KICK-BUTT SELF-DEFENSE: Lori Hartman Gervasi, author

essay | at home in the I.E.
A remodel life
By CARLA SANDERS
Nearly seven years after we
began what would become a
monumental task of remodeling
our house, we finally could say those
two syllables dear to the heart of every
do-it-yourselfer: “We’re done.”
as with just about any undertaking, one
thing had led to another and before we
knew it, we were way
over budget and way
past our estimated
completion date —
about six years beyond.
Our renovations took
so long that when
our friends would
pleasantly query,
“When’s the house
going to be done?” we would shoot back,
“It will be done when it’s done!”
While we are pleased with the final
product, there were moments along the
way when it seemed as if that eternal light
at the end of the tunnel would never shine
in our direction.
First, the permits were nothing short
of astonishing. We had to pay thousands
to our local school district before we could
get a permit to start the work because we
were adding a few hundred square feet to
the size of the house. a block wall
apparently was a few blocks too high and
there went another couple of thousand so
the county planning commission could
consider granting us a variance from the
height restriction. We got it.
66 | inlandlivingmagazine.com | may 09
The workers were around so often
and so long that the plumber stayed for
dinner on several occasions, the
carpenter’s assistant asked out my
stepdaughter, and they all watched as
my baby grew from a toddler to a young
girl. Workers arrived early and stayed
late and I think by the end, everyone
had viewed my collection of pajamas.
and then there was the rock guy. This
man, in his 70s, was old school. He was a
master at lacing the native stone from the
local quarry into pillars, posts, walls and
columns.
He spent years working at the house and
was around so frequently, he became almost
family. He would tap on the door and
simply walk in for his morning coffee.
He would lament the trials and travails of
his grandkids. On many occasions he would
just tell me he needed $5 or $10 or $20 to
go buy his cigarettes (his wife kept him on a
short money leash, we learned). at first I
was so dumbfounded, I gave it to him; later,
since I’d set precedent, I didn’t have the
heart to tell him no.
If the doors were open, strangers would
roam in and out, commenting on the
progress. On several occasions, my husband
was traipsing people through the interior on
the here’s-what-it’s-going-to-look-like home
tour as I was coming out of the bathroom
in my robe, towel around my hair.
Prior to one Thanksgiving, when the
living-dining area was only a wide expanse
of concrete and insulation, we took a break
from construction for the holidays and
brought some of the furniture back in.
as I had told my husband, “It will be too
sad sitting here with a card table and
a Christmas tree.”
We were lounging on the couch when
the insulation above us started to fall —
and with it came the family cat, swinging
from the fluffy stuff like a trapeze artist.
He’d gotten into the attic and had hit the
wrong spot on his tip-toe across the living
room ceiling.
The stories are endless — some amusing,
others not so. We argued, wrote checks,
changed our minds, wrote checks, knocked
down walls, put up chimneys, argued,
painted and wrote more checks.
In the end, we got the house we wanted,
and avoided both bankruptcy and divorce.
I learned quite a bit about the
construction-remodeling industry and have
been able to offer recommendations to
friends for everything from wall finishers
to rain gutters. Still, I’m not sure I would
do it again.
When we were about three-quarters of
the way through our remodel, some good
friends were gearing up for their own
massive undertaking. The wife asked if I
had any advice for her. yes, I told her, I do.
“Just move.”