The building that will house Union was built in 1892. This creates all kinds of problems—and certainly explains the dirt floors in the basement—but I am still in love with the space. It just has a good feeling about it. At least I keep telling myself that it does, because I am in so damn deep now.
How deep? So deep that I am digging the dirt in the basement myself, then hauling it up the stairs, so I can get a concrete floor down there for a prep station and sinks and dry storage and a walk-in fridge.
So deep that I had to actively keep my impatience in check when the contractor bailed, only to take another job up north. (“It’ll take only a couple weeks,” he said. “Don’t worry, we’ll get it done.”) The carpenter who was meant to cover him disappeared, turning up a week and a half later. (Turns out he went sailing—he strolled in, tanned and smiling, just as my cousin, my brother, Bill Mahoney and I were chucking the last load of crap, car seats, wet drywall and more rubble from the basement in the rain.)
So deep that I got a shot of terror when the new (and more expensive) contractors sighed heavily as they walked through the place.
So deep that when I was driving to the farm and saw a help-wanted sign in a nice roadside Tim Hortons, I considered for a brief moment how simple everything would be if I just walked in and applied.
I have a constant, sinking feeling that everything is slipping away—the hemlock floors are ready, but there is nowhere to put them because we are waiting for the plumber and the permits. It’s a puzzle; one piece follows another. It’s a game that gets me up at five every morning. It’s a loud voice that tells me it’s only going to get worse before it gets better.
I posted a note on your last blog posting. Meant to post it here.
January 21, 2009 at 10:42 am | by my84chevydies