We had dinner the other evening at a nearby neighbor’s house, wonderful neighbors I must add. What a feast it was and a delightful occasion in a home, second to none.

I had worked on this house when I was a kid, yes, a long time ago. Finished in 1801, few houses have ever undergone quite the evolution as this one. During its history, it had been abandoned and remained so up to a point during my high school days. How many years had it been surrounded by a rusty barbed-wire fence and suffered the indignity of cows sheltering in its basement? I don’t even remember.

The upper levels housed chickens, so for years this grand old home was naught but a manure depository on all levels! What a mess, what a shame!

The new owners, George and Lynne Lauck had incredible vision, not to mention energy. I was among a few high schoolers to come under their employ. It was a monumental restoration project. In retrospect, did the Laucks have a thorough appreciation for all that was ahead of them? Probably not, but it was a perfect mix of adventurism and illusion that found its way to a job well done!

George, a math teacher at the high school, did know what he was doing when he hired my brother and me, and a carpenter’s kid, Martin Gransky. Bottom line? We all knew how to work.

It’s an odd thing, now. Frequently it is heard that kids don’t want to work anymore. Did I ever not want to work? Better question, did I ever have a choice?

So, where to begin the job? The answer to that question was a cinch, even to this farm boy. In fact, it was rather obvious. There was a whole lotta pitchforking needed. I hate to even guess at the number of tons of rotted bedding and cow manure that we forked out of the basement of that house. That number, as well as the stench was staggering. But, we got’r done.

The pitchforking was eventually aided when we discovered the existence of a concrete floor in the basement. At least we weren’t digging into the dirt. That did not mean, however, that the concrete was at the proper elevation. It should have been an easy foot lower, such to prevent the knocking of heads on the beams. Were people really that short? Perhaps they cared not a wit for ceiling height in the basement.

There wasn’t a surface inside of that structure that didn’t need cleaning, that is after it was completely gutted. All floors, ceilings, interior walls and windows were ripped out. Nothing was left but four stone walls and the beams at each level. That done and a new roof, it would at least start to dry it out; step one in reducing the foul smell.

Eau de chicken manure is a much greater battle than its bovine relative. Talk about a lingering smell! Sure, after the structure dried out, it reduced, but anyone in the know advised the same: Any and all residue of chicken manure in the structure must be removed if the odor is to be REMOVED.

Easier said than done ! That would come later?

Busting up the basement floor so that it could be re-poured to a civil elevation was the next step. We all taught our selves how to handle the rented jackhammer. It would either beat you or you would beat it! After lifting the thing a time or two, the advice that had been rendered made all the sense: LET THE HAMMER DO THE WORK! The operator simply touched the hammer to the spot that needed busting, steadied it vertically atop the surface and pulled the trigger. Keep the hammer just slightly leaning on your upper thighs, but essentially vertical. As such, you’re letting the hammer do the work.

The noise that the beast makes is probably the most intimidating part of it, but the operator shortly gets used to that. Could this machine hurt you? Yes, if you let it. Don’t blame the machine, though. It has a mind of its own only when you think it does.

Can you spend a whole day jackhammering? It’s not recommended if you have a date tonight.

SANDBLASTING WAS NOT A BLAST

How on Earth were we to rid the structure of old, yet ubiquitous chicken smell ? The piles of manure were gone, visible evidence of it swept away, vacuumed away, but olfaction doesn’t lie!. The ‘essence’ remained. Imagine the porous nature of old beams and stone walls. Every last little crevice and pinpoint had been manure exposed. What was the most thorough method of eliminating it? Sandblasting was the conclusion.

Welcome to something else we’d have to learn while doing. There was one little caveat. It was dangerous work. What else was new? Thus far, I’d grown up doing dangerous work. This job meant working while elevated and while balance-challenged. It meant intense concentration on the task at hand. Although hot summer weather, it meant wearing stifling headgear. That was the only way to protect eyes.

You, the operator, are holding a hose, maybe 2 inches in diameter. By compressed air, that hose is bulleting tiny flecks of sand with such force that it leaves the intended surface squeaky clean. Extreme care of the operator is crucial. If a hand, inadvertently came in contact with the business end of that hose, sand could possibly touch bone in that hand, not a pleasant scenario!

We contemplated this next phase of the game. Standing at the newly deepened basement level and looking up, it seemed a dizzying network of beams, beams and another level of beams. The sand blasting started. I may have given the impression that it was a miserable endeavor. It was, but when finished, the whole enchilada was looking like someone cared about this place.

The smell was gone. The structure was clean. It was good to go for new construction.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but my experience that summer was invaluable, a mini- education in itself. Did I ever specifically apply it later in life? Of that I am unsure, but it isn’t to be measured that way.

The summer ended. It was time to head back to school.