These old houses don’t give up anything easily. Demolition is a grueling sport and not for the faint of heart. Doing it for any length of time without getting hurt requires a Zen-like emotional intelligence that not many have and perhaps even fewer understand. One must overcome fear, summon anger, remain calm. There are times to forgive and forget and attack and retreat. And though this sounds like a war, it cannot be thought of as such because you are, after all, not just trying to destroy, but build something beautiful.
A 13-amp sawzall with a 12-inch blade is a formidable weapon and something of a magic wand. It is a good and sometimes best friend that you rely upon but don’t invite to dinner parties because you’re afraid it will offend someone, get drunk and start cutting off heads.
Wielding one in an old house is fraught with peril. The smallest surprise could end in a lost finger or severed artery. Even when used with care, there are so many thick fat nails per square inch that sparks fly constantly in a Black Sunday cloud of picobit debris. One worries the cloud could ignite, explode and spread the whole house into neighbor’s nostrils for blocks on end.
The dust is, after all, the biggest danger. Without a strict protocol, tiny bits coat the throat and end up in the lungs. The nose is clogged with a dangerous living goo that ultimately falls to the shower drain in the common farmer blow. Routine exposure to this kind of attack requires modern tools and breathing apparatus.
At any rate, at the end of the day, my throat itches in an odd manner and the only thing that seems to clear it is a well-focused, hoppy beverage.
It has become a welcome remedy, and I do believe it is deductible; for it is now what has become healthcare in America for those without access to opioids.