And then there's the state of the kitchen:
Damian knew just what to do.
Throughout, R. kept at it. Drywall, plaster, more sawdust, more plaster. And presto, the doorway to my office was no more. The ironing board cabinet, too (the fifth door in this ridiculous kitchen). Gone forever more. Sealed shut, along with its secret cache of brick behind plaster. A long dead fireplace? The house keeps its secrets, grows in its accumulated events. And now we've added more changes to its long history, more tales like rings on an ancient tree trunk.
It's like magic, reconfiguring a house layout. A subtle but powerful magic.
It's the details that amaze me about this work. Would I have thought to add a molding running all the way across from the remaining door to the wall? It matches the one on the other side of the room, it makes sense. It's just... would my eye have caught that discrepancy now or only a year from now?
And then, finally and so soon, R. was gone. We had the kitchen to ourselves. Dan brought our hand-me-down stove from its temporary home on the back porch where it had been sheathed against the admittedly mild elements in swaths of dark green garbage bags for the past six months. We scrubbed it clean and Dan hooked up the gas line. We crossed our fingers, closed our eyes to send a short prayer to the small kitchen gods, and turned it on.
It didn't work. Sparks and clicks but no fire.
More cleaning, making sure the burners had air to breathe flame, light a match this time, give the stove training wheels.
And yes. Ignition. Success. A new-old kitchen.
(To see, follow me to the outcome.)
(or you can always go back to the original kitchen or the first day of demolition)
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