Grit ən Grīm: Thē Hənt+ˈFlü

When my sweetheart and I first met, it was like discovering a mirror image—someone who instantly understood the messy, beautiful chaos of my mind. I know, sappy...let's move on. We both had answered the call of military service, driven by an instinct to lead, mentor, and show up for others. We fed our souls through artistic whims, a shared love of music, and a penchant for spirited debates that never required a referee. Politically aligned but never lacking opposing viewpoints, our conversations were more like enthusiastic mental sparring matches than outright brawls. The harmony continued when we started house hunting. We shared a deep appreciation for older homes—viewing them as living organisms—captivated by the craftsmanship, history, and the art of preserving architectural details that tell a story.

Of course, we had a wish list—because what's a house hunt without one? His three little monsters (his words, not mine) are on a 50/50 custody schedule, so being within fifteen minutes of their schools was non-negotiable. As well as brick construction, at least 2,000 square feet to contain our circus of ten fish, three kids, two adults, two cats, and a dog. Original wood floors? Absolutely. A sun-soaked room for painting? Please and thank you. An in-ground sprinkler system, a fenced yard, a central vacuum (for the cats and the Australian Shepherd), three bedrooms, two updated full baths, a soaking tub, walk-in closet, and—here comes the dreamy part—a foodie-worthy kitchen complete with a Wolf gas stove, Sub-Zero fridge, double-drawer dishwasher, and upstairs laundry—these were the stuff of our HGTV fantasies. And then, the Sweetheart's personal non-negotiable: a six-foot-five basement, because a man's gotta have room to stand in his man-cave without bonking his head every time he turned around. Easy enough, right?

Twelve months and twenty listings later—most of them a mere shadow of our wish list—we found ourselves slogging through the seventh circle of house-hunting hell. We'd roll in with bids 25K over asking, only to get smacked down by offers that topped ours by another 25K. The dream of our perfect home was unraveling faster than your favorite sweater on the wrong wash cycle. Pretty soon, our non-negotiables were whittled down to the barest of essentials: exterior walls, three bedrooms, two baths, and, of course, that six-foot-five basement the Sweetheart couldn't live without. And don't think I didn't notice how all my dream kitchen, upstairs laundry, and art studio conveniently disappeared. Funny how that works, huh?

And then, just as we were ready to surrender the search, it found us. A peculiar little relic—which to us, aside from the front porch, had little curb appeal, yet still hinted of early twenty-first century grandeur. 2022 was a seller's market, yet it had been on the market for a few weeks, which, coupled with a glaring lack of interior photos, was telling.  We assumed it was destined for demolition or a complete remodel. So when it finally went pending, relief washed over us—tinged with a curiosity we couldn't quite shake.

Three weeks later, like some twist of fate, the house popped back up with an open house sign out front, practically begging for a second look. So, with more desperation than hope, we walked in and found a time capsule of vintage charm with just enough oddity to make us fall in love. We snagged the house and, most importantly, it was a stone's throw from the kids' school–we're talking two blocks close. I can already see the eye-roll emojis. But honestly, it's been a lifesaver. Let's just say "hurry up" and "move faster" aren't in their vocabulary, and they have zero sense of urgency, so being this close has saved our sanity.  I mean, could you imagine us wrangling three kids and two school morning routines from 15 miles away? We would be bald by Christmas!

Turns out, our little house–with its ten-foot ceilings and bay windows awkwardly protruding at all four corners—wasn't just some shabby fixer-upper. Nope, this quirky gem is a slice of history, built on-site in Forest Park for the upcoming 1905 World's Fair, hosted by the City of St. Louis. It was an architectural darling, winning awards for "superior ventilation" (a fancy way of saying it wasn't a sweatbox). Left chillin' at the park for a few years, it was eventually transported by rail in 1909, plopped onto a fresh basement with 12-16” walls, and adorned with a generous, yet oddly-shaped front porch. As a competition demonstration structure, the old girl was never meant to endure into the 21st-century—but here it stands, proud and stubborn, a true testament to the enduring spirit of St. Louis.

While the house lacked most of our wish list, it wasn't without its perks. We managed to snag it below asking price—pro tip, folks: when a house comes back on the market after a pending sale, it's usually ripe for a bargain. It had the requisite four walls, 2,100 square feet to contain our menagerie, original wood floors, three bedrooms (if you count the one that's barely big enough to swing a cat), and two full baths (sort of). The kitchen and bathrooms had seen stylish upgrades, and—most importantly—there was that precious six-foot-five basement. Perfect for the Sweetheart's noggin and his model railroad empire.

On the downside, the plumbing from the house to the street had to be dug up and replaced. There was an illegal laundry setup in the basement that should have brought the house down in flames. An abandoned brick chimney stack sat smack dab in the middle of, well, everything. The second floor offered a claustrophobic seven-foot ceiling with teeny-weeny windows tucked into the bottom of the closets—seriously, what was that about? Natural light for your shoes? The craftsmanship? Let's call it "creative." It was as if two different houses were stitched together sans prescriptive eyewear.

Now, in full disclosure, Sweetheart is an engineer with access to electrical and structural engineers, and I grew up in a construction-oriented family. We have Draftsmen, Builders, Siders, Bricklayers, Electricians, Architects, and my personal favorite, Restorative Preservationists. From an architectural perspective, let's just say this house had "personality," and not in the charming, quaint way. I mean no offense to the homeowner who had the addition added, but it was a mismatched quilt of questionable decisions, starting with those original first-floor triangle closets—yes, triangle—and culminating in a 1990s addition that felt like a flagrant violation of every design principle known to man. Picture a crime scene for architecture lovers.

So, we knew this house needed some kid-glove treatment. A hands-on relationship fit for a movie trailer. Shirt sleeves rolled up and safety glasses sliding on Horatio Caine style. All while armed with a sledgehammer, strolling towards the OK Corral (i.e., the house) in slow-mo, declaring "I'm your huckleberry."

Of course, just as the real chaos was about to start, Sweetheart was off on a three-week odyssey to Japan and Guam. So, while he was halfway around the world, I got down to business. You see, I was a draftsman in my younger days (cue the nostalgia), so I dusted off my old graph paper, pulled out a drafting pencil, grabbed the tape measure, and got to work. Measuring the house not once, not twice, but about five times because nothing—and I mean nothing—was square. This place was built on 45-degree angles, and I swear every wall had its own quirky personality. By the time Sweetheart returned, jet-lagged and all, I had a solid game plan, and we dove into the deep end with zero hesitation.

And so, the Grit & Grime Chronicles began. The first project we tackled was the obsolete furnace chimney. We solicited quotes and—oh, the gut-wrenching, heart-skipping sticker shock of hiring a pro for this little escapade. The quotes ranged from a modestly horrifying $15,000 to a full-blown $25,000, with a six-week wait to even get started. Uh, no thanks. We had a mission, and time wasn't on our side. So, in true weekend warrior fashion, we ditched the pros, rolled up our sleeves, and threw ourselves headfirst into the DIY abyss.

We geared up for the first showdown with the diva chimney like it was a battle scene from Gladiator, minus the tunics. Armed to the teeth with a bucket, drill, hammers, a pinch bar, subfloor to close up the gaping ceiling, shingles, wood screws, roofing nails, and the inaugural Haul-Away bag—the first of what would become our permanent lawn ornament—we climbed onto the roof, ready for the demolition derby.

The June Memorial Day sun was relentless, making us question not only our life choices but possibly our sanity. Brick by begrudging brick, we chipped away, lowering the salvageable ones down with a bucket and rope like we were handling ancient artifacts instead of weathered, soot-covered bricks. The rest? Straight into the dumpster, no regrets.

It was the dirtiest rooftop game of Jenga you can imagine, but once the chimney was demolished to the 2d floor, the roof was finally free of its tiresome guest. We cracked open a cold Yuengling, plopped ourselves down, and soaked it all in. The job was only a third done, but it felt like we'd just conquered Everest. Up there, with the skyline stretched out before us and the sticky heat starting to wane, we might as well have been royalty surveying our hard-earned kingdom—complete with debris and shingles, of course.

The neighborhood? Well, they'd been watching us like we were the newest episode of a home renovation reality show—slow drive-bys, curious heads poking out of windows, neighbors conveniently "walking by" to check on our progress….or to see if one of us had fallen off the roof! Not to mention, our two Home Depot Haul-Away Dumpster Bags became a local landmark. No matter how often they were emptied, they were perpetually full, like some twisted take on Mary Poppins' bottomless carpetbag.

The next seven days blurred into one long, exhausting montage—kids, work, brick dust, and enough caffeine to power a small village. A few hours per day, we chipped away at that abandoned chimney like miners in a coal shaft, only our treasure was more soot and a whole lot of grime. Forget any romantic visions of “home reno chic”; this was more like Survivor: Dust Bowl Edition. 

Every swing of the hammer sent clouds of ancient black soot flying, and by the end of each day, I had to take at least three showers just to feel human again.

The next seven days blurred into one long, exhausting montage—kids, work, brick dust, and enough caffeine to power a small village. A few hours per day, we chipped away at that abandoned chimney like miners in a coal shaft, only our treasure was more soot and a whole lot of grime. Forget any romantic visions of “home reno chic”; this was more like Survivor: Dust Bowl Edition. 

Every swing of the hammer sent clouds of ancient black soot flying, and by the end of each day, I had to take at least three showers just to feel human again.

Let me tell you, there are places you don't know can get dirty until you're tearing down a century-old chimney by hand. And we weren't using any fancy gadgets or lifts—nope, no elevator service on this adventure. Every single brick and flue liner was carried down stairs by yours truly, like some twisted version of CrossFit.

Once we reached the first floor, the project hit its first plot twist when we had to bid farewell to the kitchen cabinets. Those beautiful, custom, floor-to-ceiling cabinets had been recently installed by the previous owner, all shiny and perfect, lovingly wrapped around the old chimney like a hug. Well, guess what? They had to come down, too. Demolition doesn't care about emotional attachment.

Sure, we salvaged and repurposed them (because waste in a reno is a sin), but there was something soul-crushing about ripping out what had once been the crown jewel of the kitchen. We sacrificed them at the altar of progress, with a whimper and a prayer that it'd be worth it in the end.

Then came plot twist number two. Turns out, we could only dismantle three sides of the chimney on the first floor because the fourth was practically stitched into the front foyer wall—lathe and plaster covered in gorgeous, ridiculously expensive fancy-pants wallpaper.

So, we did what all Domestic Home Renovation Engineers eventually learn to do: pivot. We adjusted, accepted the chimney's stubborn refusal to go quietly, and moved on to the basement.

Ah, the basement—where every homeowner's deepest fears and structural nightmares hide out. This section was a whole different animal. The mortar had retired sometime back in the '80s, and the entire structure was holding together with little more than sheer stubbornness and a prayer.

Before we could even think about dismantling the bricks below, we had to play it safe (or as safe as one can in a DIY demolition) and reinforce the remaining first-floor brick wall from underneath. After all, the last thing we needed was for the wall upstairs to give up mid-demo, sending us plummeting into an unplanned open-concept basement.

While we somehow avoided any ER trips or unintentional basement expansions, there were more than a few white-knuckle moments and at least a couple of stiff drinks to soothe the nerves. The kind of drinks you only pour after narrowly dodging a disaster that would've made great reality TV but a terrible homeowner's insurance claim.

And you know what? Despite the blood, sweat, grime, and the occasional emotional meltdown, it was worth it. There's a strange, primal satisfaction in standing knee-deep in debris, drenched in sweat, looking at a job that, though far from done, shows tangible progress. It's the kind of satisfaction that makes you look at all the chaos—the mess, the setbacks, the dirt you'll never fully wash off—and think, "Yeah, we're doing something here."

The grand total? About 16 hours of our own blood, sweat, and questionably sound decision-making—let's be kind and say that's $2,400 if we pay ourselves a modest $150 an hour. Materials? A mere $100. Take the middle ground between those staggering quotes, and we'd just slashed a potential $20K contractor bill down to a $2,500 investment of time, grit, and some nerve-wracking ladder stunts. Saving ourselves a cool $17,500 felt like a win worthy of fireworks and a parade, but we settled for a high five and a cold beer. Not too shabby for a couple of DIY die-hards with a knack for turning chaos into redemption.

It's the high-fives after MacGyvering your way out of a crisis, the cold beers sipped in the glow of progress, and the shared victories that make you realize—this is why we're doing it.

But let’s be honest—this isn’t some HGTV fantasy where everything goes off without a hitch. Oh no, there will be epic fails, moments of sheer frustration, and maybe a few colorful words (okay, more than a few). Walls will fight back, plans will fall apart, and you might find yourself standing in a pile of rubble wondering if this house has it out for you. And maybe it does. But that’s half the fun, right? Because with every mess we make, we’re one step closer to turning this place into something truly ours.

So, buckle up, friends. This adventure is only just getting started, and I’ve got a feeling the road ahead is going to be as bumpy as it is rewarding. Whether we come out with more wins than losses is still up for debate, but one thing’s for sure: we’re going to walk away with some stories. Good ones. Bad ones. And probably a few that make you laugh and cringe at the same time. So stay tuned—because if this house has any more surprises up its sleeves (and we know it does), you won’t want to miss it.