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Stuart Revercomb

Stuart Revercomb is a marketing consultant and joyously married father of four children. He seems to remember someone once telling him he ought to be a writer. "The Unseen Here and Now" -- Thursdays.

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"Thursday's Fare"

One's home is truly one's castle. Indeed, when the rest of the world seems to be going to hell in the proverbial hand basket, home, no matter how modest or how sophisticated, is that place where we find the rare moment of peace and refuge. Deciding to renovate such a sanctuary is a very risky business.

If, as my sister, Anne, claims, "Hell is a place where they make you move every other day," then "renovation" by a general contractor is just a lower level of said place that biblical writers dared not describe for fear of overwhelming even the strongest of heart. That verse that references the "gnashing of teeth" is probably as close as they were willing to come. Indeed, I'm not sure if the "winged horsemen of the Apocalypse" have anything on two guys armed with a crowbar and a "saws-all."

It wasn't long ago that I watched two such men in their 20s take out our existing den and the better part of our kitchen in less than 12 hours. It should be noted that they accomplished this task with very large smiles upon their faces. If you're thinking of starting a feud with someone, make sure they do not own a saws-all. You might as well irritate someone who's very good with dynamite.

Of course ALL contractors know how to make a mess of things. Demolition comes naturally to these guys. The trick is to make sure you "marry" one that also knows how to put it back -- preferably better than it was before.

A "marriage" is perhaps the best way to understand this relationship. For one had better be prepared "for better or for worse" to spend a whole lot of time with these guys. Much like a spouse, they will often wake you a little bit earlier than you might have hoped, and when you desperately need them they can be conspicuously absent. They also have an amazing ability to selectively tune you out as well as get your attention when they want to be heard. The "for richer or for poorer" part, however, is not quite the same. "For richer" applies solely to the contractor. You on the other hand, are going to be poorer -- you can count on that. At least when your spouse overspends you both get poorer together.

To incriminate the guilty I will call my contractor David, because that is his name.

After firming up the plans and throwing money "hither and yon" we got down to business and set a date. The voice of Franklin D.Roosevelt resounds through my head when ever I think of it: Sept. 4th 1998 -- "A DATE THAT WILL LIVE IN INFAMY."

The battle of 2408 Stanley Ave. had begun.

I awoke that morning to the sounds of tank treads approaching the house from the alley in back. I was about to meet the first of David's extended family of "subcontractors." These are the necessary "in-laws" in the contractor relationship that no one fully trusts and in the event something goes wrong EVERYONE blames. I jumped out of bed, threw on some clothes and ran out to see what sort of man and machine could possibly be making so much wracket. HIS name was Rodney. IT was a "Caterpillar 963." It is the loudest piece of machinery on the planet. Nothing else comes close. It is also quite large. You could run a strip-mine with this thing. My neighbors were loving me.

"I THOUGHT WE WERE GOING TO USE A BACKHOE?" I yelled to the tank commander over the din.

"HOLE'S TOO BIG FOR A BACKHOE," came the reply. A stream of brown spit soaked the freshly churned up grass.

"YOU SURE THAT THING WILL FIT IN MY YARD?" I continued.

"IF IT DON'T, I'LL MAKE IT," he said with a grin, but I think he meant it.

"AREN'T WE STARTING A LITTLE EARLY FOR A SATURDAY?." I was screaming now to be heard.

"NO SIR. BOSS SAYS I GOT TO HAVE THIS BASEMENT DUG BY TUESDAY," came the reply. He revved the mammoth diesel engine and started down the yard. Windows rattled for blocks. "Dear God, let him be good with that thing," I prayed.

There is something about watching the movements of a man being transferred through levers, hydraulics and steel to move large amounts of earth that is irresistible to both young and old alike. And the ones that beheld Rodney that day were in the presence of a master. He pushed and wheeled and spun and dug with the concentration of a diamond cutter and the precision of a surgeon -- at one point picking a leftover flower from my wife's garden with one of the steel teeth on the front of the bucket. He "handed" it to me and then rotated the 18-ton machine back around to reinsert the teeth in the exact spot he had been. The 12 neighborhood kids sitting on the fence were in awe. So was I. The musty smell of topsoil, roots and clay permeated the neighborhood. Its was the exciting and intoxicating fragrance of something new beginning to take form. We were on our way.

By Tuesday afternoon, the excavation was completed as promised. The hole loomed deep and large, cordoned off with bright orange safety fencing. We had the look of progress and with the site cleared I could better envision our plans. But alas, it was to be short lived. In reality I believe it was both the first and last deadline that was actually met. From here on out we hit a continuing stream of problems. The promise of,"the day after tomorrow" became an illusive mystery -- just out of reach as we chased after it like some phantom horizon. Subcontractors would fail to show. Plans would be incorrectly read. The wrong material would be ordered. Miscommunications and mistakes would often be the order of the day. It stretched one's capacity to forgive.

There were days when the onslaught of strangers tracking mud and dust through the small part of usable house we had left would combine with one of those "how could you possibly miss it" mistakes, so that the hot magma of tension within us would rise steadily towards the steaming volcano of our mouths until we knew we were ready to erupt. Often I would have to walk out into what was left of the yard and take three deep breaths before returning to address the offender. If there was ever fertile ground for the planting and cultivation of forgiveness, patience and compromise this was it.

It was a marriage to be sure.

Which is exactly why I think good contractors are so brave and noble. Because as humans we are not particularly good at offering each other forgiveness, especially when it comes to matters "so close to home," yet these guys are willing to enter the relationship knowing full well that a good bit of it will be required. There's reward in it for them to be sure, but I know of no other occupation where the customers expectations are likely to be so fragile and often so unrealistically high.

Unless, of course, you consider the institution of marriage itself. If only more of us who have taken our vows had such a perspective -- a little less expectation of one another and a little more forgiveness. A whole lot more homes would sure be built -- and maybe a few more houses to boot.

Thanks to everyone who has helped us build our's.