Demolition Day

Last time we talked, my young wife and I were selling our suburban home in midtown Little Rock and planned on restoring an 1898 Victorian cottage on South Broadway. The idiocy of youthful enthusiasm combined with the unwariness of the inexperienced had us hoisted sky-high.

Then we had met the Skippers, a lovable and adorable old couple who still had a ton or so of trash in the cottage we were buying. The property closing provided them 60 days to remove their belongings. It presented no problem until we received a nice offer on our existing home.

Drats.

Long story short: we managed to delay the closing on our home until the Skippers’ 60-day period had passed. At the last moment, they enlisted the aid of a nephew, who seemed less than amused about the task, to haul the junk to an undisclosed location. Relations had become a little frayed by then I’m sorry to say, so we never saw this interesting couple again. They never even returned, as they had promised, to place a marker over the grave of their beloved dog “Wiggles.” I can only suppose that the custom-made metal casket still lies buried in the back yard.

Anyway, we moved enough belongings to live in the best bedroom, the bathroom, and kitchen. We stored the rest with the parents-in-law. Fortunately, we had little to worry with in those days, those wonderful days.

A few weeks after moving in, we experienced one of what we now call a “Pepsi Commercial” days. Older readers will remember the series of Pepsi Cola commercials that featured a band of friends showing up to help carry out some onerous task amid much laughter, camaraderie, and, of course, swigging of Pepsis.

That was the day that fate had saved for us. We sought to tear out the walls Skipper had built to convert the dining room into a movie studio. Friend after friend arrived with sledge hammers, crowbars, and other implements of destruction. In no time, the material flew amid wild swinging of hammers, walls collapsing, and the companionship of mutual fun. Piles of debris and clouds of dust filled the room. Time arrived for a “Pepsi Break,” before starting to clean the mess and carry it outdoors.

Actually, it was more of a “Budweiser Break,” but who was keeping score? You could have made a TV commercial and called it “Demolition Day Fun.” We served the beer, led in the happy dialogue, and collected the empty bottles. After bagging them for disposal, we returned to the room full of debris to organize our friends for the cleanup.

“Hello … hello." Oh dear. There wasn’t a friend in sight. We slumped, little realizing at the time that we had learned one of the first lessons in historic preservation. We would know it well before long. It runs as follows.

- Swinging a sledge hammer at walls is fun.

- Ripping out cabinets is fun.

- Scattering plumbing around the floor is fun.

Cleaning up after a day of demolishing walls and fixtures is a pain in the ass, a consummation much to be avoided.

From that day forward, as the two of us stood amidst piles of detritus, some of it still emitting clouds of dust, we followed what those in my profession used to call “The Draftsman’s Rule.” It stated, “Never draw more in the morning than you can erase in the afternoon.” As applied to our situation, “Never destroy more in the morning than you can dispose of (without assistance) in the afternoon.”

Historic preservation was shaping up to be more then we imagined.