We could have attended the International Symposium of Mensa-Grade Pointy-Heads and felt less ignorant. We’d been encouraged, of course, to get as many estimates as possible. But that meant entertaining an endless pageant of muddy work boots, courting two or three different contractors and subcontractors and sub-subcontractors at a time. They inspected the premises and tsk-tsk’ed its shabby state. They spoke a gruff dialect of technical gibberish as they enumerated the ballooning costs of our wish list and the extra repairs we hadn’t foreseen. Then an equation would dance across their eyes: “Young homeowners, soft hands, too-trusting faces…Hello, Maui!”
After they’d pistol-whipped us with their estimates, we wondered glumly if the only option within our budget was to bulldoze the house and build it back up out of glue and Popsicle sticks. Then we found Joe.
Joe was the classic DIY guy, a jack of all trades, even a master of some. He’d been recommended by a friend who claimed he was eccentric but fair. We gave him a tour of the predicaments that bled down the third column of our list: There were pipes that needed welding, a roof that needed shingling, ducts that needed taping—or whatever it was you did to stop up their rusty holes. The furnace sounded as if it had emphysema, and the living-room ceiling sagged so much we wondered what had gone on in the bedroom above. And that was just to start.
Joe listened silently, and then declared: “You know what your real problem is? These walls. They gotta go.”
He was right. I had to grease my shoulders to get through the foyer. Our main floor made a hobbit hole feel as spacious as a football stadium. While we could perform a billion repairs to its shell, we would never be happy in our new home until we opened it up to air and light. But a serious reno like that had always seemed both far from urgent and far too pricey. Sure, it would increase the resale value in the long run, but what about the house’s more pressing complaints?
“An old furnace like yours will keep running for years,” Joe assured us. (It didn’t.) “You’ve got five layers of shingles,” he said. “That roof won’t leak.” (It did.)
Still, Joe was the first contractor who saw our house not for what it was (i.e., a decrepit money pit) but for what it could be. Oh yeah, and he worked cheap.
•••
And fast.
Several weeks later, Jenny and I beelined home after Joe’s delirious cellphone call, only to find him standing amid the shreddings of our now virtually wall-less ground floor. He’d finished another contract early and couldn’t wait to get started on our house.
Thankfully, he consulted us more closely about how to build it all back up. But each stage of the reno opened a door to unanticipated possibilities—and tough decisions. Since we had torn down the walls, it made sense to replace the old wiring. If we were redoing the living room, wouldn’t a new hardwood floor look good? We okayed all the extra work we could before our line of bank credit started to stretch into a noose.
These discussions also exposed our latent Design Guy and Gal, the inexplicable corner of genetic code that actually makes staring at thousands of colour swatches enjoyable, let alone sane. (“Oh yes, honey. I definitely prefer the Misty Rose to the Lavender Blush!”) Which isn’t to say we agreed on everything. Our kitchen had been redone by the previous owner in a style that can only be described as 1970s School Cafeteria, so Joe sketched a new plan and asked if we wanted a counter-topped “island” with it.
“Technically that would be a peninsula, not an island,” I helpfully suggested, examining his diagram, “though you could add an island and call it an archipelago.” Jenny glared: “That’s enough out of you, Columbus.”
Our expanding ambitions opened a Pandora’s box of new anxieties. Every few days, Joe would unleash another imperative upon us. “You need to choose pot lights—by tomorrow!” he’d command. “What style of cupboards do you want? I gotta know
now!” And so Jenny and I would sprint to Home Depot and stare at halogen fixtures until our retinas fried. We’d elbow past the other squabbling couples at IKEA (Swedish for “irreconcilable differences”) and argue about details of home decor over which we’d never wasted a synapse an hour before.
As fast as Joe worked, the renovation seemed to drag on forever. Often we’d meet him on our front steps like two shifts passing, as we left for work or returned home. Occasionally, he’d appear Saturday mornings to startle us in our pyjamas. Even in the sanctuary of our bedroom, the construction dust proved inescapable. Every day, no matter how often we swept and vacuumed, it felt as though the finest powdering of domestic dandruff had fallen across the entire house. So much debris spilled off our porch and front yard that a rusted Camaro up on blocks would have been a scenic improvement, at least to our neighbours’ eyes. Worse yet, my folks were coming to stay with us for the Christmas holidays, and the house was still gutted. (On the plus side, Joe hadn’t installed the heating vent to the guest room, so they wouldn’t want to stay
too long.)
And then, a few days before their arrival, Joe was suddenly finished everything except the bottle of scotch we’d left as a present. (“I’m just testing if the bottom half tastes as good as the top,” he drawled over his cell, as he completed the last day’s touch-ups.) He had been a constant presence in our lives for the last three months, a source of both stress and delight. It seemed strange, even sad, to have to say goodbye.
In the end, our renovation was built from one part inspiration (mostly Joe’s), one part improvisation (ditto) and two parts consternation and compromise (ours). That, and envelopes fat with cash. The work is finally done. But our house remains a work-in-progress. And we’re fine with that.
Reno’ing, we discovered, really is a battle. But victory, at least, is only ever a contractor away.
