I have my theories why this is happening after 40 years. These houses built on sand are being affected by the pounding of pilings on new homes. It was supposed to be a trailer park and instead they built heavy cement homes on sand. Things started to move when they were building the causeway, so far and yet so near. Henry says the whole neighborhood is built on mangroves which are finally rotting and moving. Jim said erosion. Some guy whose name I have forgotten salivated at the thought of sinkhole. I had a series of folks walk through with suggestions about what to do with it. Since the electricity and all other utilities make their way into the house through the garage, my decision was to tear it down. If the thing fell when I wasn’t around, I’d be even less popular than I already am.
I had wanted to throw a party so friends could enjoy the view. My belief has always been that when one spends a lot of money, one should enjoy it. I threw a party in California when I re-roofed that house and made everyone ooh-ahh the new pretty grey-blue shingles. Heck, I threw a party inviting everyone to come over and paint my house but I am getting off-topic. The party here didn’t happen unless you call Peggy Gini and Bear a party (which I could). The work commenced at 7:20 a.m., which was the main reason I didn’t serve hors d’oeuvres and champagne. One moment we were talking—the large equipment driver, Henry, and the three of us—and the next, the front of the garage was gone. We hardly had a moment to focus the cameras. The guy who ran the equipment—we’ll call him Chet because that is his name—was an artist. He was so delicate and so accurate and soooo good at what he did I was in awe. I mean, sure, there was a lot of ripping and crunching and creepy sounds, but he would take the giant claw and nudge the mess of wood and rebar and concrete into distinct piles. He pulled a large ixora bush out like it was a dandelion. He gently placed things in the dumpster, filling the first with “everything else,” and the second and third with concrete which will be recycled here on the island. It was fascinating. I got bored after over five hours but that’s a long time to watch a…someone said it was a backhoe but I’m not sure. I thought of “Mike (Chet) Mulligan & his Steam Shovel.”
And so it’s gone. (Photos of the event are online at http://pnewlpnews.spaces.live.com/photos/; we are still working on the video and I understand I can load it onto Facebook. Am I hip or what?) The house doesn’t look totally goofy without the garage. They are rebuilding the soffits around the edges of the remaining building and making it look like it’s supposed to be that way. The furniture is slowly going to new homes. Someone more skilled than I will do a deep cleaning and a tenant will move in in a couple months.
Time is an amazing thing. It marches on. Stuff happens. We move on to whatever the next latest thing is. Then I find Dad’s files about his thirty-some years on and around Sanibel, complete records of every impact he had here including the Garage Project of 1985 and I realize I have demolished one of his projects but it was a small one. Others will live on way beyond this house. Meanwhile, I will head back to North Carolina soon, Bear and Gini are down on the west end, and Chet is performing his art for some other unsuspecting soon-to-be fan.
I thought I should close with a quintessential Sanibel shot. Yup, paradise.
