Our story so far: We bought an old Methodist church to turn into our home, and we demolished most of the interior.
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The dust and debris generated by demolition was overwhelming. About two weeks into tearing down the interior of the structure, Tyler and I both marveled about how we had planned to live in the church during demolition. What a ridiculous ambition that had been! Further proof that the delay in closing (which drove us to rent a house nearby during destruction) had actually been a blessing instead of simply frustrating.
Many evenings (or late afternoons), Tyler would walk through the back door of our rental house, remove his clothing (usually while bellowing, “Close the blinds!”) and go straight into the shower. On particularly physically taxing days (like when he razed the banquet bar in the basement or the plaster in the sanctuary), he’d draw a bath. On those days he’d summon me to bring him a beer and wash his back, which I always obliged. I had usually returned home hours before him to tend to our dog, handle some business paperwork, throw in a load of laundry and start supper, so I was in a better position to provide a little tender loving care.
Those long showers and full tubs taught us a lesson: Water was an expensive commodity in our little village. Compared to the little village in which we’d formerly lived, water and sewer service cost about 40 percent more.
Fortunately, we learned this utilities quirk before we invested in appliances and fixtures for the church. Tyler immediately began researching online for low-flow dishwashers, washing machines, toilets and shower heads. Of course, they existed in a wide variety. I’m ashamed we didn’t pursue these opportunities without the stick of cost, as the carrot of being environmentally responsible should have been inspiration enough, but we didn’t.
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Tomorrow: Come on baby, light my fire. Read about it here.