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Eventually, Luc,
Andrea, Eric, Harvey and Patrick drywalled the place. And Michel and Alain did the mudding and taping and (horrid, horrid) sanding. Gail and Clare, and Andrea and Eric, and Miles
and Neil, and Garry, painted.
Thank you all.
Towards the end of the contracting process, I found myself standing in our almost-finished bathroom, explaining to an
electrician why I was sure that the missing GFI (ground fault interrupter) plug had been turned into a light switch on the other side of the wall. A seventy year-old man - one of
the electrician's helpers - leaned on the doorframe, mouth hanging open as he listened. A glistening string of drool hung between his lower lip and his bare chest. His shirt was
open three buttons down to reveal a silver chain, a few straggly silver hairs, and the drool. From the drywall dust-covered radio, Aerosmith screeched the words, "Dude Looks
Like a Lay-d-a-ay!".
A little girl who lives nearby came on to our building site, and walked around holding my hand. She asked, "Why is your house so tall?"
I told her about the idea of a barn, and how we think high ceilings allow ideas to shoot out the tops of our heads.
She shook her head and said, "Too 'spensive!"
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