Demolition
My husband and I purchased a property in 2020, at the height of the real estate boom, on the Whetstone Airstrip in Huachuca City, Arizona. After signing the closing documents, Ron and I became the proud owners of four acres, an airplane hangar, and a house that required demolition.
The house’s foundation and stem wall were made of wooden ammo boxes procured (legally or otherwise) from Fort Huachuca sometime around 1960. A variety of other haphazard materials were used to complete the project. Over time, the ammo boxes settled like sand-filled coffins, causing the house to sink. At 5’10” I had to slouch a bit to fit under the eaves.
Good intentions sometimes get lost in the minutiae of life, so it wasn’t until last weekend that my husband and several friends with tractors and a love for swinging sledgehammers took down the house. In the process, they met with bewildered rattlesnakes and red racers who had made their winter dens among the ammo boxes in the floor.
The house blocked the gorgeous views of the Huachuca Mountains. So, now, when driving into the property, visitors are awestruck by the beauty. But to me, it feels like something is missing.
During demolition, Ron discovered a mural of the Huachuca Mountains in an interior wall behind some sheetrock. It was painted in primary colors and quite rudimentary; however, a river ran through where the patio still stands, showing imagination and maybe a memory of somewhere else. I was heartbroken to find that the artist didn’t sign it. The house was a disaster in every respect, but the discovery of the mural somehow made it a home, and it got me thinking about what makes up a home. It’s not the tangibles: furniture, knickknacks, pots and pans, or the new towels in the bathroom. Instead, it’s what we share and experience inside the brick-and-mortar: The smell of beef stew or chicken soup on a cold day. The murmur of kids and adults when playing a game or enjoying a movie together. The joy our animals bring. The touch of fingers when passing a clean dish to your husband when emptying the dishwasher. The appreciation of art and memorabilia collected over the years. A home is also where we can be ourselves, shedding work attire, jewelry, and makeup to make room for comfy clothes and the music we love. It is where we store our most treasured memories and our secrets. It is where we fight and make love. Home is what we take with us wherever we go and beckons us to return when we are gone too long.
I don’t miss the eye sore that was the little white house with blue trim made of ammo boxes, but I wonder what stories were lost forever to the demolition and in the debris, our friends hauled off to the dump.
