While we were moving all of our stuff out of the garage in preparation of its demolition, I found a fumigation certification, yellowed with age, stapled to one of the walls. I got a kick out of it, not because it was almost 10 years old, but because it signaled there was some point in the past the garage was capable of fumigation.
When we bought the house, the garage was never seen as anything more than an eventual tear down. It was old and falling apart, with thin Plexiglas “windows” that trapped all of the heat but none of the insects. Our first winter, we “insulated” the north-facing wall with our moving boxes because rainwater was seeping in at an alarming rate. And many friends can attest to the stories told of the colonies of hornet nests we found inside a box left behind at around the same time the garage was fumigated.
The best thing about the garage was that it had an old paint roller hanging from a rusty nail. Regardless of the weather, it never fell. And neither did the garage, which, frankly, is miraculous. But it sure hit the ground this afternoon.
It was a weird feeling to pull into your driveway and see a gaping hole in the skyline of your backyard. I’ve never been a fan of the garage, and I’m thrilled it’s making way for something better, but it is a bit sad to see it go. It was filthy, cramped, hot, and occasionally home to families of tomato-thieving rats, but it was the first garage we ever owned, and now it’s a pile of scrap on the side of the house.
Bring on the two-car!
