When you peel back the layers of a house, you see things. Terrifying things. Things that make you yearn for the apartment in the city where you could just call the super. Then you remember why you moved. HOME OWNERSHIP IS THIS: Fourth of July. Outside the air is a dry 88 degrees, breeze out of the southeast, flag fluttering in its brass bracket on the front porch. My two kids are in the backyard trying to rig a zipline from the tree fort to the swing set. My wife is making iced tea and packing some boxes to store in the attic. Me? I'm up here in said attic. I don't know how hot it is, but it feels like at least 150 degrees, and there's certainly no breeze out of the southeast or anywhere else. It's a long weekend, and I'm using the string of days to reinsulate my attic and lay down a plywood floor. I'm wearing Dickies (the ultimate work pant), a long-sleeved T-shirt (Grumpy's, a tavern in Ketchum, Idaho), and unbreathable Tyvek coveralls. Invisible flecks of pink fiberglass insulation float in the hot, dense air, looking for my skin. They sting my neck and wrists. My paper ventilation mask smells like the breath of a dog that has just eaten a tuna sandwich with a side of dead mouse. Sweat flies off my face and drips into my eyes and off the brim of my cap. I think I can hear the faint laughter of my children playing outside, but it might just be the sound of fiberglass splinters scratching my brain. I see visions of them running through the grass, or maybe that's just the deranged wasp that keeps flying into my safety goggles.
展开▼
