Two Years of Renovation, Two Years of Wonder

Two years ago, today, in a room once the tragic victim of a wallpapering gone horribly wrong, I sat down on the floor—a bucket, wrench, and towel by my side. In front of me a radiator, on my lap, the glorious Youtube Machine. Four minutes and twenty-three seconds later, the renovation of LaBu began. And, wow! What an adventure.

I knew nothing more practically than how to change a sink and toilet, wire an electrical socket, lay some tile, and build a breezeblock wall. Theoretically, I sort of understood plumbing, electricity, the basic physics of keeping a ceiling from collapsing on one’s head (although, still, to-this-day, I’m a little fuzzy on how these grand old structures, with nary a nail in sight, manage to withstand me moving furniture on the second floor, much less 50 mph winds, whipping rain, and overly-testosteroned French fighter pilots in love with the fact that Norman cows can’t call their CO and complain about low flybys). Also, in theory I understood what needed to happen and in what order.

Yeah, well.

In the last two years, I’ve deconstructed and reconstructed walls, taken down and put up buildings, run plumbing, run electrics, cut metal, tile, wood, and concrete, stripped carpet, plastered, painted, tiled, garnered an extraordinary French building vocabulary, learned an absolutely cornucopia of fantastic French curse words, met some characters, ducked-and-weaved through the most absurdly convoluted bureaucracies of disease management and building-permitting, lifted somewhere north of 8000 tons of stone, brick, sheetrock, insulation, copper, owl regurgitant, dirt, furniture old and new, cast-iron ovens, wood of the light and carefree pine variety and the heavy-as-fuck oak variety, snake remains, and snakes very much not in a dead state.

When madame visited, we did twice as much, twice as fast. When she left, I spent a couple of days trying to remember what it felt like when I wasn’t limping around wondering how I got so old, and feeble, and still so happy to be doing it all. Next up is the garden, and more—probably much more—on that later.

I laughed a lot. Often at myself. There was frustration of course, but nobody died. Every room did demand at least one blood sacrifice, but aside from a few near electrocutions, one could-have-been-but-wasn’t horrible accident with a table saw, a lot of measure twice, cut three times, and not a few prayers for a world-ending lighting storm, all went better than I could have imagined.

Without my neighbor Charles, or Kate, or Steve, or Fernand, or Dave, or Keith Bollocks, or Barry the Fizz, or Bill the Buzz, or the Simons, as well as a rotating cast of electricians, plumbers, and roofers (many of which, in the Age of Covid and the general paucity of available professional help, Charles as far as I can tell, found wandering on the streets and sweet-talked to wander still further down a lane in the middle of nowhere and do some work), I wouldn’t still be sitting there staring at the radiator, but the house wouldn’t be done. And it is, largely.

There remains the new wood-burning oven, and some fiddly finishes. And, yes, the garden.

Two years of my life, which frankly speaking, I don’t want back, but couldn’t imagine not having.

Here are some pictures of two years ago, and today. Thanks for reading.