My Brick House

I'm singing the refrain of "Brick House" to my co-worker Ben as he jackhammers the walls of my house. Now that my 50th birthday is around the corner, I've decided to let younger bodies do the destruction.There is a strange satisfaction for me in seeing the brick come down: I never liked my parent's simple square brick house in a working class part of Croton-on-Hudson, NY where we were the only Jews on the street of Irish-Catholic kids who persecuted me. The brick house represented some 50s baby boomer suburban dream and a construction boom that started in Levittown and worked its way into every metropolitan area. I vowed never to live in a boring brick house again - so I bought one with the intention of razing it to the studs to completely transform it. But tonight I feel a twinge of sadness. That brick house represented the stability and security of my childhood (which was emotionally insecure). Today, my parents still live in that same simple brick home that they bought in 1968. I spent today driving around Denver looking for a company to take my bricks to no avail. Tons of bricks lay prostrate around the perimeter of the house as if it was attacked by terrorists. But this plot was launched by me and my architect. Yes, I have guilt. Not just the Jewish guilt I've carried my whole life, but the guilt of taking a perfectly good home that a young couple and their small boy lived in and tearing it to the ground. I saw few other choices than to create a project for myself after the recession ended the glory days of the high end kitchen and bath remodels that we had the privilege of doing for 10 years. It's going to be a gorgeous home, and it's also going to further gentrify the neighborhood. The intention of affordability that this 1950s brick ranch provided its original owner is now obliterated in a pile of brick and mortar rubble. But as the phoenix rises from the ashes, I will rebuild it and make it a home - one that will cost almost 100 times more than the one built in 1956.