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House Rehab Report

Larry looked at the shelves. I held my breath, insecurity buzzing about my head. I shifted from foot to foot as he inspected my first completed shelf project.
"They look okay," he said.
"Thank God for caulk."
He couldn't just leave it at 'okay,' could he?
The project moves slowly and steadily. After the whirlwind demolition, the rebuilding is a much slower process. Sheetrock must be cut out. Replaced. Taped. Mudded. Sanded. Mudded again. Sanded again. And a third time. Tape and texture are installed before paint.
Subcontractors submitted bids, some accepted, some not, some required a bit of arm wrestling. I discovered a treasure of tile on sale, the plunder of knowing the right guy.
Larry knows what he is doing, and that's a good thing, as I am good at going to Lowe's and picking up stuff. Okay, maybe not. I wander up and down aisles, looking first for the item, then looking for the blue vest and direction. Buying doors became a period of disclosing to the salesman that I haven't a clue what he's talking about. No problem. They see it all the time.
Some curious things:
Four times in two weeks people have Dumpster dived (Dove? Diven?) into our trash to rescue metal and steel. They appear to be of suspect immmigration status.
Park a Dumpster in front of a house along with a pickup and the neighbors drop by, curiosity pushing them to the driveway.
It is amazing how people screw up a house in the name of upgrading. More often than not, the owner would be better served to just leave the house alone.
People are pigs. Okay not everyone, but man oh man, some people just live filthy lives. It sure is good for a buyer.
When you fire up a house after months of shut down, it's like resuscitating a person. The water shusshes through the walls, boards creak and the heat ducts produce a dusty warmth. At last the patient is breathing again, and soon will live a normal life, clutched from the jaws of death. Okay, maybe that's a bit overstated. But a house is getting a new life, for sure. And that's a good thing.

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