Our front porch is currently under construction. We started with the knowledge we had some gutter issues, which had led to some issues with runoff, which had rotted a few isolated spots in the roof and the floorboards along the front railings. I’d hoped we’d just need a little gutter work, a few replacement boards, and some fresh paint, but that’s not how home renovations work.
We signed on for gutter repair and an entire porch floor replacement. That morphed into replacing all the joists supporting the floor too, since they were too far apart to meet code, and adding footers when the builders discovered there weren’t any. The rot in the porch roof, it turned out, was more extensive than anticipated, partly because there were some places in the metal that were completely rusted through, places someone who lived here before us had disguised by simply painting over them. The porch roof will have to be replaced as well.
So now we have a big hole in the ground outside our front door where our porch used to be. The builders are working diligently, but it’s going to be a lengthy process. By the time all is said and done, the only original parts of our porch will be the columns and the railing and its pickets.
The porch is our favorite room in our home. It’s what sold us–Steve in particular–on buying it. When we were house-hunting, we stopped by the empty house one spring afternoon and sat in the chairs the realtor had staged on the porch. Looking at the rolling hills and towering trees of the park that faced two sides of the house, we were smitten.
It’s unsettling to see it torn apart, even in the interest, ultimately, of repair. That’s how I feel about our government this week, too, and as often as not, it’s also how I feel about my own body in the course of treatment. It’s difficult sometimes to imagine what’s on the other side of destruction, even when that destruction isn’t unexpected; even when, as with chemo, it’s deliberate. You hope the discomforts and sacrifices will be worth it. Time will tell.
I’ve been around this block enough times to know that it will never be the same. However necessary the work, however skilled the reconstruction, something will be lost. For that, I grieve.
Meanwhile our days are underscored by banging, drilling, and occasionally, the soft shwush of a paintbrush’s bristles whitewashing wood. As winter slowly winds its way toward spring, I dream of warmer days, when the sounds of hammers will be replaced by the gentle creak of a porch swing, when calmer voices and haler cells might prevail, when sun-dappled shadows will dance across the painted boards once more.