When my sweetheart and I first met, it was like discovering a mirror image—someone who instantly understood the messy, beautiful chaos of my mind. We both had answered the call of military service, driven by an instinct to lead, mentor, and show up for others. We fed our souls through our artistic whims, a shared love of music, and a penchant for spirited debates that never required a referee. Politically aligned but never lacking opposing viewpoints, our chats were more like enthusiastic mental sparring matches than outright brawls. There was continued harmony when we started looking for a house. We shared a deep appreciation for the charm of older homes–viewing them as living organisms–captivated by the craftsmanship, history, and the art of preserving architectural details that tell a story.
Of course, we had a wish list—because what’s a house hunt without one? His three little monsters (yes, his words) are on a 50/50 custody schedule, so being within fifteen minutes of their schools was non-negotiable. Brick construction also non-negotiable, along with at least 2,000 square feet to to contain our circus of ten fish, three kids, two adults, two cats, and a dog. Original wood floors? Absolutely. A sun-soaked room for painting? Please and thank you. An in-ground sprinkler system, a fenced yard, a central vacuum (for the cats and the Australian Shepherd), three bedrooms, two updated full baths, a soaking tub, walk-in closet, and—here comes the dreamy part—a foodie-worthy kitchen complete with a Wolf gas stove, Sub-Zero fridge, double-drawer dishwasher, and upstairs laundry—these were the stuff of our HGTV fantasies. And then, the Sweetheart’s personal non-negotiable: a six-foot-five basement, because a man’s gotta have room to stand and play with his HO scale model railroad without bonking his head every time he turned around. Easy enough, right?
Twelve months and twenty listings later—most of them a mere shadow of our wish list—we found ourselves slogging through the seventh circle of house-hunting hell. We’d roll in with bids 20K over asking, only to get smacked down by offers that topped ours by another 25K. The dream of our perfect home was unraveling faster than your favorite sweater on the wrong wash cycle. Pretty soon, our non-negotiables were whittled down to the barest of essentials: exterior walls, three bedrooms, two baths, and, of course, that six-foot-five basement Sweetheart couldn’t live without. And don’t think I didn’t notice how all my dream kitchen, upstairs laundry, and art studio asks conveniently disappeared in the downsizing shuffle. Funny how that works, huh?
Then, just when we were ready to throw in the towel, we found it—or rather, it found us. A quirky little relic of a house that, to most people, screamed “stay away” with its zero curb appeal, whispering of century home grandeur, and conspicuous lack of interior photos. It had been sitting on the market for a while—always a red flag–with the housing market at the time, three weeks was a long time. We figured it must be a teardown or in need of some serious TLC. So when the listing went pending, we felt an odd mix of relief and lingering curiosity.
We kept searching until, three weeks later, like some twist of fate, the house popped back up with an open house sign out front, practically begging for a second look. So, with more desperation than hope, we walked in and found a time capsule of vintage charm with just enough oddity to make us fall in love. We were able to snag the house below listing and, most importantly, it was a stone’s throw from the kids’ school–we’re talking two blocks close. I can see the eye-roll emojis already, but honestly? It’s been a lifesaver. Between Sweetheart’s textbook co-parenting with his ex and the kids’ complete lack of urgency in the morning, being this close has saved our sanity. Let’s just say “hurry up” and “move faster” aren’t phrases in their vocabulary. I mean, could you imagine us wrangling that morning routine from miles away? We’d be bald by Christmas!
Turns out, our quirky little house–with its ten-foot ceilings and bay windows awkwardly tucked onto all four corners—wasn’t just some shabby fixer-upper. Nope, this quirky gem is allegedly a slice of history from the 1904 St. Louis World’s Fair, a so-called architectural darling celebrated for its “superior ventilation” (fancy way of saying it wasn’t a sweatbox). If anyone from a local historical society can confirm this, I’d love to hear it! Originally chilling right on the fairgrounds in Forest Park, it was uprooted in 1909, plopped onto a fresh basement, and adorned with a generously odd-shaped front porch. This old relic was never meant to endure—definitely not to shelter a 21st-century family—but here it stands, stubborn as ever, a true testament to the wild, enduring spirit of St Louis.
While the house didn’t check off most of our original wish list, it wasn’t without its perks. We managed to snag it below asking price—pro tip, folks: when a house comes back on the market after a pending sale, it’s usually ripe for a bargain. It had the requisite four walls, 2,100 square feet to contain our menagerie, original wood floors, three bedrooms (if you count the one that’s barely big enough to swing a cat), and two full baths (sort of). The kitchen and bathrooms had seen a stylish upgrade, and—most importantly—there was that precious six-foot-five basement. Perfect for his model railroad empire and Sweetheart’s noggin.
Now, in full disclosure, Sweetheart is an engineer with access to to electrical and structural engineers and I grew up in a construction oriented family. We have Draftsman, Builders, Siders, Bricklayers, Electricians, Architects, and Restorative Preservationists. My favorite areas are hands-down design and restoration.
From an architectural perspective, let’s just say this house had “personality,” and not in the charming, quaint way. No, this was more like a mismatched quilt of questionable decisions, starting with those first-floor triangle closets—yes, triangle—and culminating in a 1990s addition that felt like a flagrant violation of every design principle known to man. Picture a crime scene, but for architecture lovers.
The second floor ceilings? A claustrophobic’s worst nightmare. The craftsmanship? Let’s call it “creative.” And the style mashup? It was as if two different houses got stitched together by someone who clearly forgot their glasses that day.
To top it off, there were these teeny-tiny windows tucked into the bottom of the closets—seriously, what was that about? Natural light for your shoes?
And don’t be fooled by the photos, either. That one window? A laughable 24 by 24 inches, with just another two feet until you smack into a knee wall. Oh, but it gets better. The closet itself? A real head-knocker special, with a clothes rod positioned at an intimidating six feet high. Cozy, right? Or claustrophobic—depends on how optimistic you’re feeling that day.
From the start, we knew this house would be a hands-on relationship, the kind where you roll up your sleeves and say, "Alright, let’s make something out of this mess." A laundry room? Nowhere to be found. An extra bathroom? Definitely on the wish list. And then there was the brick chimney stack—smack dab in the middle of everything. Sure, it was only two feet by three, but that thing took up prime real estate like a diva who refuses to exit the stage after the curtain’s fallen.
Of course, just as the real chaos was about to start, Sweetheart was off on a three-week odyssey to Japan and Guam. So, while he was halfway around the world, I got down to business. You see, back in the day, I was a draftsman in my younger days (cue the nostalgia), so I dusted off my old graph paper, pulled out a drafting pencil, grabbed the tape measure, and got to work. Measuring the house, not once, not twice, but about five times over because nothing—and I mean nothing—was square. This place was built on 45-degree angles, and I swear every wall had its own quirky personality. By the time Sweetheart returned, jet-lagged and all, I had a solid game plan, and we dove into the deep end with zero hesitation.
And so, the Grit & Grime Chronicles began. The first bit we wanted to tackle was the obsolete funace chimney. So, we solicited quotes–and oh, the gut-wrenching, heart-skipping sticker shock of hiring a pro for this little escapade. The quotes? Oh, they were a real treat, ranging from a modestly horrifying $15,000 to a full-blown $25,000. And, just for fun, they threw in a six-week wait to even get started. Uh, no thanks. We had a mission, and time wasn’t on our side. So, in true weekend warrior fashion, we ditched the pros, rolled up our sleeves, and threw ourselves headfirst into the DIY abyss.
We geared up for the first showdown with the diva chimney like it was a battle scene from Gladiator, minus the tunics. Armed to the teeth with a bucket, drill, hammers, a pinch bar, subfloor to close up the gaping ceiling, shingles, wood screws, roofing nails, and the inaugural Haul-Away bag—the first of what would become our permanent lawn ornament—we climbed onto the roof, ready for the demolition derby.
The June Memorial Day sun was relentless, making us question not only our life choices but possibly our sanity. Brick by begrudging brick, we chipped away, lowering the salvageable ones down with a bucket and rope like we were handling ancient artifacts instead of weathered, soot-covered bricks.
The rest? Straight into the dumpster, no regrets. It was the dirtiest rooftop game of Jenga you can imagine, but once that chimney was down, and the roof was finally free of its unwelcome guest, we cracked open a cold Yuengling, plopped ourselves down, and soaked it all in.
The job was only a third of the way done, but it felt like we had just conquered
Everest. Up there, with the skyline stretched out before us and the sticky heat starting to wane, we might as well have been royalty surveying our hard-earned kingdom—complete with debris and shingles, of course.
The neighborhood? Well, they’ve been watching us like we’re the newest episode of a home renovation reality show—slow drive-bys, curious heads poking out of windows, neighbors conveniently "walking by" to check on our latest escapade. Not to mention, our two Home Depot Haul-Away Dumpster Bags became a local landmark. No matter how often they got emptied, they were perpetually full, like some twisted take on Mary Poppins’ bottomless carpet bag.
The next seven days blurred into one long, exhausting montage—kids, work, brick dust, and enough caffeine to power a small village. We chipped away at that abandoned chimney like miners in a coal shaft, only our treasure was more soot and a whole lot of grime. Forget any romantic visions of “home reno chic”; this was more like Survivor: Dust Bowl Edition.
Every swing of the hammer sent clouds of ancient soot flying, and by the end of each day, I had to take at least three showers just to feel human again.
Let me tell you, there are places you don’t know can get dirty until you’re tearing down a century-old chimney by hand. And we weren’t using any fancy gadgets or lifts.
Nope, no elevator service on this adventure, folks. Every single brick and every flue liner, was carried down those creaky stairs by yours truly, like some twisted version of CrossFit.
Once we got to the first floor, the project hit its first plot twist when we had to bid farewell to the kitchen cabinets. Those beautiful, custom, floor-to-ceiling cabinets had been recently installed by the previous owner, all shiny and perfect, lovingly wrapped around the old flue like a hug we never wanted to let go of. Well, guess what? They had to come down, too. Demolition doesn’t care about your emotional attachment.
Sure, we salvaged and repurposed them (because waste in a reno is a sin), but there was something soul-crushing about ripping out something that had once been the crown jewel of the kitchen. We sacrificed them at the altar of progress, with tears in our eyes and a prayer on our lips that it’d be worth it in the end.
Then came plot twist number two. Turns out, we could only dismantle three sides of the chimney on the first floor because the fourth was practically stitched into the front foyer wall, which, of course, was lathe, plaster, and covered in some some gorgeous and ridiculously expensive fancy-pants wallpaper.
So, we did what all Domestic Home Renovation Engineers eventually learn to do—pivot. We adjusted, accepted the chimney’s stubborn refusal to go quietly, and moved on.
Ah, the basement—where every homeowner’s deepest fears and structural nightmares like to hide out. The basement section of this project was a whole different animal. The mortar? Let’s just say it had retired sometime back in the 80s, and the entire structure was holding together with little more than sheer stubbornness and a prayer.
Before we could even think about dismantling the bricks below, we had to play it safe (or as safe as one can in a DIY demolition) and reinforce the remaining first floor brick wall from underneath.
After all, the last thing we needed was for the wall upstairs to give up on its life’s purpose mid-demo, sending us plummeting into an unplanned open-concept basement. And while we somehow avoided any ER trips or unintentional basement expansions, there were more than a few white-knuckle moments and at least a couple of stiff drinks to soothe the nerves. The kind of drinks you only pour after narrowly dodging a disaster that would’ve made for some great reality TV but a terrible homeowner’s insurance claim.
And you know what? Despite the blood, sweat, grime, and the occasional emotional meltdown, it was worth it. There’s a strange, primal satisfaction in standing knee-deep in debris, drenched in sweat, looking at a job that, though far from done, shows tangible progress. It’s the kind of satisfaction that makes you look at all the chaos—the mess, the setbacks, the dirt you’ll never fully wash off—and think, “Yeah, we’re doing something here.”
So here we are—knee-deep (and let’s be honest, sometimes fully submerged) in this chaotic, unpredictable, and utterly exhausting renovation saga. Even in these early stages—because, let’s face it, we both know this project is going to balloon into something far bigger than we imagined—this house has already taught us a thing or two. The moment you think you’ve checked one thing off the list, bam—five more issues come crashing through like unwelcome guests at a dinner party. Each one messier, more complicated, and more chaotic than the last.
The grand total? About 16 hours of our own blood, sweat, and questionably sound decision-making—let’s be kind and say that’s $2,400 worth of time if we’re pretending we pay ourselves a modest $150 an hour. Materials? A mere $100. Take the middle ground between those staggering quotes, and we’d just slashed a potential $20K contractor bill down to a $2.5K investment of time, grit, and some nerve-wracking ladder stunts. Saving ourselves a cool $17.5K felt like a win worthy of fireworks and a parade, but we settled for a high five and a cold beer. Not too shabby for a couple of DIY die-hards with a knack for turning chaos into redemption.
And the funny part? It’s never just about fixing something. No, every job spins out a string of surprises—a leaky pipe turns into a full-scale plumbing project, a simple paint job reveals a ceiling that’s threatening to fall, and before you know it, you’re knee-deep in a renovation rabbit hole. But somehow, amidst the chaos, the frustrations, and more than a few moments of why-did-we-even-start-this, there’s this undeniable sense of accomplishment. The kind that says, “Yeah, we did that. With our own two hands.” It’s the high-fives after figuring out how to MacGyver your way out of a crisis, the cold beers sipped in the glow of a newly painted wall, and the shared victories that make you realize, this is why we’re doing it.
But let’s be honest—this isn’t some HGTV fantasy where everything goes off without a hitch. Oh no, there will be epic fails, moments of sheer frustration, and maybe a few curse words (okay, more than a few). Walls will fight back, plans will fall apart, and you might find yourself standing in a pile of rubble wondering if this house has it out for you. And maybe it does. But that’s half the fun, right? Because with every mess we make, we’re one step closer to turning this place into something truly ours.
So, buckle up, friends. This adventure is only just getting started, and I’ve got a feeling the road ahead is going to be as bumpy as it is rewarding. Whether we come out with more wins than losses is still up for debate, but one thing’s for sure: we’re going to walk away with some stories. Good ones. Bad ones. And probably a few that make you laugh and cringe at the same time. So stay tuned—because if this house has any more surprises up its sleeves (and we know it does), you won’t want to miss it.
In your next life, you must come back as a writer! Your uncle & I cringed at the grit & grime & backbreaking labor & cheered over your successes with this incredible renovation. We’re impressed with your vision & the skill sets you are using to make the vision a reality. It’s truly a labor of love & beautifully chronicled!
………. Waiting for the next brilliantly written installment because I laughed and cringed at all your opportunities as I remembered my own self inflicted journeys through “reno-hell”. Joy abounds at the finish. Then comes the maintenance at the end of your first blissful week of thinking you’re all finished for awhile. :-)