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METAMORPHOSIS: Building the Dome of a Home

METAMORPHOSIS: Building the Dome of a Home

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Once <strong>the</strong> red tape maze had been navigated, it was time to turn "talkitecture into architecture", as<br />

our wonderful architect and friend, Jonathan Zimmerman, so aptly stated. The image <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong><br />

<strong>Dome</strong> <strong>of</strong> a <strong>Home</strong> I had pasted all over our house would become our home. From image to reality<br />

– a leap <strong>of</strong> faith that quite ironically, terrified me as much as it thrilled me.<br />

The irrevocable decision to bulldoze <strong>the</strong> home we had poured our very being into just seven<br />

years ago was painful. We had completely remodeled <strong>the</strong> house in 1994 and just a year later we<br />

would do it again after Hurricanes Erin and Opal. In 1998, we made more repairs after Hurricane<br />

Georges. And now we were going to voluntarily raze <strong>the</strong> house we had spent so much time and<br />

love remodeling? On a practical level, we were aware that we would continue to make <strong>the</strong> same<br />

storm repairs over and over again because <strong>of</strong> our ground level status. But, I was not prepared for<br />

<strong>the</strong> emotional grief tugging at my heart as we watched <strong>the</strong> dozer take bite after bite <strong>of</strong> our house.<br />

What had taken us months to accomplish was negated in a matter <strong>of</strong> hours. Facing my damaged<br />

home after <strong>the</strong> storms was wrenching, but to purposefully unleash a machine to destroy her felt<br />

like betrayal. For a home built on <strong>the</strong> ground, she had performed admirably against <strong>the</strong> onslaught<br />

<strong>of</strong> several storms. Now, I was essentially telling her that her efforts just weren't good enough.<br />

The home had represented <strong>the</strong> beginning <strong>of</strong> our life toge<strong>the</strong>r as a married couple. It was home<br />

for our children. It was <strong>the</strong> first home in which I felt I was a part <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong> community. The home was<br />

<strong>the</strong> fabric <strong>of</strong> my security.<br />

I cried and grieved as I heard her skeleton breaking; I ga<strong>the</strong>red broken pieces <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong> tile we had<br />

so carefully selected; I respectfully touched <strong>the</strong> torn walls that we had so lovingly faux painted; I<br />

realized our children would never walk through those doors again and be visually reminded <strong>of</strong><br />

<strong>the</strong>ir early years on <strong>the</strong> beach.<br />

Memories flooded me as more and more <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong> home's interior became exposed. I felt<br />

eviscerated in concert with my home's destruction. My tears would never assuage <strong>the</strong> guilt and<br />

uncertainty I felt as I paid homage to <strong>the</strong> home that had held so much laughter and hope.<br />

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