Saving Etta Archives - Page 9 of 12

Saving Etta: Chapter 17: Good Neighbors

Saving Etta: Chapter 17 – Good Neighbors

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.

A special thank you to all the brands that are helping to save Etta!

Today was the day I was determined to replace the missing fascia board on the front of the house. I was convinced that the majority of the mold in the front room was coming from this open spot. All it took was one heavy rain storm and some wind to send a torrent of rain water over the edge of the roof and back into the walls of the house.

I set up my ladder against the front of the house and looked up. A series of wires attached to the house right above my head. For a split second, I thought they were power lines, but then I remembered the electrical meter was mounted on the opposite side of the house. Plus, these cables were smaller in diameter than electrical wiring.

Cable line and phone line, I thought to myself.

Climbing the ladder, I ducked under the wires and swung one leg up onto the porch roof. My body and other leg followed suit and soon I was perched on top of the porch.

The morning was warm, but I knew the afternoon would bring another hot and humid day.

I assessed the condition of the remaining fascia. The board had cracked off in a jagged line, which meant I’d need to make a clean cut to piece in the new board or pull off the remaining section. Opting for the second choice, I stepped back onto the ladder and started to tug on the jagged piece. It held firm and resisted my efforts. I reached for my hammer in the loop of my tool belt. After a few minutes, the piece began to give way. One more pull with my hammer claw revealed several square nails that had held the board firm to the roof rafters.

I reached into my tool belt for a tape measure to measure the open section. My toolbelt fit snugly around my waist—I thought about the extra pounds I’d put on while sitting in front of the computer for months. Working on Etta in the hot sun would soon shed the excess fat I was carrying on my body. Carefully extending the tape measure, I tried twice to hook the end on the edge of the roof over the ladder. On try three, the tape measure held rigid enough to get an accurate measurement.

As I committed the measurement to memory, I looked at the soffit under the fascia board. A big hole had been chewed into the board, likely from a squirrel. Critters had probably been entering the attic for some time. I couldn’t ignore it, and knew I should cut out the damaged section and replace it with a solid piece while I was on the porch roof. I quickly took measurements for the damaged piece of soffit and climbed back down to the ground, then cut two boards to size. The fascia board was just over 12 feet long, while the soffit was only 18 inches long.

Grabbing a tiny circular saw, a multi-tool, and a foam kneeling pad, I climbed back onto the roof. The sun was hot now that the morning clouds burned off. It would be a blistering day for sure. I was glad I’d had the foresight to bring the foam pad for my knees. The heat was radiating off the black shingles around me.

As I started to cut into the bottom of the soffit, I heard a voice below.

“Hello,” said a dark skinned man. He shielded his eyes from the sun as he looked up at me.

“Hi!” I replied.

“What are you doing?” he asked quizzically.

“I’m trying to save this old house; it was built in 1900,” I explained to him—not sure why I felt the need to tell him my entire goal for Etta.

The man— I’d later find out his name was Kevin—replied, “Cool! There are a few other houses in this neighborhood that look like this one, but most have been bulldozed to make room for bigger houses.”

“I know. That’s why I want to save this old girl.” I replied.

“Well, good luck to you. And be careful up there, it’s going to be a hot day. Do you have water with you?” Kevin asked.

“Yes, it’s in my truck, I’ll get it later,” I assured him.

Kevin waved goodbye and walked down the street as I continued to wrestle with the piece of soffit. I’d reached a point where the saw was too big to squeeze into the tight space between the soffit and the porch roof. Setting the saw aside, I switched to the multi-tool and cut into the soffit at a forty-five degree angle. It was taking a ridiculous amount of time to free the damaged piece. I wiped the sweat off my forehead and shed my button down plaid shirt revealing just my tank top. At this point I could not care less if anyone saw my love handles; it was too hot on the asphalt roof and I was desperate for a breeze to cool me off.

“I brought you water,” Kevin said from the ground.

I looked down in shock to see him standing at the bottom of the ladder with a water bottle, dripping with condensation. He climbed the ladder to hand it to me.

“Thank you! You didn’t have to do that,” I said.

Kevin waved his hand and said, “Not a big deal. I can tell you have your work cut out for you. And, I don’t want you passing out and falling off the roof.”

We both laughed, although I knew it was a possibility if I neglected to drink enough water. Kevin smiled and left me to wrestle with the soffit.

After what seemed like an hour—but was probably only 15 minutes—the board finally came free. The soffit repair should be easy; it was a small piece. However, I wasn’t sure how I was going to secure the 12′ section of fascia board by myself. I figured I’d work on the small piece first and figure out the fascia board dilemma as I worked.

My hammer hit the nails square, but they refused to sink into the old rafters. This old growth wood was no joke! No wonder Etta was still standing after 118 years. Finally I switched to pre-drilling holes and used my drill to drive screws to secure the soffit.

Once again, I had sweat on my forehead and I knew the small of my back was highlighted by a big wet bullseye of perspiration. At least the moisture was cooling me off, because it was turning out to be a hot, muggy day.

I climbed down the ladder and picked up the piece of masonite fascia. Although I knew it wasn’t waterproof, the faux woodgrain closely resembled the rest of the fascia material. I’d make sure to paint and prime it on the exterior sides to prevent any water penetration.

As I lifted the fascia board, I was surprised by the weight and awkward flexibility of it. Raising it over my head, I had to use all my muscles to keep the board from throwing me off balance. I hoisted one end onto the porch roof and then positioned the other end over the outside corner. Holding the board with one hand, I reached for my hammer and realized I didn’t have a free hand to grab for nails.

Climbing back down the ladder with the fascia board in tow, I wished I could grow another arm. Then I remembered; I could start the nail into the board on the ground and hammer it in once the board was in place. Climbing a few rungs again, I hoisted the fascia board over my head and rested one end on the roof. I positioned the other end on the corner and held it with my elbow as I reached for my hammer. The OSHA question on my general contractor’s exam ran through my mind: “How many points of contact must you maintain at all times on a ladder?” I knew the answer was three (at least two legs and one hand or two hands and one leg must be on the ladder at all times.) But, I quickly realized nothing would get done on this house if I was being OSHA compliant.

My arm reached back as far as it would go and I swung with force to hit the nail into the rafter tails. The first swing hit square on the nail and it sunk through the fascia board and into the rafter. Success! I quickly grabbed the ladder with my free hand and proceeded to pound the nail until it sat flush with the fascia.

Behind me I heard the jingling of dog tags. I turned around to see an older woman walking a small terrier.

“Hi!” I said as I saw her staring up at me.

She replied, “Hi,” and then asked what would become a familiar question. “Are you fixin’ to move into this house?”

I explained to her that I had purchased the house to fix up and sell. I didn’t want to bulldoze the house and I believed in saving history.

“Once you destroy an old house it is gone forever,” I stated.

Later I learned that these would be the few sentences I repeated to many curious neighbors. Several took the answer in stride, but more expressed their happiness that the house would not become yet another vacant lot waiting for a new modern residence to be built in its place.

By the end of the day I had met a handful of the neighbors and a few four-legged companions. It was nice getting acquainted with the neighbors.

That evening, I slept soundly after a day filled with physical exertion and copious amounts of sweat.

I woke up early Friday morning, eager to get back to work on the house. After a brief stop at Lowe’s to purchase some step flashing to create a water barrier between the porch roof shingles and the siding, I headed downtown.

The news came on the radio and I listened as the reporter covered a shooting that had occurred in south Raleigh. It reminded me I had been lax about checking the property before I started work each day. As I pulled up out front of the house, I grabbed my keys from the truck, keeping the canister of pepper spray in hand as I walked the perimeter of the house looking for signs of broken windows or forced doors. Once I had determined there were no signs of a forced entry, I went back to the truck and pulled the ladder from the truck bed.

Scaling the ladder, with the new step flashing in hand, I reached the top and realized I had left my gloves in the truck. There was no way I was going to go gloveless; the sharp metal flashing would cut me in no time. Traveling down the ladder, I thought at least I was getting a step work out today. I grabbed my favorite pair of Duluth Trading Company gloves and a bottle of water from the truck (learning from experience) and ascended the ladder again.

The first few pieces of flashing slid easily under the shingles and aluminum siding. As I got closer to the peak, I found it difficult to get my hammer under the newly installed soffit. Finally, all the flashing was installed with the exception of one piece. I took off my gloves and wiped my sweaty bangs out of my eyes. In my physically exhausted state, I reached for the last piece of flashing and felt a sting as it cut deep into my finger.

“Damn it!” I yelled, angry at myself for forgetting to put my gloves back on. I climbed down the ladder and turned the water spigot on. The cool water washed a steady stream of blood off the tip of my finger. After a sufficient amount of time (and some soaping), I deemed the cut as clean as I could get it. But I knew I should probably get a tetanus shot today since I couldn’t remember when my last one was.

Looking at my watch, I realized I was supposed to pick up my son in fifteen minutes. With lightning speed, I slipped the last piece of step flashing in place, put away my tools, and locked up the house. Ten minutes later, I pulled into the school carpool lane a dirty and sweaty mess. My son, Gabe, hopped into the front of the truck, excited to be allowed to ride up front with me. As we drove home, I tried to call my doctor, but received a recorded message saying they were closed for the weekend. Next I called a local urgent care, but they didn’t have any appointments. A quick call to our local Kroger pharmacy revealed that they did offer tetanus shots. I opted to drive home, shower, and change before getting a shot.

Mike got home from work and I quickly kissed him on the lips as I left for Kroger. After waiting 10 minutes for the pharmacist, she called me back into the small closet-sized office. She asked if I knew the date of my last tetanus shot.

“I’m not sure, but I feel like it could be nine or ten years ago.” I replied.

“Okay. Well it won’t hurt to get a booster,” she said. “Is there any reason you decided to get a tetanus shot today?”

I told her about the cut and she looked down at my bandaged finger and frowned.

“I’m so sorry, but I can’t give you a shot if you have a cut. Company policy,” she apologized.

Disappointed, and now feeling desperate, I drove myself to a new urgent care, but was turned away because they had no appointments left for the day. By now it was getting late and my options were dwindling. If I didn’t find somewhere soon, I’d be sitting in the ER to get a stupid shot. I could tough it out, but I owed it to my husband and children to take care of myself.

Driving down the road, I turned the corner and spotted a CVS minute clinic sign. I strode straight to the clinic and entered my name into the computer, then waited my turn. A smiling nurse finally called my name and I headed into her office. She took my information and then asked why I needed a tetanus shot. Here it was, the same question, and probably the same apology. As I explained to her the deep cut on my finger, she frowned and asked to take a look.

…To be continued.

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

Are you enjoying the Saving Etta chapters? I’d love to hear from you! What are you enjoying the most?

April 6, 2018/6 Comments/by Brittany Bailey

Saving Etta

Saving Etta: Chapter 16 – More Surprises

Saving Etta: Chapter 16 – More Surprises

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.

A special thank you to all the brands that are helping to save Etta!

I carefully pried up the sheet and found yet another layer of linoleum underneath. It was a brick red color and solid instead of the patterned berber print. Reaching into my tool box, I extracted two ziploc bags, a utility knife, my respirator, a paper towel, and a spray bottle. Using the technique that Jeff (the asbestos abatement professional) had showed me, I misted the vinyl with water from the spray bottle. Then gently cut a section out of each piece of linoleum with a sharp utility knife. I placed the samples into the ziploc bags and sealed them. Then I cleaned off the knife with a damp paper towel and threw the towel away in a sealed bag. I labeled each sample to differentiate them for the lab results.

Looking back at the hole where I had cut out the linoleum, a brown patch beckoned me closer. Using the flat end of my pry bar, I gently scraped away the years of dirt and grime. What I discovered left me with a range of emotions. Framed by the square edges of linoleum, I could clearly see a wood grain pattern beneath the hole I’d cut. I gently pulled up a larger section of linoleum to expose 3″ wide wood flooring planks.

“Finally! Some good news.” I yelled out loud.

I restrained myself from pulling up any more linoleum until I could get the samples tested for asbestos, but I was hopeful I’d be able to save the original hardwood floors.

Turning my attention to the other room, where the mold smell still lingered, I decided I could stand it no longer. The mold remediators weren’t yet scheduled, but I knew they might not handle pulling out the carpeting. Instead of waiting to see if they would or wouldn’t, I decided to pull on my “big girl britches” and take care of it myself. I strode out to the truck and suited up in disposable coveralls and rubber gloves. Then I pulled on my respirator and full coverage goggles. I confidently marched back into the house ready to do battle with the moldy carpeting. Anyone walking down the street would have thought I was either dressed for a costume party or a full HAZMAT clean up. After reading about the damaging health effects of black mold, I wasn’t taking any chances.

Using a utility knife, I carefully cut out 3′ sections of carpeting. Each section was rolled up, bagged in heavy black plastic, and double knotted. Then I hauled one bag at a time out to the trash to heft it into the 6 foot high dumpster. By the time I reached the last bag, I had to gather all my strength to muscle it over the rim. Next time I will order the four foot high dumpster and save my arm strength for other tasks. I was as sweaty as a wrestler in a foil suit before weigh-in. The coveralls, rubber gloves, and mask offered no air flow and sweat dripped down my neck and back.

As I peeled off the rubber gloves and lifted the respirator over my head, a big white truck pulled into the driveway hauling an open trailer. Strapped to the front of the trailer was a stuffed animal— a small Kermit the Frog. A man sporting a pinstriped train engineer’s cap and graying beard stepped out of the truck. I was confused at this stranger’s appearance until I remembered I had called someone to get a quote on demolition. He looked at the dumpster and said, “Starting without me?” Kent, the demolition guy, held out his hand and introduced himself. I invited him inside the house to show him the scope of the project.

Kent looked at the walls and asked what was behind them. I told him I knew there was lathe and plaster behind the front room walls, but thought it was just insulation behind the drywall in the addition. He made a fist and struck the drywall with the heel of his hand a few times.

“I think there’s more than just insulation behind the drywall,” he said.

He asked to borrow my hammer and a small flat bar that was lying on the floor near our feet. Hammering the flat bar into the wall, he ripped off a piece of drywall. Behind the cream-painted wall appeared a beautiful green and aqua blue-striped pattern. Pulling more drywall from the wall, he pointed to the area and said, “You have beadboard behind there, this will mean a little more work for us to tear into.”

I stood there with my mouth hanging open. Etta sure was hiding a lot of secrets from me. I wondered how much beadboard was behind the walls. I told Kent I’d prefer to save the beadboard before demolition.

Kent looked around, inspecting the walls. He opened closets and climbed into the attic. He asked if I would be building back in place of the additions.

“Yes,” I said. “The goal is to remove the rooms that aren’t built correctly, and build back, essentially in the same footprint.”

Kent told me to make sure I had the plans approved and ready when he came out with his crew.

We went outside and stood in the backyard to study the various rooflines that made up the hodge podge of additions. The additions had probably been added on one at a time over the years. Kent explained how he and his guys would separate the additions from the main house before the excavator arrived to make quick work of removal. He spoke in a slow matter of fact voice that gave the impression that this project didn’t phase him in the least.

I thanked him for coming out and said goodbye. As he drove off, Kermit the Frog seemed to wave goodbye to me.

Running inside, I could tell the smell of mold was much better now that the carpeting had been removed, but I was most interested in getting back to the back bedroom. I was anxious to remove more drywall to see how far the beadboard extended. After an hour, I had uncovered an entire corner of beadboard. I lost track of time until the alarm on my phone chimed. It was 3:30 pm and I knew I had to pack up soon to meet my two boys at the bus stop.

The truck was loaded and I quickly scrolled through my emails before heading home. One email jumped out at me. I opened it and clicked on the attachment. Scanning through the spreadsheet, I saw the words “negative” and let out the breath I’d been holding, relieved to know the lab results for the linoleum were negative for asbestos. Now I only had to deal with the asbestos in the joint compound and the black mold in the front two rooms. On the thirty minute commute home, I called the asbestos abatement company and the mold remediation company to schedule their services back-to-back. Within two weeks I’d have a mold- and asbestos-free property and could start rebuilding Etta. . .or so I thought.

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

Are you enjoying the Saving Etta chapters? I’d love to hear from you! What are you enjoying the most?

March 12, 2018/13 Comments/by Brittany Bailey

Saving Etta

Saving Etta: Chapter 15 – What Lies Beneath

Saving Etta: Chapter 15 – What Lies Beneath

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.

A special thank you to all the brands that are helping to save Etta!

Anthony suddenly rushed out of the house heading straight toward Nathan, “Stop, don’t cut over there!”

Nathan froze and Anthony began pulling ivy up until he revealed a concrete pad that was completely hidden by the ivy and leaves. He explained that there had been a shed on the site a long time ago, but now all that was left was the concrete. We were glad he had been there to prevent an accident.

After a few more minutes of small talk, Anthony bid us a good day and drove off. We put in a few more hours of yard work before calling it a day. After five hours of work, we had accumulated a big pile of branches and weedy trees on one side of the driveway. All four of us, sweaty and pink-cheeked, loaded into the truck and headed home. The boys didn’t have to try too hard to convince us to make a quick stop at McDonalds for shakes.

Monday morning my muscles were sore after the weekend of yard work, but I was anxious to get underneath the particle board that lay beneath the carpet Mike had pulled the other day. If there were original hardwood floors underneath, I knew it could help my budget immensely. From the truck, I grabbed a hammer, a pry bar, and a three foot long wrecking bar. In my mind, it would be simple to shove the pry bars under the sheets and lift up the full 4 foot by 8 foot particle board with a little effort. Instead, small one foot sections broke off the lumber like little bites out of a big cookie. It was incredibly frustrating and time consuming. Finally I decided to pull all the nails from the particle board and then lift the full sheet up. The music blared from my little work radio, and a mixture of Cyndi Lauper and Bon Jovi filled the room as I scooted around on my butt pulling nails.

After about 20 minutes, I pulled the last nail from the first sheet. Sliding one pry bar under the particle board allowed me to get my hands under the edge. I heaved the full board up from the floor. A layer of black felt paper lay underneath. I quickly rested the particle board against the wall and ripped a section of felt paper. Beneath it lay what looked like berber carpet at first glance, but turned out to be a big sheet of linoleum printed to look like carpet. I chuckled to myself, thinking that, long ago, people must have liked faux berber carpet-printed linoleum the way they like faux woodgrain tiles today.

Knowing full well that the linoleum needed to be tested for asbestos, I left it alone until I could find an edge to gently pull up and sample. The next several hours were spent alternating between scooting on my behind or crawling on all fours to pull nails. Sadly I only freed three more sheets of particle board in that time. To appease my aching back, I decided to change tasks.

Although the door was closed to the room with the mold in it, the house still had a musty odor. Stepping outside, I took a big breath of fresh air, then wrestled the sheets of fiberboard over my head and threw them into the dumpster. Wanting to stay outside longer, I threw my energy into breaking down the big yard debris pile by the driveway.

I had hired a woman named Sarah to come haul the limbs away to the yard waste facility and wanted to get it ready for pick up. I was curious to meet this woman who loved to earn cash by performing an assortment of labor intensive jobs. Raleigh has a yard waste processing center that will mulch the debris and resell wood chips or compost to city residents. We’ve frequented the facility many times (and it’s always fun to see the big trucks and equipment working), but my time was better spent working on the house. On the phone, Sarah had told me that everything had to be six feet or shorter for her to be able to haul it away. Luckily there were only a few limbs that needed to be cut down. By the time I had cut the last one, a little white Nissan pick up truck stopped out front and backed into the driveway. From the driver seat stepped a woman with long sandy blonde hair pulled into a ponytail. She wore a white t-shirt, black exercise leggings, and running shoes. Sarah introduced herself and shook my hand. I was surprised by her appearance, but hadn’t been sure what to expect. She looked like me: fair skinned, medium build, with strong arms and legs. Her clothing suggested a day at the gym instead of a junk hauler. We quickly loaded her truck and chatted about ourselves. Sarah told me she liked the flexibility of her “odd jobs” so she could be home with her kids most of the time. The variety of jobs and the workout she got hauling things to the dump kept her happy and stress-free. I smiled and told her I completely understood.

Whenever I worked on Etta, I had that same feeling. I thoroughly enjoyed the break from the depressing news of the day and instead threw my anger and frustrations into the physically demanding aspects of rehabbing the old house. Each day I worked on Etta, I left physically and mentally exhausted, leaving no room for worrying or anger.

After a short time, Sarah’s truck was full to the cab, but there was still another load to take. She told me she’d be back later to take the second load and would collect her fee then.

After she left, I took a quick snack break and then went back to work pulling nails from the particle board. It was a slow process, but after a while I finally revealed the edge of the linoleum.

Lifting felt paper

Looking back at the hole where I had cut out the linoleum, a brown patch beaconed me closer. Using the flat end of my pry bar, I gently scraped away the years of dirt and grime. What I discovered left me with a range of emotions.

Continued…

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

Are you enjoying the Saving Etta chapters? I’d love to hear from you! What are you enjoying the most?

February 19, 2018/10 Comments/by Brittany Bailey

Saving Etta

Saving Etta – Chapter 14 – Etta’s Yard

ettas backyard dumpster and port a potty

Saving Etta: Chapter 14 –

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 sat on Etta’s front porch trying to envision what it would be like to live downtown, I saw Ellen pull up. She stepped out of the car with two wine glasses in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

“Congratulations on your first investment house!” She greeted me with her big genuine smile.

“Thanks.” I laughed nervously, hoping this would be an investment and not a money pit.

She poured some wine and we clinked glasses. “To Etta,” she said.

“Are you ready to see inside?” I asked. “Be prepared, it’s in rough shape. Here’s a dust mask if you want one.”

I swung the front door open and stepped inside. The smell of mold still hung in the air. I turned around and saw Ellen’s smile disappear.

“Oh boy, Brittany,” Ellen said. “This is going to be a big project. But, it’s nothing you can’t handle.” Her smile reappearing on her face.

I quickly showed her through the house and then locked the door as we headed into town to have a girl’s night out. We talked about our kids and some of the houses she had flipped and others she wanted to flip. It was reassuring talking to someone who wasn’t scared off by mold or asbestos, and had been through the ups and downs of flipping houses.

After dinner I went home and right to bed. I needed to get some rest before tackling the jungle that was Etta’s backyard.

On Saturday, Mike and I piled into the pickup truck with our boys, Nathan and Gabe. The boys hadn’t seen the investment house yet and were anxious to put eyes on this house that consumed our conversations lately. The bed of the truck was loaded with yard tools and a mower. We looked like a start up version of a landscape business. The goal was for Mike and I to do some clean up and make sure the fence was secure enough to let Bandit join me on site. We decided to “pay” the boys by putting money into their college accounts. Nathan (age 13) would mow the lawn at the house. While Gabe (age 11) could pick up trash from the overgrown weeds and bushes. There was plenty for him to pick up, by now I realized that the property was a cut through to the adjacent street. There was a liquor store sized collection of bottles, beer cans, fast food containers, and lots of other discarded trash in the yard.

After pulling into the driveway, the kids anxiously hopped out of the truck and started running around the third of an acre that made up Etta’s property. The lot was very long and deep with a grassy area in the middle. Most of the lot consisted of overgrown weeds, shrubs, and ivy. After exploring the wooded back portion of the lot the boys began poking around the port-a-potty and the dumpster. (What boys find fascinating will never cease to surprise me.)

Mike and I started removing the tools from the truck while the boys clamored over the sides of the dumpster, each landing with a hollow metal thud.

“When can we go in the house?” Nathan asked

“Yea, we want to see the house!” Gabe demanded.

I looked at their eager faces and told them okay, but both had to wear dust masks. After showing them the proper way to wear a mask, we headed toward the front door. I turned the key and both boys pushed past me to run inside. I quickly grabbed Nathan’s sleeve and yelled for Gabe to stop.

“Listen up boys. You may not go running around. This house is still unsafe and there are many dangers. If you want to see the house, you must stay with me.” I said.

They controlled their energetic bursts as I showed them around the entire house. When they pointed at the insulation dangling from the hole in the ceiling, I explained about the roof leaks.

The curiosity was overwhelming for both boys. They wanted to peek inside each closet, peer behind every door, and made me pull down the attic ladder when it was determined to be the last spot unexplored. After a thorough examination (worthy of a home inspection), we headed back outside.

As Mike and I surveyed the yard, it was difficult to know where to focus our efforts. Ultimately we chose to tackle freeing the gate from ivy growth and dirt so we could close it again.

As Mike and I hacked at the ivy and shoveled mounds of dirt from around the base of the gate, Nathan started cutting the grass out front. Meanwhile, Gabe was in heaven finding glass liquor bottles from the brush and launching them over the dumpster walls. Each time the glass hit the bottom of the dumpster, it exploded scaring the heck out of me. I resisted the urge to complain, knowing as long as he was having fun he’d keep working. By the end of the afternoon, he told me he had found 20 bottles, a bike, and numerous cans (which he added, didn’t make as exciting a noise in the dumpster.)

While Mike cut small trees out of the chainlink fence with loppers, I began to attack a large weed tree next to the neighbor’s driveway. I made my first cut through a secondary branch. It resisted my saw, but eventually gave way tumbling onto the neighbor’s fence. Mike heard me yelling for help and came running only to find me dangling on the end of the branch to keep it from falling over the 6 foot fence into their backyard. He and I muscled the limb back onto our side of the fence and pulled it into the middle of the neighbor’s driveway. It’s funny how a seemingly small tree is actually much bigger than it appears. At about 20’ tall, this skinny tree proved to weigh more than I expected. Regardless, I was on a mission to cut back everything that was encroaching on the neighbor’s yard, driveway, and over their roof.

Out of nowhere, a woman walked out and gasped, “Whoa, what’s all this?” It was the neighbor and suddenly there was a large pile of limbs between us.

“I’m sorry, I think I got a little carried away trying to clear the brush. I’ll clean it up right away,” I replied.

She said, “No problem. Keep it up! It’s been a long time since anyone did any yard work back there.”

We both looked at the tree growing out of the side of my house and nodded in agreement.

She introduced herself as Natalie and said I had met her husband Eric, the first day I looked at the property. Natalie told me she’d let me get back to work and thanked me for my efforts.

Mike and I finished cutting down the weed tree and pulled all the branches from Eric and Natalie’s driveway. By the time we finished, we had a four by twenty five foot pile of yard debris.

The afternoon weather had settled in with a thick layer of heat and humidity. The boys, whose hair was plastered to their foreheads, stopped to eat lunch while perched on the tailgate of the truck. Mike and I decided it was a good time to take a break as well.

I had just finished the last bite of my sandwich when a car pulled up out front. A man in his mid-forties got out of the driver’s side and strolled up the driveway toward us. He wore jeans and a baseball hat with a flat brim.

“Anthony! How are you doing?” I called to him, recognizing him from closing day. I had texted Anthony after finding a few family photos and some jewelry while we were clearing out the house. He agreed to meet me this afternoon.

He smiled kindly as I introduced him to Mike and my sons. Anthony shook each of their hands and I explained to Gabe and Nathan that his grandfather had owned the house for a long time. The mention of his grandfather seemed to conjure up memories for Anthony as he shared some stories about the adventures he and his cousins used to have in the backyard. He told us they used to play in the woods at the back of the lot where they were hidden by the trees and brush. His grandmother would sit on the porch of the house and call back to them to stay out of trouble. We laughed knowing how much fun kids can have when not under the watchful eye of an adult.

I handed Anthony the photos and jewelry. He looked through them and told me the names of the family members in each picture. I felt relaxed talking to Anthony casually about his family’s home. I know it was a tough decision for them to decide to sell it. In my mind, this was still his family home and he and his mother had entrusted me with restoring the home that held so many memories for them.

I asked Anthony if he wanted to come inside the house to see the progress I made.

He said, “Oh yes, I’d love to.”

As we walked around the front of the house, Anthony stopped and looked up at the big rotting tree out front. I saw his gaze and told him unfortunately I had to cut the tree down. It was completely rotted inside the core and was beyond saving. Anthony nodded and told me he and his cousins used to climb it, each daring the other to climb higher and higher. Ultimately, only one cousin of his cousins had the guts to reach a much higher branch than the rest of the kids.

“Would you like me to save as slice of the tree when they cut it down?” I asked him.

“Yes, I’d really appreciate that,” he said.

We walked through the house and he told me when each section was added onto it. I absorbed each piece of information he shared about Etta’s past. I told Anthony that he was welcome to stop by and see the renovation progress anytime he saw my truck in the driveway. He seemed very appreciative of the offer.

We stepped back outside into the heat of the afternoon. Nathan had started to mow the backyard. He aimed the mower toward a patch of overgrown ivy. Anthony suddenly rushed out of the house running straight toward Nathan,

“Stop, don’t cut there!” he warned.

…to be continued

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

Are you enjoying the Saving Etta chapters? I’d love to hear from you! What are you enjoying the most?

January 26, 2018/24 Comments/by Brittany Bailey

Saving Etta

Saving Etta: Chapter 13: The Truth

Saving Etta: Chapter 13 – The Truth

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.

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.

There it was—plain as day—the backside of the original wood siding. I couldn’t believe it. I had hoped for it, but up until this moment, I had not seen any of the original siding. All this beautiful wood was hiding beneath the faded yellow aluminum siding on the outside. It looked to be in decent shape except for a hole big enough for rats and mice to get in around the gas pipe. Sheesh, just a little steel wool would have prevented all the rodent mess.

After gazing at the old siding a few minutes longer, I pulled myself away and packed up to leave. Before I took off the respirator, I shoveled the rodent feces, mouse nest, and wall debris into a trash bag. Once outside I quickly lifted the lid of the trashcan and deposited it on top of the bags with rotting meat inside. Thankfully I was still breathing the filtered respirator air. I rolled the first trash can down to the curb. Using all my strength to keep from being pulled down the hill, I rolled three more completely full trashcans and left them next to the first one. Finally removing the respirator, I said a silent prayer hoping the trash guys would take all the garbage and not leave any of it behind. The neighbor had warned me that the city was notorious for leaving your cans full if you didn’t bag your waste to their specifications. I knew laying beneath the “meat bags” were many loose items deposited in the garbage from the previous owner. I dreaded the thought of having to haul those stinky bags out of the trash to deliver them personally to the dump.

Hopping into the front seat of my truck, I caught a glimpse of myself in the rear view mirror. I was a sight to see in a drywall dusted shirt and sweaty plastered hair. The respirator had left a funny triangular shaped mark around my nose and mouth. I shrugged off my appearance and drove to the lab once again.

Opening the glass door at EMSL, I was greeted by Stacy who sat behind the front desk.

“How’s the project going?” she asked.

“It’s going,” I replied. “Hopefully these samples will come back negative for asbestos.”

Stacy raised a hand and crossed her two fingers. I nodded, knowing I’d be lucky to get a clean report.

“The results should be back within 48 hours,” she said.

I thanked her and headed home to take a much deserved shower.

~Friday~

It was 7:30am and, as usual, I was multi-tasking: simultaneously grabbing a scoop of dog food for Bandit and cereal for my son. My cell phone rang. It was the driver from the dumpster company calling. He wanted to know where to leave the dumpster.

“In the backyard, please. Leave it just beyond the fence so I can still open and close the gate,” I said.

“Got it,” the driver replied and hung up.

Mike took the day off work to help me with demolition and clean up work. We both dressed in grungy work clothes and hopped into the truck.

Pulling into the driveway downtown, we saw the dumpster had been delivered. Unfortunately it was pushed too far back (about 20 yards farther than I wanted) in the yard. Plus, the back was up against a small tree preventing me from opening the hinged door. I punched the numbers on the side of the dumpster into my phone and a gruff voice answered, “Yep.”

“Is this the dumpster company?” I asked.

“Yup,” came the reply.

“I had one of your dumpsters delivered, but it’s pushed too far back in the yard and is up against a tree so I can’t get it open,” I said to the man of many words.

“Well, you should have been there to tell the driver where to deliver it. I can’t send my guy back out there today. I’ll see if he can come tomorrow.” He quickly hung up the phone before I could say anything more.

“Okay then, hope it gets moved tomorrow,” I said after the call had ended.

Mike and I walked down to the street to check the trash cans. I lifted the first trash lid and was relieved to see the garbage was gone. It was a small miracle when we saw the trash men had taken the contents of all four cans. From now on we’d be able to use the dumpster, but would have to heft everything up and over the 5 foot high rim until the dumpster was moved.

After all the garbage cans were brought back up to the house, we went inside to assess the tasks for the day.

Move any remaining furniture and items into the back of the house.
Remove the carpeting in the south parlor and front hallway.

We were leaving the north parlor’s carpeting alone. I had learned my lesson years ago about disturbing mold spores. Instead, I shut the door to the north parlor and left it for the mold remediation team to deal with.

Mike and I started cutting 3 foot wide strips of carpeting in one of the parlors. As we began to roll up the strips, a knock came at the front door. A slight woman with white hair, a striped shirt, navy capri pants, and navy docksiders stood on the other side of the storm door. Her appearance was fitting for someone who had just come from a casual sailing day with friends.

“Hi, can I help you?” I asked.

“I’m Meg McNeil.” she replied.

I was surprised to see the architect I had scheduled an appointment with was not the young Meg I pictured in my mind. She was probably in her mid to late sixties. But, it didn’t matter to me. I was just thankful she had time in her schedule to meet me at the house. I quickly introduced her to Mike and then we walked through the house.

Mike continued to tear out the carpeting in the parlor and the hallway while I walked with Meg into each room and eventually to the backyard. I pointed at the roof structure and told her I was hoping she’d have an idea for how to connect the crazy roof lines in the back.

“Wow, that’s a lot of piece meal additions there!” she exclaimed. “You’re not going to like what I have to say.”

Meg was upfront and honest as she explained the additions were not built correctly. She knew I’d spend too much time and money trying to fix all the problems. Instead, she recommended removing all the crazy add-ons. Essentially wiping out two-thirds of the house. As we walked back through the house, she began to describe a floor plan she saw in her mind.

“Turn these front parlors into bedrooms and build a new living room, master bedroom, and kitchen at the back where the amazing view is,” she said. “But, this is your house and I know the idea of removing more than half the house is probably a shock to you. Take your time and think about what I’ve said. I know it’s a lot to take in at once.”

I was silent for less than a minute. She was the first person to put some clarity on the situation that was now my responsibility. The back two thirds of the house was a calamity of varying roof lines and sloped flooring. I’d lost sleep trying to figure out how I was going to level the floors and connect the two gable roofs over the leaking flat roof. Meg had finally spoken the truth and this put my mind to rest.

“I don’t have to think about it,” I told her, “You’re hired! How quickly can you start working on the plans?”

I was afraid to let her leave. I feared she’d run from this crazy project I’d taken on. Frankly she was the first person that hadn’t freaked out or looked at me like I had two heads when they walked through Etta’s front door. I surmised that Meg had plenty of experience and wisdom from her years working as an architect. She wasn’t afraid to take on the challenge of trying to Save Etta.

“We can probably get you some plans in two weeks,” Meg said. “I’ll be in touch.”

I watched her pull away in a little Honda Civic and suddenly felt a rock in my stomach. I hadn’t given Meg any direction or hints to the style of architecture I prefer. Etta’s fate was now in Meg’s hands. I hoped and prayed that she’d come up with something wonderful. Of course, I could always reject her plans, but I’d still have to pay at least $5,000 for her work.

Mike had already finished pulling up all the carpeting by the time Meg left. Together we started to remove the particle board that was underneath the carpeting. It was slow work. Each large sheet had to have the nails pried up before we could pick up the board. We briefly tried to shove a large pry bar under the sheet, but it just chipped up in small sections. As we lifted the first sheet, I hoped to see original hardwood flooring. Instead, we discovered vinyl flooring. The fake berber pattern on the linoleum taunted me. I knew it was old and could potentially contain asbestos.

“Ugh. I guess I need to take some of this vinyl for testing before we can continue with more demo,” I said.

After taking a sample of the flooring, Mike and I packed up for the day and headed to EMSL laboratory, once again. By now I was starting to feel like a regular there.

Stacy smiled as usual when I walked in the laboratory door.

“More samples?” she asked. “Did you get the results back from the samples you left yesterday?”

I said I hadn’t, but opened up the mail program on my phone to double check.

“Oh wait. Yes, I did,” I replied.

I opened the email and scanned the lab report. Everything was negative until I scrolled to the last page.

“Oh shit. The samples from the joint compound in the two parlors have asbestos in them,” I told Stacy.

She said she was sorry to hear that and offered to grab one of the techs from the lab to talk to me about how to handle asbestos. I agreed and waited a few minutes until a young man came in from the back. He looked at the report and explained that the asbestos in those samples wasn’t as bad as some other building materials, but it was still a good idea to talk to an abatement company. I thanked him and made a mental note to call Jeff from the asbestos abatement company tomorrow. But, today I needed to call the mold remediation expert to reschedule. Unfortunately, the asbestos would need to be dealt with before the mold.

Mike listened stoically as I told him the bad news.

“Well, it is an old house. You knew there was a big chance asbestos would be somewhere in the house when you bought it,” he said.

“I know, I was just hoping not to deal with asbestos AND mold!” I exclaimed.

After showers, Mike started dinner for the kids. I gave him a quick kiss as I headed back downtown to meet my friend Ellen for dinner.

Ellen and I first met at my oldest son’s parent-teacher conference. He was in 5th grade and she was his language arts teacher. She and I had no idea that by the end of the school year we would develop a friendship over the shared love of houses. The day my son graduated from elementary school she squeezed my arm and exclaimed, “Now we can officially be Facebook friends!” I laughed knowing it was a Wake County policy that teachers weren’t allowed to friend students or their parents on social media.

Ellen had a lot more experience and understanding for the risks and struggles of renovating an old house than I did. She and her husband had bought their own fixer upper years ago and painstakingly restored it to its former glory. They also flipped a few houses after enjoying the process of renovating their own home. I was anxious to find out what she thought of my investment house, and she was anxious to see it.

As I sat on Etta’s porch trying to envision what it would be like to live downtown, I saw Ellen pull up. She stepped out of the car with two wine glasses in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

“Congratulations on your first investment house!” She greeted me with her big genuine smile.

“Thanks.” I laughed nervously, hoping this would be an investment and not a money pit.

She poured some wine and we clinked glasses. “To Etta,” she said.

“Are you ready to see inside?” I asked. “Be prepared, it’s in rough shape. Here’s a dust mask if you want one.”

I swung the front door open and stepped inside. The smell of mold still hung in the air. I turned around and saw Ellen’s smile disappear.

…to be continued

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

Are you enjoying the Saving Etta chapters? I’d love to hear from you! What are you enjoying the most?

January 8, 2018/23 Comments/by Brittany Bailey