Demolition

I'm standing in the doorway of a tiny beat-up closet that used to be a pantry for an old kitchen. It's in horrible shape—pockmarked walls, mysterious stains, mouse shit, precariously wired bare light bulb. The ceiling slants down toward the back of the space, creating the effect of a receding, shrinking cave. Everything is a faded pink color, a favorite of the previous owner. Every time my partner and I watch BBC shows we see that pink—the woman we bought the house from was English. My job is to demo and prime the room so that our contractor can begin fashioning the new coat closet on Monday. It's my rst demolition. I'm excited and terrified.

We bought this enormous Victorian house six months ago, fully expecting to live on ramen noodles for the next twenty years as we worked on fixing it up. It was a wreck, much like the closet. We thought we'd have workmen around the house off and on for years—whenever we could save the money for the next project. When my mother died and left us some money, we found ourselves in the position to get several renovation projects done at once. Having workmen underfoot is a familiar experience for me—while I was growing up my mother was always having one thing or another done to the house. Or sometimes she and I would complete projects together, such as stripping the paint off the trim and staining it a more traditional shade. Working with Mom on household projects were some of the happiest times in a childhood that otherwise vacillated between fighting and silence.

So when my partner and I bought this house, I eagerly looked forward to taking on renovation challenges and learning new skills. Having a sedentary academic job, I can go an entire week without having to move very much except to take the dogs for a walk. The physicality of swinging a hammer, feeling the friction as it hits the nail or the board being wrenched out of its place, releases waves of joyous euphoria in me. There are some things I stay away from—anything to do with electricity, power tools larger than a drill, anything requiring work at excessive heights. These I leave to the professionals, although I find myself fascinated with their processes and techniques.

I've always watched workmen with keen interest. I genuinely enjoy it when the mechanic explains the details of what's wrong with the car. Not all of them will take the time—it's rare to find guys willing to explain mechanical details to a woman. It's the same with workmen. Luckily, my contractor loves to talk about whatever he's working on. In fact he, like me, narrates out loud what he's doing as he's doing it. I've never seen him write anything down, although once he left us a list of tile to buy for a new bathroom on an exposed wall joist. It took us an hour to find it. He hollers in his loud, sandpaper voice, repeating ideas to himself as he clomps around in his heavy boots: "We'll tear out this wall, move the supports over two feet, drywall it, and then I'll build in a pantry there . . . ," all the while gesturing wildly with his short, powerful arms. If I hang around and listen, I can get free renovation tips. Currently I'm learning how to skimcoat walls.

But demolition is the big time—messy and unpredictable—a hypnotic rhythm of jamming a hammer or a crowbar into plaster and wrenching it free again. In Pittsburgh, where I live, coal dust flies out after puncturing the wall—bringing the smoky coal city of the past back into the present. Swinging metal implements with abandon over the shoulder with force, striking the wall as hard as possible, yanking back to pull the plaster and lathe from the joist—nails, staples, insulation, and wood fly through the air. It's the most dangerous part of the process because of the uncertainty of what's underneath the surface...