Saving Etta - wallpaper & beadboard

Saving Etta - One Woman's Journey to Save a House Built in 1900 | Pretty Handy Girl
Saving Etta: Chapter 12 – Discoveries

This is the true story about a house built in 1900 that is in serious disrepair. It’s also the story about my journey toward becoming a general contractor and my attempt to save a home from being bulldozed. I hope you’ll follow along as I embark on a journey into the unknown perils and rewards of flipping a home in downtown Raleigh, NC.

If you are just joining the story, you may want to read all the Saving Etta chapters for more of the back story.

Be sure to follow me on Facebook and Instagram as I share live updates about this project I’m calling Saving Etta.

As I walked around the house assessing anything else that needed removal before the mold remediation, I had that nagging feeling again. Although I had tested the flooring for asbestos, I felt like I was missing something. I looked up a phone number and pushed “call” on my phone. The span of five years disappeared as a familiar voice said, “Hello.”

Never in a million years did I think I’d hear from Jeff again, but here I was in the present day hearing him on my phone.

“Hi Jeff. This is Brittany Bailey. You had worked on my house five years ago to get rid of asbestos vinyl flooring in our kitchen.” I quickly explained.

Surprisingly he remembered who I was (probably because he doesn’t meet too many women who decide to renovate their kitchens all by themselves).

We talked for about 15 minutes and he kindly talked me through all the possible locations I should test for asbestos. I had checked them all until he mentioned the joint compound. He told me he was in the area and could stop by to show me where to take the samples from.

Jeff stepped out of the truck and said, “Nice to see you again. It has been a few years, right?”

“Yes, It’s been about five years.” I replied.

I was immediately pulled back to that day. Just when I didn’t think things could get any worse on our minor kitchen leak, the restoration team manager called me to tell me he had bad news. They had begun to remove the flooring to get rid of the mold and found a layer of linoleum flooring underneath that had tested positive for asbestos.

“What? You have to be kidding me! Asbestos is only in old homes. Our house was built in 1978.” I exclaimed.

Sadly our home was built at the tail end of the asbestos window. Even though the products were no longer allowed to be manufactured, stores were permitted to sell any asbestos products still on the shelves. Unbelievable! You’d think they’d outlaw everything. I read there were reports of asbestos related deaths as far back as 1940 and yet no one pushed to remove asbestos from building materials until the late 70’s.

Within a day Jeff pulled up to our suburban Raleigh house and began to seal off our kitchen. It looked like a remake from the movie E.T. The doors were sealed with plastic and big “WARNING: Asbestos Beyond this Point” signs were taped to the doorways.”

The crew set up a metal stall in the driveway. Jeff explained it was a shower and the workers wore disposable suits and underwear. When they finished with the removal process, they went directly into the shower and stripped down to clean any trace fibers off their skin. Then they could get dressed in their street clothes.

The workers hauled out big square sections of our flooring with the edges taped off to prevent any asbestos fibers from flaking off the edges. Then all the disposable clothing and tarps were double bagged and hauled away in a big truck.

I found the entire process fascinating and terrifying at the same time.

After our own asbestos abatement, I didn’t think I’d see Jeff again. I actually hoped I wouldn’t under a business need. But here I was shaking his hand five years later, and talking about taking asbestos samples from Etta’s interior.

I warned Jeff about the black mold and he grabbed a respirator from his truck. We walked around the house and he showed me how to take samples all the way down to the studs in each room. He showed me how to keep the area wet with a spray bottle and how to clean up after taking a sample. I felt less nervous as Jeff explained that as long as you take precautions, the risk of exposure is minimal.

Jeff turned toward the kitchen and pointed out a strip of vinyl flooring peeking out from under the subfloor. How could I be so stupid not to test for multiple layers? I lamented all the additional samples I needed to take and felt like turning the task over to someone else.

Jeff reassured me by saying, “You got this.” Then he and I discussed any other areas I should sample. (Most of which I had already tested.)

After Jeff left, I reflected that every time I felt discouraged and wanted to give up on this massive project, there was someone urging me to keep going. Many of the people who have spurred me on are online friends and readers. When my spirits are low and I feel like giving in, I get an email or a comment from one of my readers telling me if anyone can save Etta, I can. I am eternally grateful to everyone who has been “in my corner”. It seems I have amassed a huge squad of cheerleaders along the way.

I deposited the double bagged ziplock of samples into the truck and washed my hands using the outside hose. My eyes scanned up and down the street, staying aware of my surroundings when I am alone. The weather was hot and humid, but there was a nice breeze blowing. I left the truck door open as I sat in the driver seat and ate my snack. Suddenly my eyes focused on movement in the bushes next to the driveway. A disheveled looking man popped out of the bushes in the vacant lot next door. He saw me looking at him and walked toward me, hand outstretched. I hesitantly shook his hand as he started talking to me. He said his name was William, but the rest of what he said was unintelligible. His words were slurred and his eyes were yellowed. I finally deduced that he was either drunk, on drugs, or mentally off. Wishing him a good day, I quickly walked back into the house. I was slightly shaken, but relieved that he hadn’t made any movements toward me beside the handshake. My self defense instructor’s voice spoke up in my head. “Don’t let anyone in your personal space. Be firm and don’t be afraid to come across as rude. Women are too worried about being polite, and that’s a real problem.” I had definitely failed that lesson. I vowed to keep my distance from William and not let any strangers get close enough to shake hands in the future. 

Back inside I cleaned up any dust from the plaster before heading to the lab. As I walked through the kitchen something caught my eye. I stared at a hole in the drywall where I had removed a cabinet the day before. What was that? I saw a horizontal aqua colored stripe inside the hole. I tugged the wallboard around it and uncovered bead board with a chair rail on top. “Oh, so pretty.” I said aloud, my words muffled by the respirator. I knew I had yet to get the asbestos results back from the drywall, but I couldn’t stop myself. I kept tearing into the wall. A layer of shiny laminate wall board sat on top of the chair rail. Behind that was more drywall. The layers fell to my feet as I pulled back the years like opening a trick present that has been wrapped numerous times.

A layer of lattice and flowers revealed itself. I carefully removed the wallpaper adhered to cardboard and set it aside. The beautiful pattern might look nice in a shadowbox frame, I thought to myself. There were many found objects I was collecting in the hopes of displaying them in the house when it was finished.

Saving Etta - wallpaper & beadboard

Behind the cardboard was wood lathe. I pulled a few pieces out and the carcass of a petrified mouse fell out of the wall. I scooped out the remains of her nest between the two studs. Suddenly, I stopped digging in the wall. What I saw behind the nest made me jump with excitement.

Continued in Chapter 13

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kitchen with cabinets

Saving Etta - One Woman's Journey to Save a House Built in 1900 | Pretty Handy GirlSaving Etta: Chapter 11 – The Final Haul

This is the true story about a house built in 1900 that is in serious disrepair. It’s also the story about my journey toward becoming a general contractor and my attempt to save a home from being bulldozed. I hope you’ll follow along as I embark on a journey into the unknown perils and rewards of flipping a home in downtown Raleigh, NC.

If you are just joining the story, you may want to read all the Saving Etta chapters for more of the back story.

Be sure to follow me on Facebook and Instagram as I share live updates about this project I’m calling Saving Etta.

The next morning, my body felt stiff and my head was thick with exhaustion. The previous day’s physical toll on my body had not been wiped clean by a night’s sleep. By 11am, I was dressed and fed, but my brain was only beginning to function again. I made my lunch and slowly pulled myself up into the truck to head downtown. Raymond, the junk hauler, had promised to meet me at 11:30. But, I had doubts that he’d show up again after the grueling work he had completed the day before.

As I pulled my truck into the driveway downtown, I saw Raymond pulling into the space behind me. I don’t think I’ve ever been as excited to see a junk hauler. We shook hands and exchanged brief pleasantries before he pulled on his gloves and immediately got to work wheeling the refrigerator out of the house.

I asked if he wanted help, but he said, “Nah, I got it.”

I heard him call me outside to watch as he tilted the hand truck toward the back of his van. He rested the handle on the bumper, then moved to the base of the refrigerator. With one swift motion, he shoved the fridge up and into the van. It was obviously a maneuver he’d practiced before.

I clapped and yelled, “You da’ man!”

For the next hour, Raymond and I worked together to clear out the laundry room. We pulled the washer and dryer free from layers of dust and dried detergent powder. Then we followed the trail of detergent to the cabinet over the washer. It was filled with boxes of old detergent that had leaked out of their cardboard containers. The powdery detergent left a crunchy layer covering most of the contents in the cabinet. We swept everything off the shelves and into an open garbage bag. Then I tied it up and hauled it out to Raymond’s van.

With most of the appliances gone, I looked around the kitchen and decided the stove had to go too. It was working, but had definitely seen better days. I didn’t want to spend any time cleaning it and knew that home buyers would want a matching set of stainless steel appliances instead of mismatched appliances. I got to work trying to free the stove from its spot between the grease covered cabinets. After much tugging and pulling, I finally began to feel small micro movements. Once I had the stove pulled far enough forward, I found a wrench and began to disconnect the stove from the gas line. As I banged on the pipe, I hoped the gas company truly had turned off the gas. Finally the nut began to turn and soon I had disconnected the stove.  With one big jerk, I yanked it out completely. Behind the stove in a corner were two dead mice, a huge pile of grease topped with rodent poo, and a large rodent carcass (to me it looked big enough to be a squirrel, but others swear it is a rat). You’re welcome to be the judge, here’s the picture.

Dead Rat at foot

Raymond and I loaded the stove onto his hand truck and hauled it into the back yard. His van was full and he was getting ready to take the load to the dump when he told me he couldn’t come back tomorrow.

“Oh no! Why not?” I asked.

He explained that he had to have surgery on his knee. The shard of mirror that had broken out of a bag the day before had punctured into his knee. Unfortunately a piece had broken off into his leg. I felt horrible and couldn’t believe he came back after such an injury.

“I’m a man of my word.” He said. “I told you I’d be here today and so I came back.”

I thanked him for coming back to help me and assured him that I’d refer him to everyone I knew. If you need junk hauling in the Raleigh/Durham area, give Raymond a call at Junk 2 Dump in Fuquay-Varina, NC.

The next morning, I drove back to the house and started my first day of solo-demo. A big dumpster had been delivered that morning and I was looking forward to loading it up with the kitchen cabinets and some of the remaining furniture that had been left behind (most of it was particle board and not worth saving.) Walking to the back of the dumpster I groaned as I saw that the dumpster had been parked up against a small tree preventing me from opening the door.  That’s what I get for allowing the dumpster to be delivered without my supervision. Within minutes I had called the dumpster company and left a message asking for the dumpster to be moved.

kitchen with cabinets

Heading back inside, I looked at the kitchen cabinets and devised a plan of attack. I’d start with the lower cabinets and move onto the uppers after the lowers were removed. From the bed of my pick up truck I pulled out a hammer, a drill, a small pry bar, a large crow bar, and a sledge hammer. I strode up to the first span of cabinets with my hands on my hips as if I was challenging the cabinets to a duel. Bending my knees, I squatted near the first cabinet and got a good grip under the hunter green formica countertops. I steadied myself for a struggle and thrust my hips and hands upward with as much force as I could muster. The countertop flew into the air and hit the upper cabinets. I almost fell over laughing. No one had attached the countertop to the cabinet! They were simply resting on top. Luckily, this would be an easy demolition job. The rest of the counters came out just as easily with the exception of the counter that had the kitchen sink in it. After disconnecting the plumbing, it took a few minutes to cut through the caulk around the sink rim and another 15 minutes to loosen the clips from the sink with my drill. Finally the stainless steel sink gave up its hold on the counter. I walked out back and threw the sink toward the dumpster. Gleefully, I watched it sail through the air and over the rim of the dumpster.

Strutting back into the kitchen, I felt a huge sense of strength and accomplishment. Next I located the screws holding the cabinets to the walls. I easily removed them with my drill. Then the screws that connected the cabinets to each other were removed. One by one, I dragged the carcass of each cabinet out the back door and left them in the yard next to the greasy stove. I’d have to break them down to save space in the dumpster. (Plus, I wasn’t sure I could heft them over the dumpster rim until they were broken into more manageable sized chunks.)

To take down the upper cabinets, I wished I had an extra pair of hands to hold the cabinet while removing the screws. I rummaged through my truck bed until I found two things that might help me with the upper cabinets: a work stand and a 2×4. With the 2×4 inserted into the clamp of the work stand, I was able to wedge the board under the center of one of the upper cabinets. Crossing my fingers, I carefully removed the hanging screws. My makeshift support worked beautifully and I was able to remove the cabinet without it falling on me. I used my invention on the remaining uppers, making quick work of the cabinet removal.

removing upper cabinets

With the kitchen clear, I pondered how to clean up the grease and grime that covered the floors. Finally, in desperation I poured bleach, soap and water all over the floor, then used a squeegee to push the concoction through the kitchen, the laundry room and finally out the back door. The mixture turned dark brown instantly and I tried not to think about all the yuck I was pushing along. After the last of the cleaning mixture was pushed out the door, I repeated the process. This time I was relieved that the mixture didn’t turn dark brown.

As I walked around the house assessing anything else that needed removal before the mold remediation, I had that nagging feeling again. Although I had tested the flooring for asbestos, I felt like I was missing something. I looked up a phone number and pushed “call” on my phone. The span of five years disappeared as a familiar voice said, “Hello.”

. . . Continued in Chapter 12

If you are just joining the story, you may want to read all the Saving Etta chapters.

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Saving Etta - One Woman's Journey to Save a House Built in 1900 | Pretty Handy Girl
Saving Etta: Chapter 10: The Freezer

This is the true story about a house built in 1900 that is in serious disrepair. It’s also the story about my journey toward becoming a general contractor and my attempt to save a home from being bulldozed. I hope you’ll follow along as I embark on a journey into the unknown perils and rewards of flipping a home in downtown Raleigh, NC.

If you are just joining the story, you may want to read all the Saving Etta chapters for more of the back story.

Be sure to follow me on Facebook and Instagram as I share live updates about this project I’m calling Saving Etta.

It had rained all night and I was up most of the night dreading what I’d find when I walked back into Etta’s interior rooms. Would it be a few drips or huge puddles of water on the floor? In the morning the rain had not quit and as I drove downtown it continued to intensify.

I pulled into the driveway of my investment house and was greeted by a bright orange and yellow port-a-potty that Mike had ordered for me. I laughed to myself thinking, “Awesome, my first bathroom is installed!”

I never thought I’d be so excited to see a port-a-potty, but honestly I couldn’t stomach using the bathroom inside the house. The floor around the toilet was sopping wet, black mold lined the walls, and the ceiling was about to cave in. The port-a-potty was definitely a step up.

Even though the port-a-potty was newly serviced and delivered, there was a thin layer of dust on all the surfaces. It would be fine for all the male tradesmen, but not for me. A quick wipe with some Clorox wipes freshened it up to my standards.

“Ahhh, much better.” I thought. Laughing again that I was so happy to have a port-a-potty.

As I opened the front door, the familiar mold smell hit my nostrils. As expected, I found some puddles in the back utility room, but the front room and hallway appeared to be dry. My cell phone rang from my pocket and as I answered it a voice said, “Mrs. Bailey, this is Raymond. I’m running a little late, but I’ll be there soon”

“Thanks, but who is this?” I questioned the caller.

“It’s Raymond with Junk to Dump.” he replied.

I was momentarily confused, but then remembered I had scheduled a junk hauling company to come out the day after closing.

“Oh good, I have a lot of things for you to take away.” I said.

He was quiet for a second, then asked me exactly what he was picking up.

“Mostly junk, some appliances, carpeting, old car batteries, and leftover stuff in the crawlspace.” I said matter-of-factly (worrying that he might back out of the job.)

Undeterred, he said he’d be there soon. After a good thirty minutes Raymond called back and said, “Are you there?”

“Where?” I asked.

“I’m at your house.” He said and then read off my home address.

I smacked my head, “No, that’s my home. I need you at the jobsite downtown.”

Raymond and his helper arrived 30 minutes later. Raymond was a handsome African American with a thousand watt smile. His teeth were perfect. Having worn braces for 5 years of my teenage life, I tend to notice extraordinarily perfect teeth. He seemed super friendly and ready to get started.

Walking around the house with Raymond, I pointed to piles and the ripped up carpeting that needed to be hauled off. When we got to the back of the house, I pointed at the chest freezer. “And that needs to go too.”

“Is there food in it?” he questioned.

“I’m not sure, there was last time I opened it. But I won’t open it now or it will stink up the whole house.” I explained.

“Uh uh.” Raymond shook his head. “No way, I don’t take food. And I certainly won’t take that moldy freezer.”

I couldn’t believe it. The junk hauler had found something he wouldn’t haul! Not that I could blame him, the freezer was pocked with black moldy dots.  But, I was desperate to get the freezer chest out of the house. So, I made him a deal.

“If I empty it and clean it, do you promise to haul it away?” I asked, extending my hand for him to shake.

“Okay.” he agreed.

I was sure he only agreed because he felt certain I wouldn’t touch the freezer with a ten foot pole.

We headed back toward the front of the house where I remembered to ask Raymond if he had insurance.

He replied, “Oh yes, a 5 million dollar policy.”

Okay then. Glad that’s the case. I thought to myself.

Raymond and his assistant made quick work of one of the rooms removing the piles I had pointed to.

“Shoot!” Raymond yelled and pulled up his pant leg to reveal a small hole that was oozing blood. I looked down at his feet and saw a jagged section of broken mirror that was protruding out of the bag he was holding.

“I have a first aid kit in the car.” I offered. At the truck I pulled out the first aid kit I had the foresight to purchase at the drugstore the day before. (As a previous Girl Scout, I strive to always be prepared.) A split second later, I realized my first mistake. I had not asked for a copy of Raymond’s insurance policy. I hoped to God that he really did have insurance and wouldn’t sue me. Mentally I made a note to get the insurance policy copy or call the insurance company next time!

Raymond cleaned his cut with soap and water. But, we discovered no neosporin or alcohol wipes in the kit. I handed him the hand sanitizer and told him to rub some on the cut. “It will sting.” I warned

Amazingly Raymond barely winced. Most men I knew would make a stink about it, but not Raymond. This guy was tough.

After helping Raymond, I suited up to tackle the freezer chest. I pulled on a rain coat, full coverage safety goggles, disposable dish gloves, and a respirator to cover my nose and mouth. I walked to the back with a purpose, ready to do battle with one moldy freezer chest and whatever lay inside. I looked very much like a surgeon heading into the OR. This was one job I was determined to complete come hell or high water.

I opened the freezer and knew what I’d see. It was filled with TV dinners. I began throwing them into the contractor grade trash bags being careful as the damp cardboard boxes threatened to fall apart.

Through the top layer of TV dinners was a layer of deli packaged ground beef and pork chops. Several of the thin cellophane wrappers were punctured and I barely recognized the cuts of meat displayed on the styrofoam trays. At purchase they were probably red, but now they were gray and green. The bile started to rise in my throat, but I swallowed it back down.

I took a deep breath inside the respirator, making a sound like Darth Vader, and dove my gloved hand into the chest. I fished out a rotting flank steak, pork chops and a whole chicken. I found a few popsicle boxes with just sticks and wrappers. Obviously the sugary treat had thawed and spilled out of the wrapper long ago.

As I hauled a whole chicken out of the freezer, I almost dropped it. Beneath the chicken was a pool of bloody brown-red liquid. If it wasn’t for the respirator blocking the odor, I surely would have vomited. I took another deep breath and continued dipping my gloved hand into the liquid fishing for more food. Finally all that was left was a brown and red pool of meat juice. I grabbed an empty Cool Whip tub and began scooping out the liquid and dumped it directly into the trash bag. When I could barely lift the bag I tied the top closed and dragged it into the back yard. Then I proceeded to fill another trash bag with just the liquid garbage.

After hauling the second bag outside, I quickly sprayed the exterior of the freezer chest with a bleach cleaner and wiped off the mold spores. Then I tossed the dirty paper towels into the trash and left the room in search of Raymond.

“Okay, I’m done.” I declared, as I found him muscling more trash bags into his work van.

He stared at me, the surprise barely hidden from his face.

“You emptied that whole freezer chest?” He asked surprised.

“Yes, all done.” I replied ripping off the gloves and respirator.

He paused a moment and then said, “I’ve only met one other woman as tough as you in my life.” He explained, “And the other woman is my momma.”

We both laughed and I was honored to be in the same company as his mother.

Raymond and I walked back into the house toward the freezer chest. I pulled on a dust mask, happy not to have to wear the respirator any longer. We pulled the freezer across the wet linoleum and hefted it over the threshold into the back yard. I felt a huge surge of accomplishment as we threw the empty chest into the yard with the other junk for Raymond to take. We stopped long enough so that Raymond could snap a picture of me posing victoriously on top of the freezer chest.

A few hours passed as we worked together to bring more leftover furniture and bags into the yard. By the end of the day I drove home feeling physically and mentally exhausted. At home, I walked in the door and Mike could sense I had no energy left to make dinner.

“Want me to cook dinner tonight?” he asked.

“Sure, that would be great.” I replied.

He reached into the fridge and pulled out a package of hamburger meat and set it on the counter. I nearly threw up thinking about all the meat I had cleaned out of the freezer chest.

“On second thought, I might just make myself a salad.” I replied.

. . . continued in Chapter 11.

If you are just joining the story, you may want to read all the Saving Etta chapters.

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Saving Etta - One Woman's Journey to Save a House Built in 1900 | Pretty Handy Girl

Saving Etta - One Woman's Journey to Save a House Built in 1900 | Pretty Handy GirlSaving Etta: Chapter 9: Life Changing Moments

This is the true story about a house built in 1900 that is in serious disrepair. It’s also the story about my journey toward becoming a general contractor and my attempt to save a home from being bulldozed. I hope you’ll follow along as I embark on a journey into the unknown perils and rewards of flipping a home in downtown Raleigh, NC.

If you are just joining the story, you may want to read all the Saving Etta chapters.

Be sure to follow me on Facebook and Instagram as I share live updates about this project I’m calling Saving Etta.

While I waited in line at the DMV to pick up new tags for the truck, I scrolled through my email. The EMSL Laboratory email stood out from the rest. I clicked on the email and downloaded the attached lab results as I thought to myself, “Please be negative, please be negative.”

I quickly opened the attachment and let out a huge sigh of relief. All the samples I sent came back negative for asbestos.  This was a huge relief because tomorrow was closing day.

Monday morning arrived too soon. I didn’t sleep well because I had a hard time settling my mind. When sleep finally came to me, Mike’s alarm roused me from a light sleep. I laid in bed as long as possible just to give my body more rest. But, ultimately I knew I was going to have to power through the day.

The morning was the usual bustle of getting the dog and kids fed, then shoved out the door to school. The humidity in the air felt like a heavy wet blanket and soon the sky started to drizzle. I thought to myself, might as well enjoy the humidity and rain before the cold dry winter weather sets in.

I grabbed Bandit and headed to the bank in my truck. I figured it was a good opportunity to get him used to the new ride. Bandit, seemed excited to have free rein in the back seat of the truck, obviously an improvement from the confines of his crate in my minivan.

Walking into the bank, I found myself behind another customer. Anxiously, I waited and checked the parking lot to make sure that Bandit was behaving himself. The bank attendant called me into her office and I carefully slid the paper with the routing information and bank account number for the wire transfer. I briefly wondered what she was thinking. Perhaps she thought I was sheltering my money in a Swiss bank account. I snapped out of my imagination as she asked, “Foreign or Domestic.”

I quickly answered “domestic”, concerned she might think I was involved in some illegitimate money laundering. Then I checked my thoughts, remembering that Lori had told me all large home purchases are now handled via wire.

After the banker assured me that the transfer had been made, I headed out to the truck. Bandit sat patiently in the back seat. “Good boy, Bandit!” I praised him.

After droppinog Bandit off at home, I headed downtown to the attorney’s office for the closing. The weight of what I was about to do suddenly hit me hard. I had a rock in my stomach and a panicky feeling. What if I was throwing away all this money on a silly dream?

Before I had time to ruminate anymore, Lori stepped into the waiting area and asked if I was ready.

“As ready as I can be, I guess.” I replied to her.

We stepped into the small room filled with a big conference table. A gentleman about my age and a woman about 20 years his senior sat on one side of the table. Soon I learned that the woman was the daughter of the last owner of the house. Her father had lived in the house well into his 90’s. She told me that the house had been in her family since 1909. I was suddenly hit with the realization that this was a very bittersweet moment for her. The man at her side introduced himself as Anthony, the woman’s son. After all the paperwork was signed, Anthony graciously gave me his cell phone number in case I had any questions. I agreed to call him if needed, not realizing how soon we could be corresponding .

As I walked out of the law office, house key in hand, my legs nearly gave out beneath me. I was suddenly $180K poorer and had a humungous responsibility on my hands. I was one woman tasked with saving a house that has stood in the same location for over a century. I felt weak with the realization and overwhelmed by the work ahead of me.

I drove down to the house and turned the key in the front door, unsure what I would find when I opened it. Would there be lots of furniture? Would the refrigerator and freezer need to be cleaned out? I opened the door slowly and stepped into the front hallway.

The majority of the furniture had been moved out and there were outlined prints on the carpet where the furniture had been. I went through each room taking inventory of what needed to be cleaned out. Then I booked a junk hauler to help clean out the rest of the items in the house.

As I walked toward the back of the house the smell hit me again. It was a smell that will always take me back to that morning when my life was turned upside down. Little did I know it, but that smell would catapult me into an entirely different career.

It started that morning in October, 2012 as I was confronted with a foul odor. It’s only describable as that odor that usually lives in the high school gym locker room. I thought my 9 year old son’s feet were starting to stink. Unfortunately a stinky pair of shoes wasn’t the culprit, it turned out to be a very minor leak in the wall between the laundry room and the kitchen that turned into a huge renovation project.

We persevered through 45 days without a washer and dryer and many months without a kitchen. But, I equated it with being a contestant on Survivor. If we could last the year of construction (plus the set backs and sore muscles) we would be rewarded with a brand new kitchen in the end!

That little leak had turned into a full blown mold infestation when the water seeped between two layers of flooring and sat undisturbed for weeks. This was not a DIY task, we hired professional mold remediators. The remediation went on for weeks after we failed the first air test for mold. Later we found out that additional mold spores were sucked in from the crawlspace when the asbestos abatement team put the room under negative pressure. (Yes, they found asbestos while trying to remove the various layers of flooring.) As if that wasn’t enough to deal with, as I began to build the kitchen back, the electrician and I discovered a large amount of termite damage.

I called our termite treatment company and asked them to come take a look so we could recoup some of the repair costs. As I sat on the floor with my head in my hands, I wondered how many more obstacles would pop up in my path to a new kitchen. The termite damage was so extensive that I decided to call a structural engineer and the city building inspector.

I sat there and listened as “Mr. Termite” claimed the damage was previous to their insuring our house and therefore they didn’t have to pay for the damages. The city building inspector and Mr. Termite tried to make suggestions to “fix” the damage, not one of them talking directly to me. One involved pumping the rim joist full of concrete (potentially costing thousands of dollars.) Another suggestion was ripping up the flooring and floor joists to hopefully replace the damaged two joists. But, it was doubtful we could get access to the damaged area that was sandwiched between a concrete slab and another joist. Expensive and costly solutions were thrown out until the structural engineer came up with a brilliant solution.

“All you need to do is furr-out the wall to distribute the weight over the good joists. It shouldn’t cost you more than $200 in materials.” he explained.

Mr. Termite perked up, pulling out his checkbook to write off his responsibility. Then he said, “There’s your solution little lady! Now you just need to worry about how you are going to get your kitchen back. I mean, where is the general contractor and why isn’t he working on your kitchen right now?” he asked me.

I looked him square in the eye and replied, “You’re looking at the general contractor.”

His eyes turned to every male in the room until he realized I was talking about myself. I’d give money to see that face again! His jaw dropped and his eyes got wider than the termite holes in our studs.

After everyone left, the building inspector stayed behind. His warm smile thawed my icy glare after Mr. Termite left. The inspector asked if I was clear on how to proceed with the structural repairs. I told him I was and then he said something that shocked me.

“Say, have you ever considered getting your general contractor license?” he asked. “We need more women in the profession.”

I looked at him with my mouth agape now and replied, “No way! I just want to get my kitchen back and to go back to being a wife and a mom.”

Little did I know that a seed had been planted that day and it took two more years to germinate. Three years later I’d sit in front of that computer screen taking the license exam.

That kitchen project not only pushed me to become a general contractor, but it also prepared me in a big way for saving Etta. I knew that there would be bumps and setbacks, but I also learned that there’s always a solution (sometimes it’s not the one you want) and you will get through it. Until that day when you’ll look back from the finished side of that huge renovation mountain.

Today the smell of mold no longer scares me because I know how it is contained and remediated. I also know that it can be fixed with the right amount of money.

Before I left the house, I changed out the door knobs and deadbolts and put the few items into a box and loaded them into the truck.

When I got home, I cleaned off the items in the box: two vintage hats, an old change maker,  an American flag, a few photos and a journal. I texted Anthony, thinking he might want the photos and the journal since they were more personal to his family. He replied quickly that he’d like to meet me at the house that weekend.

I replied, “Absolutely.”

As I sent the text off, I was suddenly nervous about meeting Anthony at the house. I’m sure he wanted to know what I intended to do with his family’s home. At this point, I had no way of knowing that this house had more plans for me than I did for her.

Continued in Chapter 10. . .

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Saving Etta - One Woman's Journey to Save a House Built in 1900 | Pretty Handy GirlSaving Etta: Chapter 8: Old Trucks and Old Houses

This is the true story about a house built in 1900 that is in serious disrepair. It’s also the story about my journey toward becoming a general contractor and my attempt to save a home from being bulldozed. I hope you’ll follow along as I embark on a journey into the unknown perils and rewards of flipping a home in downtown Raleigh, NC.

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Be sure to follow me on Facebook and Instagram as I share live updates about this project I’m calling Saving Etta.

I quickly called Lori and told her the news about the $12,000 price tag for mold remediation. We discussed it and agreed to approach the sellers about splitting the cost of the mold remediation. Lori drew up a new offer of $177,600. (See what I did there? 1776 is a historic date. I thought it might ring positively with the sellers of a historic house.)

Within an hour they countered with $180,000. I guess the historic figure was lost on them.

But Lori urged me to “Counter back! I think your original offer to split was very fair. Let’s counter with $178,800.”

I thought that seemed fair and told her to go for it.

Then I anxiously awaited Lori’s phone call, nervous that I might have pushed the sellers into rejecting my offer altogether.

Within 30 minutes she replied, “You got it!”

I was incredibly relieved, but also apprehensive. My budget was never far from my thoughts because I wasn’t 100% confident in my estimating abilities. Plus, I was still waiting to hear back with the asbestos test results. In the meantime I knew I had to purchase some work boots, work pants and a pick up truck.

Mike had joked about buying me a pick up truck for years, but now I really needed one. Hauling lumber in the Honda Odyssey wasn’t going to cut it. Of course, I didn’t want a new pick up truck, the vintage lover in me wanted something old with rust and some serious gas guzzling power.

The afternoon was spent searching Craig’s List for a truck and before long I had a list of several vintage pickup trucks from the 1970’s. A listing for a beautifully restored 1960’s Chevy caught my eye, but I didn’t have the heart to dirty or scratch up something that has been painstakingly restored.

The first seller I spoke to had a thick southern accent. He was selling a 1972 blue and white two-tone Ford truck and agreed to meet with us on Friday.

Friday afternoon arrived and Mike, the boys, and I drove out to Liberty, NC to look at the old truck. It sat by the road and an older gentleman with weathered skin and overalls stood beside it. Mike and I stepped out of the car and walked over to him. He shook Mike’s hand and began talking to him about the truck. His thick accent made the words drawl out long from his lips. I decided to hold back and just listen, but as soon as he asked Mike if he wanted to test drive the truck, Mike gestured to me.

“She’s the one in the market for a truck.” Mike said.

The gentleman raised his eyebrow but quickly returned his facial features to normal as he handed me the keys.

I was 18 years old again and my father was shaking the used car salesman’s hand. The salesman spoke exclusively to my father as I circled the little red sports car. My fingers carefully traced the seams between each body panel looking for any shifting or signs of an accident. My Dad and I had been looking at half a dozen used Hondas and he had showed me how to look for an oil leak, test the shocks, look for body damage, and potential odometer tampering.

After a test drive, my Dad and I went into the dealer’s office to make an offer. The salesman looked at my Dad and said, “So, what do you think? It’s a sweet little car right? I’m sure your little princess would love it.”

My Dad glared at the man and said, “I’m not the one buying this car, so you need to focus your attention on my daughter here and try to sell her.”

The salesman raised an eyebrow and his eyes widened. I was keenly aware of the money I had saved in the bank and knew that the price had to come down or I couldn’t afford it. The salesman listened as I pointed out all the issues I had spotted. Ultimately I drove a hard bargain and the salesman came down drastically on the price. That was my first experience buying a car. It was also the first time (but not the last) that I’d raise eyebrows.

I lifted myself up into the cab of the old Ford truck. Turning the key, the truck barely made a sound. It was tough to start and I tried repeatedly to get the engine started. The seller urged me to give it more gas and try again. After a few false starts, the old Ford truck roared to life with a big plume of smoke billowing out the tailpipe. I drove it a mile down the road enjoying the feel of the power behind the wheel, but as I pressed the brakes, the pick up truck shook and almost stalled again. Immediately the reality set in: although I liked the romantic idea of driving an old truck, I didn’t like the idea of getting stuck somewhere.

Parking the truck back in its original spot, I hopped down from the cab and handed the seller back his keys. I told him it was a nice truck, but I think I needed something a little more reliable.

He laughed and said, “Yup, this is a project truck. Something you can tinker with and work on.”

I smiled and replied, “Yes, I’ll have a project house soon. I don’t need a project truck too.”

Mike drove our car back toward Raleigh and we talked about the trip being a waste of our time. The conversation turned toward looking at used trucks and less “vintage” used trucks. Suddenly I screamed, “Pull over the car!”

Mike swerved to the side while a car behind us laid on the horn. “What is it?” he gasped.

“I need to take pictures of those old houses!” I explained as I jumped out of the car almost getting hit by a passing vehicle. 

We were driving through Alamance Village and on either side of the road were a dozen little old houses. Three of them had the same architectural features that Etta has. They were Triple-A construction!

I walked up and down the busy street snapping pictures of the houses as cars whizzed by. I paid close attention to the attic vents. The attic ventilation structures were adorable with small decorative cutouts instead of the louvers I had seen on Etta.

Triple A Construction House from pre-1900. Alamance Village, NC

I paid particular attention to the porch rails and posts noting that they were very simple with the exception of one house that looked like the porch posts had been replaced with turned decorative ones.

As I walked back toward the car, I noticed that each house had a small back room with a porch. Ahhh, the cooking porch that I had heard about!

Mike had parked beneath a historical marker that declared the location as the Alamance Mill Village Historic District. Quickly I jotted down the information, so I could look it up later. I couldn’t believe the serendipity that lead us to drive down this rural route right through a village with several Triple-A homes. Suddenly my mood turned from this trip being a waste to it being a great source of information.

Later, while doing research, I found an old map that showed Etta’s original lot lines and perimeter that was the same as the Alamance Mill Village houses.

 

I spent several more hours researching as much as I could about Etta, her history, and her architectural style. By bedtime my brain and hands were tired of being on the computer. I was aching to do something tactile. Tomorrow I’d spend more time in the workshop sanding and staining the wine storage cabinet I had been building for the pantry. I needed to finish my pantry project before tackling an entire house.

On Monday morning I stepped into the front entrance of Northern Tool to hopefully buy some work boots and work pants. Spotting a nearby employee, I asked where the women’s clothes were. He shook his head and took a step back as if I might slug him. “We don’t carry any women’s clothes. I’m sorry, a woman was just in last week demanding we start carrying apparel for women.” he responded sheepishly.

“I agree, but I understand it’s not your decision.” I replied.

Finding the clothing aisle, I grabbed a few pairs of mens pants and headed to the bathroom since there wasn’t a changing room in sight. Oh to be a guy who knows their waist and pant leg size by heart. All women know it’s impossible to pick a specific size off the rack and expect them to fit. But beyond fit, it’s imperative that pants flatter both the butt and hips. Sadly work pants do neither for my body. I found a pair that was durable, fit well, and had a hammer loop. Then I was off to find a decking removal pry bar tool. After searching up and down every aisle, I located an employee and asked if they carried the tool. He looked right through me and didn’t answer my question. I had to ask him again because I wasn’t sure if he had a disability or never saw a woman shopping for a pry bar before.

Finally he answered curtly, “No, this is all we have.”

By that point I felt so out of place, I quickly paid for the pants and a few pairs of gloves for Mike and the boys.

That afternoon I contacted a few more truck sellers and settled on one that had good mileage, a good price, and as a bonus: a bed cover to keep tools and materials dry. When Mike got home from work I asked if he’d look at the truck with me.

“Sure.” he replied, “What’s more romantic on a 21st anniversary, than going used truck shopping.”

I smiled and replied, “Well, we can go out afterwards if you like.” We quickly lined up a sitter and drove out to test drive the truck. After a quick drive around town in the 1999 White Ford Ranger, we agreed it was in good shape and I made an offer. The seller and I agreed on a good price and suddenly I was the owner of a pick up truck.

While I waited in line at the DMV to pick up new tags for the truck, I scrolled through my email. The EMSL Laboratory email stood out from the rest. I clicked on the email and downloaded the attached lab results as I thought to myself, “Please be negative, please be negative.”

. . . Continued in Chapter 9

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