Lacking better judgment and for having nothing better to do, we kicked off a major remodel of The Kingman. Oh, The Kingman, our Kingman: How we despise you yet are captivated by your magical spell. Like a moth to an open flame, we cannot resist your allure. It was an afternoon in July, the brightest day of the brightest month of the brightest Iowa summer. We were smiling and giddy as we handed over a fat check to our new contractor, who quickly sped away in his pick-up, 2x4s dangling off the tailgate, promising to see us Monday with The Guys. There was demolition in our future. Walls had to come down, we have to get the roof off this thing, get the concrete poured.
Flash forward to a cold snowy Iowa morning in November. The weatherman has upgraded the forecast to include ice and sleet. I can’t move my hands after a previous night’s work ripping soffits out of the kitchen. The digits not covered in coagulated blood are swollen up like kielbasa. I have ingested at least one roll of dusty ceiling insulation and am having trouble breathing. If I could muster a breath, I could certainly see it; our furnace is still getting hooked-up so it’s cold. The HVAC guy is waiting for me to summon the courage to go back into the crawlspace and attach this thing to this other thing. I am not fond of what is under the house. Last time I saw some kind of marmot.
A thin sheet of clear plastic stapled around the perimeter of the addition serves as walls, windows and a front door. Six mil sheeting doesn’t carry a lot of R-value, walls would be better. The kids share a room now. Each night we wedge them between two space heaters, wrap them in quilts and shut their door. Safety standards around here have ebbed a bit. For them to get to the only functioning bathroom in The Kingman they have to navigate a patchwork of holes in the old floor, assorted power tools, cords, and various unidentifiable substances which constantly appear on the floor and walls.
There really is no kitchen now, just a general area where we stand and spoon peanut butter straight from the jar. My family and I pace around the general kitchen area each morning in our heavy coats looking at what the previous day’s construction has wrought. It is a solemn time. We nod a lot. Grunt and gesticulate with our peanut butter spoons, admiring the devastation, imaging doors, cabinets, windows.
Two weeks. Our contractor tells us, “Two weeks.” Ann Marie is tolerant. Ann Marie is tolerant.
So we put this horror into action. We asked for it. Eyes wide open. It’s a process: One day at a time. We started this thing and we will finish it. We hope to be done in time for Nina’s high school graduation.
Now 2009 is bearing down on us fast: We have walls with paint; carpet and cabinets; windows and an indoor toilet; and a furnace that that does a more than adequate job of blowing drywall dust and construction debris into every corner of the house. We still have a Dumpster parked in the front yard, our driveway is littered with lumber and covered in a blanket of snow and ice and the front door is somewhere in Altoona. But it is beautiful (sorta) and we are truly thankful. Peace to you.
