A STEADY FLOW of rain wicks under the old sliding door, turning the avocado shag rug's foam pad into a huge sponge. Gabriel, my 13 year old, unknowingly walks across the wet rug in his socks and cries "YUK! The rug's soaked again!" "Sorry," I console, "we're going to tear out that ugly rug soon. Remember, we're in the middle of a remodel... we have to put up with certain incoveniences." He rolls his eyes; he doesn't buy it. My wife, Bobbi, reminds me that we have been in the middle of a remodel for twelve years.
To be fair, we haven't spent all twelve years on one house. Rather we've tagged together three remodels the same way our first carpenter chain-smoked Camels. We were demolishing interior walls in our first house the day escrow closed. Five years later, before its sale could go through, I sped through a punch list of moldings and outlet covers yet uninstalled. Then, before moving, we ripped the roof off of our new home. And so on.
I can further rationalize that we weren't always in the middle of a remodel--three times we were at the beginning, two times at the end. There is a difference.
Being a sports fan, I equate remodeling with running a marathon. At the beginning you believe and hope you'll make it to the end, where you can rest with the satisfaction of a race well run. The only problem is that-somewhere in the middle-- you meet "The Wall," where even the best runners fade.
For us, the beginnings have always been the most exciting time. Our paradise is put to paper: new kitchen, master suite, tons of storage. Workmen arrive at sunup and map out the game plan over steaming mugs of coffee. Trucks unload. Then...the smell of fresh sawdust elicits the excitement of dreams becoming reality.
We stretch out the beginning as long as possible because we know the middle comes next. During our major remodels--when we've removed roofs or torn out kitchens-the middle of the remodel has tested not only our relationship but our instinct to survive.
To meet this challenge, we adapt, developing our fast-food palates, Sherpa-style survival tactics and a true one-on-one relationship with Mother Nature. We learn to measure the temperature by sweater layers, the rain's intensity by bucket drips per minute, and the wind's speed by the flutter of the Visquine.
It was during our first 2000-square-foot we'd-rather-do-itourselves remodel in San Francisco that we came to know The Wall. We were two seasons behind schedule. Roberta was pregnant, the roof was completely torn off, and the windy City By The Bay had a freak snow. Icewater dribbled onto the toilet for two days. (It's amazing how quickly you can roof a house when your marriage is at stake.)
Sometimes The Wall just creeps up when the last gasp of excitement has died at the worker's muddy boots, the Skilsaw's endless scream and the sixteenth layer of dust on our toothbrushes. We grow sick of making decisions, compromising and trying to buy granite on a linoleum budget.
As in a marathon, the closer we get to finishing, the slower the go; moldings and doorknobs are my downfall. As the job winds down, I'm easily sidetracked by thoughts of an occasional Sunday football game or fiddling in my shop. Roberta guides me back on track with, "For once, I'd like to live in a finished house."
Somehow, we always manage to make it to the finish line. When the paint and carpets go in, we breathe a huge mutual sigh of relief, knowing that we have once again made it --or a variation of it--and managed to keep our relationship in tact.
Our friends marvel at how our marriage has survived these extended remodels and repeated run-ins with The Wall. They recount the divorces sparked by remodels, implying that we must have an incredibly strong relationship. Maybe we do-- but I believe it's partly because of, not despite these marathons.
Remodeling may not be easy-- especially when you're in the middle-but for us it is the stuff of life: excitement, challenge, change, hardship and rewards. It offers a common goal, strips away some of life's protective insulation and demands growth and flexibility. It makes us participants in the human race.
I'll try that one on Gabriel next time his socks are soggy.
--Don Vandervort
