After a design by Jan van Orley
Woven at the workshop of Daniel IV Leyniers:
Procession of the Fat Ox from a Teniers Series (c. 1725)

Denial remains the first stage of acceptance.

"This process should be upsetting."

The true purpose of that First Meeting wasn't satisfied until a second meeting took place. The concrete contractor, the lead player in this production, couldn't make the initial meeting, so we convened a supplemental session for those who couldn't make the first. Pablo, the concrete contractor, and his assistant Wilbur asked harder questions. The conversation began light-heartedly enough but quickly degraded into difficulties, which was precisely its purpose. We tend to start projects filled with promise. We neglect to recognize what must be sacrificed to achieve that promise, and it always comes as a profound surprise when the first hints of underlying costs surface. I began my contribution by suggesting we could support the roof from the top of the deck. I even took Pablo to the basement access panel to survey the underlying infrastructure. He seemed to become thoughtful as I sold my proposal. Once we returned to the front porch, to the top of the deck, Pablo asked the Golden Question.

We had been seeking problems rather than solutions. Solutions can come only after the proper problems have surfaced. A proper problem could halt progress. The best render the aspiration impossible. Nobody in the history of this universe ever wished for such a visitor, but every great accomplishment eventually featured one, however unwanted. Until the moment this torpedo appears, the process seems clear and straightforward. After, it's crooked and unnecessarily complicated. If it appeared simple before, it will never seem that way again. Well served, a right and proper problem should elicit a period of Denialing, for it will violate a principle someone held inviolate. It brings an unthinkable into the conversation. I responded well. I just went numb.

I might not be the one to recount what happened next because I eventually noticed that I was no longer getting the gist of the conversation. I remained in my original configuration, not refusing to acknowledge the new information so much as I could not process it. Pablo said once we'd regained the porch deck, he couldn't see how he'd place and remove his concrete forms with the porch deck intact. The Muse heard and reported later that she was not surprised. Joel, our Carpenter, who arrived as we tried to understand how the porch deck boards were secured, was also unperturbed. He'd expected this news, too. I might have been the only one who couldn't quite understand, maybe because I'd completely refinished that deck twice over the prior twenty-some years. I had invested personal sweat and perhaps over-identified with it.

We eventually accepted the previously unthinkable and agreed that demolition would start the following morning. I would have to clean up the woodpile I'd been storing on the porch and perhaps remove the railings. These were fine chores for a boy who'd just lost his innocence. Denialing easily accepts mindless manual labor; it's the perfect accompaniment for reconstructing a wounded worldview. I'd been saving as kindling the porch ceiling I'd taken down the autumn before. I made the executive decision that the would-have-been kindling would go to the waste pile. This simplified the clean-up and seemed to help me assimilate this impending loss. I felt bereft at the thought of losing this old friend. The boards had been toe-nailed, meaning there'd be no way to save them. Joel had offered condolences in the form of promising new materials capable of rendering the porch even more period-authentic. I couldn't quite swallow the waste and the cost, even though I could see no reasonable alternative.

I worked through the afternoon, Denialing every inch of the way. By late afternoon, I was as tired as I ever remember feeling. I'd removed the kindling pile and the porch rails and found some peace beneath a well-deserved cold shower. The Muse had scheduled a function that evening, which I begged off attending, explaining that I could barely walk. I needed some additional assimilation time before heading out in public again. I was still losing an old friend, however promising the upcoming refurbishment might seem. The truer cost of the change became unsettlingly real. There will be more of these before we're finished.

Looking back now, I marvel that I hadn't noticed this fundamental contradiction in how I'd envisioned this project. I'd foreseen a skyhook effort, one in which unsupported forces accomplished large pieces of it. I had not considered the concrete forms, imagining walls and pillars just appearing in their proper places. It always takes someone more stewed in details to see beyond the obvious. I'm fortunate, I guess, in that I'm experienced enough to have had my heart broken like this before. I recognize both the necessity of this and its beneficence. Still, my heart aches as any heart should when first realizing it dreamed so it could be broken. Remodeling produces waste. It trashes the place it improves. It cannot be through until some past gets cast out of this world and an unfamiliar replacement takes its place. This process should be upsetting. I will probably continue Denialing over something until long after this effort's finished.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Grace, #PureSchmaltz