at moments I felt as wide open and uplifted as the swirling sky. But most of the time, I was just focused on prying up the next shingle without being blown off the roof. That’s how this work is- its just about what’s right in front of you- getting that stubborn crooked nail out, or delicately rocking the prybar back and forth in the crack between floorboards, feeling for the gentle pop that happens when the tongue snaps free from the groove. I’m loving this simple satisfaction that comes with something done well, even if it’s just a tarped a pile of wood that holds up in crazy winds.

Today the wind is up again, and there are more shingles waiting for us. We managed to get the wheelbarrow up on the roof so Rebecca could cart the piles of shingles to the front edge, where she could toss them into Black Beauty, our $900 pick up truck. The plan is to then drive forward ten feet to the dumpster, where we’ll toss the shingles again. If it saves one more time of bending over to pick up the same shingle, its worth it. I can tell that my back only has so many bend-overs left in it, and I’m rapidly using them up.

And today we’re going back for more. I wonder which of my new Savers shirts I should wear?

Thanksgiving Eve at the County Building

On Wednesday afternoon I took our beautifully precise architectural drawings to the county building, to complete our building permit application. It’s a little crazy that our old house is almost to the ground before we actually have the building permit for the new one, but we’ve been going on the assessment of others that once we have all the other permits, the actual building permit is a shoe-in. The beginnings of our application have been wasting away in somebody’s file drawer for the past six months, while we’ve exhausted ourselves leaping hurdle after hurdle that the stiff-jawed county staffers have laid before us.
First, there was the variance issue. The house is 30’ wide, and sits on a 30’ wide lot. Which is made worse by the fact that back in 1908 somebody’s survey string must have slipped, because the house is one foot, seven inches off of its lot. I’ll spare you the months of trying to get a property line adjustment, and of trying to buy 15’ of land from our reluctant neighbor to the west.
Ten foot setbacks on a 30’ wide lot means a ten foot wide house. So to rebuild in our original footprint means that step one is to apply for a variance. But in the twisted logic of the collective mind of county government, step one becomes step two, and before applying for a variance you must do step one, which is to apply for a building permit, plans and all, which will be rejected by the building division because you don’t have a variance.
The land use department and the building division share a front desk and office space in the old yellow brick building on the corner of spruce and 13th. Yet somehow the only communication between the two that we have seen evidence of is that the building division must have hollered across the room to tell the land use department that a building permit had come in without the required variance. The land use department then informed us that we needed one. Which, of course, we already knew.
Then it turned out that step two was really step three, because the historical preservation board got wind that a hundred year old building was about to be torn down, which meant a review and board meeting that had to happen before the county commissioners could hold their meeting to review the variance. Add two months to the process, and a whole other story to tell you later. Then there was step four, the site plan review, a lengthy examination that required our plans to be mailed to every resident of Eldorado Springs for their complaint or approval.
So I arrived at the steps of the county building in a celebratory mood, with three engineer-stamped sets of plans rolled neatly under my arm. It was a sign of great progress to finally be back at step one. By the time I walked back down those steps an hour later, my mood had turned to stomach churning rage.
I had laid the plans on the counter and told the woman who rose from her beige government desk that I was here to complete our building permit. This generated some confusion about why we had filed a building permit and were bringing completed plans six months later. I reminded her about the step one, step two process, which seemed to jog a vague memory of that section of the rules and regulations book. But the search for the permit file took a good ten minutes and the enlisted help of three others in the office, until one said “maybe it’s in Robin’s desk”, and the thin brown file was finally produced.
The first warning sign was the look on the woman’s face when she opened the file. “Oh, this one”, she said, drawing out the three words over a good ten seconds. “I’d better go get Larry.” Larry came to the desk in a green button down shirt, without a word and without even a glance of eye contact. I focused on the wrinkles in his forehead and his prominent white eyebrows as he leaned over the plans, making a series of urgent and worried grunts. Minutes went by. I could almost hear the gears of his brain grinding together as they searched for some critical piece of information. If I ever have to watch a doctor prepare to give me a fatal prognosis, I imagine it will be easier than this. I tried to make contact by throwing out little pieces of information and asking short, simple questions. Still, all I got was the top of his head. No response. Finally, he pulled the site plan out of the file folder, which shows our new house resting 1’7” from the east property line and 3’ from the west. “Oh, this one”, he said. And that is when he told me about the ASTM E119 fire rating test, and that because our walls are less than five feet from the property line, they have to pass this test with a score of one hour. This means, he explained, that a raging fire from either the inside or the outside of the house has to take one hour to burn through the wall. If our west wall was two feet further back from the line, they wouldn’t care if the fire could burst right through and burn us to a crisp. Larry also tells me that there can be no windows in the east wall unless they are fire rated to one hour, which he informs me can only be accomplished with very special glass block made in Japan, at a very special price. He makes me a copy of a page from a three pound volume of building codes, and adds that he’s not even sure if the extra special glass block will be allowed. Then he delivers the knockout blow by telling me that our painstakingly designed west wall, the one that faces the million dollar view of Eldorado canyon and the high serrated ridge of South Boulder Peak, can have no more than 25% window space. He is showing me a very confusing chart of distances and fire ratings, and I hold down my burning anger enough to tell him that I am having a hard time interpreting the chart. “I’ve been here 20 years and I don’t understand it either”, he says. My confidence in Larry as someone who may help us get through this quagmire drops to zero.
I want to run out of the building and collapse on the steps. We have just spent $3400 on these drawings, thousands more in permit fees and consultations, six months of meetings with county officials, and three years of plan revisions to come up with a 25’ wide house. But this is the man who will either approve or disapprove of our building permit. So I stay standing at the desk, and struggle to find that tone that says ‘I am someone who is not going to be pushed over’, without saying ‘I am unreasonably angry and will be returning tonight to bomb the county building’. In an only slightly bumpy voice I say “I can’t believe we have gotten to this point without hearing this information”.
But I am standing with an enforcer of rules, on the wrong side of the desk. It is 4:00 on the day before Thanksgiving, and Larry tells me he won’t be back until Monday. I still need to buy a turkey breast and a box of stuffing. I walk out of the office carrying the twisting prognosis in my gut, with only half of the information I need. I want to run straight home to tell Rebecca the awful news, and at the same moment I am dreading the thought of ruining her excitement. We have a four day weekend to imagine the worst.

The Kitchen Dance

Rebecca is rattling dishes downstairs, and after six days of her absence, I am enjoying the sounds of someone at home. It’s interesting how we go about the dance of sharing a living space- the ways we glide past each other on the stairs, twist and pivot around each other in the kitchen, and jitterbug our way through conflicting needs. In our old tiny kitchen the choreography was so well rehearsed that we could prepare two separate breakfasts on hectic work mornings, in a space the size of a small bathroom, hardly ever bumping hips. As she would open the freezer for her frozen strawberries, I’d duck under her arm to grab the soy milk. While she stood in the tiny gap between stove and counter to blend her smoothie, I knew I had about one inch of clearance to slip by her to the refrigerator. I’d use the opportunity to place my hands low on her hips for a little leverage.
Our little kitchen no longer exists. The floor is there, the two outside walls are still standing, but there is no defined room, and definitely no kitchen. There is a lightened square on the wood floor where the old stove sat for a hundred years. The rafters above are black from some ancient fire, long before our time. And the awkward floor transition that happened in the middle of the kitchen- from the dark low floorboards to the slightly raised and then sloping floorboards of the former porch, is still there. We did our best to make a flattish floor by smoothing out the bump and adding layers of pad and carpet, but there was always a slightly disorienting wave to the floor. We choreographed it into our kitchen routine without even noticing, but it gave the kitchen a slight mystery-spot feeling, and visitors would roll over that patch with a tiny wobble, eyebrows lifted as if they knew something was different here, but couldn’t exactly name it.
The whole house was different like that. On one board that we pulled off the wall was a scratching in pencil, the mathematical figuring that went into the construction of the house. 26+4+4=32, it said. Think about it. It’s no wonder that nothing was square. And although we never really noticed those little off-kilter things, maybe they figured in to the subconscious steps of our dance. Maybe they gave us a slightly tilted perspective on the world, and it was probably for the better.

First, A Few Words From The House

I’ve been standing in this same spot, give or take an inch or two, for a hundred years. There abouts, anyway- they didn’t keep such good track of things when I was born, but the county treasurer’s records say I existed in 1909 but not in 1908. But let me tell you, I’m feeling it- every windstorm and every three-foot snow and every blistery hot day of the last hundred years. I got about sixteen legs and they’re all stiff as boards, if you pardon the expression. They never bothered to give me a proper foundation so I’ve been balanced on little piles of rocks and dirt this whole time, and that’s hard on your feet. Sometimes I can feel the tiny bugs rooting around in there, chewing away at my flesh in little microscopic mouthfuls. Doesn’t hurt, really, it’s just a reminder that everything comes to an end, eventually.
I’m not much to look at these days. If you were to pass by on the one-lane dirt road, you’re more likely to be looking up at the startling walls of Eldorado Canyon than noticing my siding hanging at peculiar angles, or the thin nine-pane windows that wrap around my walls. You might think it odd that my old hipped roofs are pierced with modern skylights, or that the second-story front door hangs in space, echoing the ghost of a collapsed stairway. But you’d probably just walk on by, wondering with passing curiosity if anybody actually lives in there.
All my life I’ve watched places around me burn down, be torn down, fall down, and be reconfigured in the most God-awful ways. I just about went down the same path back in 1973. Thought I’d been left for good when year after year went by with no people showing up, even for summer vacation. Then the hippies found me and dragged their mattresses in through the broken windows. I’ve never seen such crazy things as what went on during their reign. That’s when I got condemned, along with nine other hippie-infested cabins. The county commissioners went on and on in the newspaper about ‘fire traps’ and how they couldn’t believe people actually live in those cabins. I was insulted. Just because a few shingles are falling off doesn’t mean I’m ready for the bull dozer. Uggh- makes my bones ache just to think about it.
I watched the other nine buildings be executed, right in front of me. But in a last-minute twist of fate, I was spared. Word got out that Dwight and Mamie Eisenhower had spent their honeymoon in me, and the local historians couldn’t stand the thought of losing a little piece of the past. It’s true- they were here. They say walls have ears, and we do. Eyes too. We have mouths, but there’s an unspoken agreement between us and those with arms and legs. You build us, we keep your secrets. It’s worked pretty well- never been broken as far as I know. So I can’t tell you exactly what went on with Dwight and Mamie but let me just say it was one of the sweetest exchanges that ever took place in that tiny back bedroom.
I’ve had a good life. Only four owners in all these years, and I do believe they each loved me in their own way. I’ve held them all as best I could- the summer vacationers with all those loud little children, the loving spouses and the fighting spouses, the scratching cats and the piddling dogs and the gracious guests. I’ve had a front row seat for all the things that go on behind closed doors, and I’ve learned that there are people who tromp hard in their boots and slap the walls to make a point, and there are people who glide smoothly through a space like swans in still water. But I’ve watched long enough to see that everyone laughs, everyone cries, and underneath it all, everyone just wants to be happy.
This last one has been my favorite, though. Thirty one years she’s been walking nice and gentle across my wooden floors. She’s the one that fell in love with me. Thanks to her I finally got a layer of insulation to get me through the winters, forced air heating to warm my belly when the woodstove went out, even plumbing. And eleven skylights! It was like seeing God when that light shone through for the first time. And then she got serious with somebody and there were two of them, and two cats that scan the neighborhood from my roof. Even better.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that nothing lasts forever. People, buildings, cats- nothing. What gets me is that they talk about it all the time, out loud, right there in my living room, surrounded by the knotty pine paneling that is as rich and warm as the day I was built. They talk about how they’re going to take me apart, piece by piece, starting with the roof and working their way down the walls until there is nothing left here but a big gaping hole in the ground. I don’t know if they notice the slight trembling that overtakes me when they talk like this. I guess I’ve outlived the odds so long that I was starting to think that I would escape that ultimate fate- that in spite of my lack of foundation and unpractical design, they would let me gradually decay into a natural death. I cringe and creak when they talk about prying boards from the walls and knocking down my chimney. The first one’s pretty good with tools, but the second one- she can’t even drill a screw straight. The thought of her coming at me with a crowbar in hand is enough to make me want to light a match right now. Sometimes I wish they would have the decency to take that kind of talk outside.
When I steady myself and listen carefully, though, I realize that they have spared me the instantaneous demolition of the wrecking ball so they can re-use my parts. Better to go out in one blaze of glory than months of agonizing pecking and picking, I think, but I appreciate the consideration. And I can’t even count the number of nights I’ve stayed up into the wee hours with her at the computer, evolving a design that looks a little bit like me. Once she finally goes to bed I console myself with the thought that my two-by-fours will live on, that my wall boards will become subflooring, and my beautiful knotty pine will be transformed into kitchen cabinets. As I settle down for the night I remember to count my blessings, to have the rare privilege of being ushered into the next life with respect and love. I just wish they could tell me one thing. Is it going to hurt? (written 6/16/08)