I had always thought,
in the deep recesses of my mind, someday I will build my own house. Mostly by
myself. I decided, now was the time. We borrowed twenty-five thousand dollars
in 1978, and I set in. I didn't know how to build a house, but I knew how to
use a saw and hammer. Pretty well all of us raised in Wing learned to do that.
The rest I learned along the way. If I got to a point where I was stumped, I
went and looked at other houses under construction, and just did like the big
boys did. When I first started and was doing the dirt work, a friend said, “I
don't know how you ever make any progress. Every time I come by, you're leaning
on your shovel.” Actually, I was very busy thinking. Trying to figure out what
to do next. I did, however, dig the footing trench in one day. Lots of sand, no
rocks.
It was pretty
well framed up, and Kinley, about four, was sitting in the front yard, playing in
the sand. She had a spoon in her hand, and dug up a spoon full of sand just as
we saw the mosquitoes were eating her up. We scooped her up, along with her
spoon full of sand, and she quietly reached down and pulled a gold ring from
the spoon. We figured that was a good omen for the house.
I was working on
the master bathroom when Barbara and Kinley came over with the news. Elvis
Presley had just died.
Some of the
finish work I saved for the pros, like the cabinets, carpet, and brickwork. I
knew I couldn't hide my lack of skill there. I found a little trick that worked
well. After a contractor had been on the job one day, I went over his work
until I found a flaw. Then I ragged him until he re-did it. His work quality
now moved up a notch. Most contractors will only do their best work if they are
pushed to it by picky people. It's all about speed with them. Many will go too
fast if you let them.
When it was
finished, we turned three thousand dollars back to the bank. A one thousand,
seven hundred and ten square foot, three bedroom brick house for twenty two
thousand dollars. Including the lot. But, that was 1978. Prices have changed
some since then. But the labor expense saved amounted to close to half the
cost. It took ten months, after school, weekends, and a summer. I never, in my
life, become as completely focused as when I start building a house. Barbara
has a lot of trouble getting me away from it, for any reason. I wound up
building the next two houses we have lived in, too. But not for that price.
Thirty eight thousand dollars in 1983 out in the country, out in the woods four
miles from Arkadelphia. It was a two story frame house. Our new banker was very
hesitant about lending money. He just said most people who set in to build
their own house were soon overwhelmed, and quit. But, I had done it once
already, so he finally relented. When the house was finished, and he came out
for the final inspection, he told me I should build houses for a living. No
thanks. Once the banker does his final inspection and declares it finished I
take his word for it and just quit right there. I'm sick of it by then, and I
have never finished up every little detail .Who am I to argue with a banker?
Usually, it's part of the garage that is eternally unfinished. Water was a
problem. We first dug a large bore well, thirty or so feet deep. Plenty of
water, but the test came back bad. So, we dug a small bore well, 200 feet deep.
It tested bad also. The next sample was
bad. The bank would not finalize our loan until we passed a water test. The
third sample was accidentally dropped into the microwave for a minute or so. It
tested perfect. Sometimes, one just does what one must do. After our kids grew
up there, Barb wanted back in town with city water and cable TV. That third
one, twenty years ago, cost sixty eight thousand, the one we still live in. But
this time, the soreness in my body did not end after a few days. It was there,
every day, for ten months. I was getting too old for this.
A sheet rock
hanger guy, in his mid-fifties, lived next door. He kept a close check on my
progress awhile, then told me I was going to make it. A neighbor woman
commented, “I’ve been wondering what’s going on over there. I never see but one man
there, yet it just keeps going up.” The sheet rock hanger’s son told me one
day, “I never want to be old. I want to die by fifty.” I asked why. He said, “I
never want to hurt as much as my father does, every morning when he gets up.” A
few months later, his father died suddenly, no one seemed to know why. But I
did. Hanging sheet rock every day, for an old man, is a man killer. I had
learned this on my first two houses, so this time I left the sheet rock hanging
and finishing to the pros, the young guys. Three or four days as opposed to two
months. The sheet rock hangers told me when they finished, it was the most square and plumb house they had ever worked on. A plus, I guess, for being so slow in framing it up.
The city
inspector was the bane of my existence while I built that last house. Although
it was legal to buy permits and build one's own house in Arkadelphia, plumbing,
electrical and all, he was determined that you just can't build a house like
that, alone. He was there, nearly every
day, finding things wrong.
I pulled a fast one on him once. I had the under-the-slab
plumbing finished, uncovered in a four foot deep trench, and he was getting out
of his truck, coming to inspect. I noticed a drain curve turned the wrong way.
I knew he would say, "You can't do that! That will cause the drain to stop
up every couple of weeks! Pull it out and redo it!" I threw a shovel full
of dirt down on top of that joint as he walked up, gambling he was too lazy to
get down in the ditch and check it. He didn't, and twenty years later, it has
never stopped up.
A couple of times,
I had to bring him an engineering book to prove my point. He once decided
that two by six inch studs, two feet
apart, would not hold a two story house. He told me to put another stud in
between. I finally convinced him that two by sixes spaced that way could carry
more weight than two by fours spaced sixteen inches apart. I let him read it
right out of the engineering book. But the last time he came out, as I was
finishing up, he was different. He smiled and said, “You know, a man should
never have to do what you did on this house, alone like that, but once in a
lifetime.” And I was doing it for city water and cable TV, for heaven's sake! I
decided that day that he and I finally agreed on something. This was my last
house.
Then we started
buying old, rundown rent houses, and I fixed them up. After the first one, our
banker realized I would quickly fix it up, make it worth more. Sweat equity, he
called it. I never had to make a down payment on another one. I even made a
profit on a closing once, because rent was due. But like I say, that was then,
and things have changed in banking. We made sure our credit rating stayed
around eight hundred. And I have changed. I've got to renovate a trashed
apartment next week, and what I really want to do is write. I wouldn't mind if
I never saw another hammer and saw. Anyone want to buy sixteen old houses and
apartments? Have I got a deal for you! (This story was written some time back.
I now own only four rentals to work on. I’ve stopped climbing up on steep
roofs, and squeezing under low houses, so my profit is much less. A product of being 69 years old. I don't do that kind of work anymore.)
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