'If a Tree Falls in the City...' and Other Zen Koans

Shana has always said that when a tree falls, its time to move. Its happened at every place she's lived. It happened at the apartment where I first lived with her; the place on Warren St. where she took me in like a stray dog and rescued me from my flea infested hovel that was the Acme Building. Oh, the Acme Building - the original ancestor to this project, the first renovation, the failed renovation. It was me and my friend Bob. We were living at the job site, camping out (I literally slept in a tent on the floor) in the front room that was once a bar, and was eventually going to be our gallery. Meanwhile we were fixing up the back apartment, exchanging labor for rent. We had big plans. I remember we were going to do a gas station themed bathroom, complete with a urinal, a tile mosaic of the Mobil Pegasus and a shower head made from a modified gas pump nozzle. The project ended badly. There was standing water in the basement, and a whole ecosystem was evolving down there. There were any number of insects, including giant flies that we imagined to be a new species. One day I got up my courage and crept down to the basement. I was staring at a soggy cardboard box full of fiberfill when I noticed a movement. Suddenly one, then two, then three little heads popped up. Inside the box was a whole litter of baby opossums. Adorable as they were, they were contributing nothing to the project so they had to go. We took them down to the bike trail and set them free. I don't remember how we drove the mother out. The opossums were gone, but they had brought fleas, and this is what truly made the place uninhabitable. During this time, the landlord was nowhere to be found. He refused to return our phone calls and the fleas got exponentially worse. When the exterminator finally came he said that it was one of the worst flea infestations he had ever seen. I remember walking in to the house and just watching my white socks become instantly peppered by them. Meanwhile, the landlord had transferred his affairs over to Mickey Shanahan, the loose cannon who owned the bar across the street. Apparently there was miscommunication regarding our arrangement and he was now threatening to sue us for back rent. Shana, bless her heart, took pity on me and cleared out a room for me in her apartment on Warren St. I've often thought that if it wasn't for those fleas, we may have never gotten married.

And then the city came and cut down the tree out front. They said it was diseased and promised to replace it with a flowering crab. We waited, and the crab never arrived. It was time to move.

Hearing of the demise of the Acme project, the landlord that I was working for offered me a proposition. He had an old Riverwest cottage that was badly in need of repair. By now I was working primarily as his finish carpenter and he had begun to trust my design sense. He proposed that I design and renovate the cottage and Shana and I could move in when it was completed. I would offer my labor at a discount in exchange for cheap rent. I was feeling highly reluctant after the experience at the Acme Building. I felt that accepting the offer would just be setting myself up for another failure. If there was one thing I should have learned from the Acme Building, it was not to get into some harebrained deal with another landlord. I decided to run the idea by Shana anyway. I was pretty sure she would be against it. I knew she was skeptical of the neighborhood, and I didn't think that she would trust me to pull it off after the Acme debacle. To my surprise, she went for it. And we went from this...

...to this...

There was a tree out front. It was a pear tree. For several years it produced bountiful numbers of pears, some of which Shana made into excellent pear sauce. The rest were eaten by squirrels or composted. The tree had never been properly pruned. It was badly misshapen, and much too tall for a fruit tree. But we loved it. The squirrels loved it. The birds loved it. We loved the birds. We had mixed feelings about the squirrels. And the tree created a barrier between us and the rest of the world. Beyond it were scores of typical Riverwest rentals; frame houses covered haphazardly with layers of asphalt, vinyl and aluminum siding. They were eyesores, and the more I learned about restoration - the more I could see how these houses were supposed to look, the uglier they became to me. Every time another clapboard house was stripped of its architectural details and covered with vinyl siding, I took it as a personal insult. The tree kept all this at bay. I could look out my window and the first thing that would draw my attention would be the tree, or the birds and squirrels that made use of it.

One fall day we heard a crash. We looked outside to find that the pear tree had lost one of its major limbs. It had caved under the growing weight of its fruit. On closer examination we noticed a line of sawdust trickling out of a hole in the trunk, building up in a mound at its base. A colony of ants was hollowing out its center, and the tree began its decline. After that, we lost about one major limb per year and eventually it became evident that the the whole tree would soon go, and it would likely take out my fence and porch railing in the process. We had the tree removed...and we started noticing For Sale signs.

Occasionally I would run across a house for sale that looked somewhat promising and I would check it out and report back to Shana. Inevitably, she would ask, "Is there a tree?" The answer was usually no, or there was a tree, but it didn't look very healthy, or there was a tree in the neighbors yard that at least would provide some shade for our yard. Then I spotted a house a few blocks from the bluff that looked like a tiny old farmhouse plopped down in the middle of the city. I imagined that when it was built it was surrounded by forest. It was painted pink and somehow this seemed perfect for it. It was tucked away behind a couple of cedars that covered most of the facade. In the backyard, there was a small fruit tree. In the yard next door, there was a massive white oak. At first I saw this as an asset, but upon closer examination, I noticed that there was severe deterioration at the base of the trunk. Its years were numbered, and I imagined that our time at that house would correspond to the lifespan of that oak tree. It was a ticking clock, a tragedy waiting to happen, and it made me very uncomfortable. We toured the house and discovered that its proportions were just too cramped. I could barely stand up in the upstairs bedrooms. It turned out that my boss had once lived there. He called it the clown house, (I can't seem to get away from those damn clowns!) and it was painted pink then too. He said that it was horribly drafty in the winter time. So we kept looking.

When Shana first saw the For Sale sign in front of our house, the facade was almost completely obscured by foliage. She nearly passed it up before she observed that, behind the wall of green, there was a solid, brick bungalow. The next thing she noticed was that the backyard was entered through an arch made up of two ancient yew trees. There was a towering spruce tree in the adjacent yard. She was interested.

In many ways, this house seemed to be hiding when we got to it. Surely many prospective buyers were turned away by the mountains of clutter that occupied every room of the house, obscuring her finest details. A layer of crusty, alligatored shellac covered all of the cabinetry and woodwork in the kitchen. To an untrained eye, the place looked like a dump. Luckily I have seen enough projects from start to finish that I can recognize a place when it has potential.

A couple o f days before we closed on the house, Shana and I decided that we needed to get away, so we went up to the Zillmer trail in Northern Kettle Moraine, where we often go hiking. There was snow on the ground and it was a perfectly still day. The sun was shining. As we came up over a hill on a familiar trail, I noticed some movement up in the trees up ahead. The sound came a second later. A massive oak tree, probably a hundred and fifty years old, had chosen that moment to fall, just as we came upon it. No wind had stirred it, no lightning had struck it. It just simply gave way amidst the silence of that calm day; its time had come.

Now we are pruning, and our bungalow is coming out of hiding. We are fortunate that the property is well endowed with greenery. In the back, beyond the archway of yews, there are two tall cedars. In the adjacent yards there are spruces on both sides and a giant maple. In the front yard is a pair of juniper bushes, a yew tree and a yew bush. At one point the realtor suggested to the seller that he do some pruning to expose the facade, and he lopped off the tops of the junipers. At first we thought that they were too far gone and that they would have to be removed. Unsure of our pruning skills, we consulted our friend John who used to work as a landscaper. On visiting his house, I was delighted to see that he had developed an obsession with bonsai trees. He had probably 75 bonsai trees in and around his house. This was perfect, because I had a secret hope that I could turn the front yard into a sort of Japanese garden. He encouraged us to be bold with our pruning and we set about creating our third giant pile of brush to line the curb.

Pruning the junipers was an act of sculpture in the most traditional sense. It involved selectively removing material, standing back and observing the results from multiple angles, then adapting to the results, sometimes taking broad strokes, hacking off a major limb, sometimes making subtle alterations with a pruning shears to refine the shape, working towards an overall gestalt; a finished statement that exists as a unified whole. It is pure abstraction, a dance between artist and material. Here again, Shana and I are collaborating, and we expose the trunks and refine the foliage into multiple, distinct tiers with space in between. Our zen garden begins to emerge. Standing back, there seems to be a missing element in the composition. Theres a open space on the ground between the tall yew and the juniper on the right. I think it needs a stone... a big one. I'm thinkng like a foot and a half high. I'd like it to come from a place of significance; maybe the twenty acres up in Iola that my grandfather owned before passing it on to his children, or maybe the Mines of Spain on the bluffs overlooking the Mississippi where Shana and I were married. I have no idea how I'll move this stone. I'll find the stone first, then I'll figure out how to move it.

Demolition and Discovery

As the giddiness of the new house wears off, I become a bit more focused. I take up my hammer and crowbar and and tear into the bathroom, the only room in the house that we are gutting down to the bones. Opening up the bathroom walls, all of her systems are exposed, and so far they look healthy. But the demolition comes with a bit of anxiety, because a false move can send water gushing into the room or sparks flying. I'm not a plumber or an electrician, so I spend a good deal of time staring at these systems and trying to decipher them. I remember that there is an access door to the tub in the bedroom closet so I decide to open it up and have a peek.

There's a tradition amongst tradesmen to burry objects inside of walls and woodwork before they close them up. They become time capsules; little messages left for some future worker to uncover. I've uncovered a few and I've left many. They are usually something that speaks of the time period, of who the people were who built the house. The most common is a newspaper. Unfortunately, a 100 year old newspaper does not hold up very well, and attempting to even turn the page can make it disintegrate into dust. So I pick them up carefully and decipher what I can on the exposed pages. If I'm lucky, I can make out a date, a few headlines and some adds for new cars selling for a couple hundred dollars.

I open up the access door and examine the plumbing for a while and then I see it; a wadded up newspaper tucked into a corner beneath the tub. I have no way of knowing whether it was left intentionally as a time capsule or if it was just used to wipe up a spill after a leak in the plumbing, but either way, there it is, and I know that it contains clues to a different time. I turn it over looking for a date and I can't find one. There is an ad for the Sound of Music, which, if it is referring to the movie, would place the newspaper somewhere around 1965, or, if it was the broadway musical, it could be 1959 or any time since. There is an editorial talking about why the Pabst Theatre is worth saving and a headline that reads "Plant Worker Gets a Beating". On the back there is an article about four people dying in a house fire and I shudder and pray that its not an omen. I place the paper on the buffet in the dining room, and decide that I'll examine it more closely later.

I'm looking for a door to cover up the tub while I'm tearing out the plaster and I remember theres a stack of old doors piled up by the basement toilet - in the room with the clown painting. I start pulling out doors and stacking them in another room and there are more than I thought. I find the old swinging kitchen doors and the original storm door. Unfortunately its a bit too far gone to use, but now we know what to look for to replace it.

Pulling out the last door, I'm startled by a face, and I can hardly believe my eyes. Its another crying clown!!!

Removing the door from the room, a scene emerges; two clowns facing each other with a toilet in between. Whose bizarre sense of humor was it that dreamt up this uncomfortable configuration? Certainly not the one who bought the paintings originally. At one point these were cherished objects. They are both original paintings, done by one Ruby Hoiland of Pasadena, California. And original paintings, however hokey, are not cheap.

After a while, when doing a job involving repetitive motions, the task starts becoming automatic, and the mind begins to wander. Back in the bathroom, I get to daydreaming, and I start thinking about that wadded up newspaper sitting on top of the buffet. Why was it rolled up like that? Was there something inside? If someone needed to hide something in this house, a logical place would be behind the access door to the tub. It was screwed shut when I got to it, almost as if somebody was trying to keep people out. Maybe there are drugs inside. Maybe there's money. Maybe there's a gun! This last thought piques my curiosity and I go to the dining room to examine it further. I pick it up. Of course theres not a gun; it hardly weighs anything. I start to unroll it and it begins to crumble. I pause and set it back down on the buffet.

Stripping the Tease

When I worked as a carpenter, there were four separate incidents in which the leaded glass windows were either stolen from the job site that I was working at, or I was called in to replace ones that had been stolen. In all but one case, the house was vacant and there was evidence of work being done. When these thieves see a dumpster out front or contractors going in and out they know its an easy target and they break in at night without having to worry about confronting the residents. Then they sell the leaded glass piano windows and cabinet doors to antique dealers. Many antique stores have stopped buying these because they don't want to support this activity, but you don't have to drive far to find one that will. So think about that next time you walk into an antique store and see stacks of stained glass windows. We're not taking any chances, so we stripped the house of all of her finest jewelry and tucked it away in an undisclosed location until we're ready to take up residence. Here's the living room and dining room with most of the art glass removed:

We brought in some of the cabinet doors for restoration; some of the panes are cracked.

Holiday Inn Demolition

We had our final walkthrough on Easter Sunday morning. The house was finally ours. Funny how all the formalities for this house have happened on holidays. We first looked at it right around Thanksgiving, we had a contract a couple of days before Christmas and we closed on the house on April Fools Day. I found this last one especially appropriate, especially when we signed the piece of paper which disclosed the total cost of the loan after interest. Well, fools or not, I couldn't wait to get inside and start tearing shit apart. People think of demolition as thankless grunt work. For me its just good clean fun. Its the only time you can get away with breaking things and actually feel like you are accomplishing something. I know of no better way to release all of that pent up aggression. I've spent the last week running around the house like a little kid and randomly demolishing all of the stuff thats gotta go. Here's a few of the highlights:

Some exploratory demolition in the bathroom reveals a window hidden behind the shower surround.

A relic from a generation that bought into the idea of 'a better life through chemistry'; the back of one of these fabulous plastic tiles reads: "100% Virgin Polystyrene - Nationally Advertised - De Luxe - Unconditionally Guaranteed" No thanks. But we will keep the honey comb floor.

Meanwhile, Shana is in the backyard going about her task a bit more methodically. By the time she finished cleaning out the brush and pruning the cedars, the curb was lined with brush and lawn and leaf bags taking up the entire width of our lot.

Things Left Behind

No one ever truly vacates a house. They always leave something behind, even if its just a coat hanger. And there is always, without fail, a coat hanger. What is it with the coat hanger? Maybe its a way of staking claim on what you've left behind; a way of saying, "Even though we have signed a bunch of papers, and even though I no longer have the keys, and even though all these official types with their endless supply of business cards tell us that the deal is done, this place will always be mine. I will always have a place to hang my coat." And that's kind of how I feel about the place that I am leaving. I designed and renovated it. My hand is all over it. When we move out, some strangers will move in. But I know that the place will always really be mine.

You can construct a whole personality out of the things left behind when somebody vacates a house. You can build a whole story out of bits of evidence. Here's a short inventory: two drawers chock-full of silverware and kitchen utensils (even though all of the other cabinets and drawers were thoroughly cleaned out), a framed diploma hanging on the living room wall, a pair of antlers above the door in the entryway, a foreign penny the size of a quarter left next to the keys on the buffet (a gift to us?), three coat hangers (each in different closets), half a roll of toilet paper, and a painting of a crying clown (yes, a crying clown) screwed to the wall above the basement toilet. There are subtle things too. In the pink bedroom, there is a series of faint lines drawn on the wall measuring a child's height. The first several lines have some writing in an Asian language next to them. Only the last two are in English, both dated 2007.

I could tell you all sorts of bits of information that I have learned about the previous owner. I could tell you the theories I've come up with about his story. But it feels like an invasion of his privacy to go on like this. I'm already in his house trying to pretend that it is mine. Maybe after some time has past, I'll share these thoughts. For now I'll just share the evidence with you and let you construct your own story.

The House

Here she is showing her best side. Its a classic Milwaukee bungalow built in 1927. It has many of the typical craftsman style features including some beautiful built in cabinetry with leaded glass doors. This was a transitional period in bungalow design and this house begins to show some Spanish Colonial influence; coved ceilings and deeply textured walls in the living room and dining room that give it an almost cave like feel. It also shows some of the first signs of faux, sporting a decorative fireplace complete with outlet for electric fire unit, and medieval looking light fixtures with applied finishes. As a founding member of the Foes of Faux, this does not sit well with me. Luckily the light fixtures can be changed and I have long term plans of installing a wood burning stove in the fireplace. Or if I get really ambitious (and come into some money), I'd love to build an exterior chimney and make the fireplace fully functional. For now I'm thinking of rewiring the cheesy fiberglass faux fireplace just for the kitsch factor. Although this summer we are mostly concentrating on the interior, eventually we're going to pull off the vinyl siding and the aluminum and let her breathe again. Then she'll really shine. I suspect, judging from the untouched overhang over the back entrance, that there are patterned cedar shakes under the siding and I believe that they curve outward at the bottom of the gables where they meet the brick. We'll give her a new color scheme too. Right now there's a bit too much brown and beige for my tastes. Shana will do wonders with the garden and eventually we'll add a low wooden fence and a new front porch.